Page 59 of Angel Eyes

Last night was a fever dream, a vivid explosion of colors and sensations, a lifetime of memories reduced to a single moment. It was everything—the Bastille Day fireworks crackling behind the Eiffel Tower, releasing dazzling bursts of crimson and gold; the symphonic orchestra playing “La Marseillaise” in the middle of the crowded Champs de Mars; the breeze stirring the grass against our skin; and her.

The entire display had paled in comparison to the sight of Juliet sitting beside me on the lawn, her eyes alight with laughter. Loose wisps of hair stuck to her forehead in the humid air, and her cheeks were blooming with that delicious color that had taken possession of my dreams.

In that moment, I forgot we were supposed to just be friends, forgot I wasn’t supposed to touch her. My hand found hers in the dark as the final cascade of light faded from the midnight sky, and I interlaced our fingers, whispering a thousand things in that one gesture.

I want you.

I need you.

You.

I expected her to pull away, to tell me I had crossed a line. Instead, she leaned her head on my shoulder, wrapping me in her sweet aroma, that now familiar scent I wanted to capture in a bottle and carry with me everywhere. I tilted my face toward her, a bone-deep ache settling in my chest as I brushed my lips against her hair, wishing with growing desperation that it was her mouth instead.

I was done denying it, done debating with myself over convictions and pointless promises. The truth was simple, and it had been staring me in the face for weeks.

I was in love with Juliet.

I had fallen for her both slowly and all at once, sinking deeper into the vast ocean of her presence with each passing day. Every moment we spent together, strolling through Luxembourg Gardens or climbing the steps of the Basilica de Sacré Coeur, was like a waterfall filling the well of my soul, and it was a depth I would gladly drown in so long as she was with me.

Over the past few weeks, our days exploring had turned into nights on the phone, and more than once, I canceled plans so I wouldn’t miss her call. Sometimes, I would hear her laugh in my head while working in the gallery and forget to concentrate. And every time one of our outings came to an end, I would always find a reason to stay with her a while longer.

She could call this friendship, but we both knew it was anything but.

And there was the issue.

We hadn’t talked about our relationship status since that first time at the gallery, and as June stretched into July, it was becoming harder to find the right moment to bring it up again. But I had this nagging feeling I needed to say something. Even though I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of a relationship yet, I wasn’t content masquerading my feelings under the guise of friendship either.

I was caught in a classic case of will I or won’t I, to be or not to be. Risk it all and ask Juliet to be my girlfriend, or play it safe and remain friends.

Did it even matter?

Either way, I was officially screwed.

“Did you enjoy the exhibit?”

My eyes blinked open, landing on a cloud drifting overhead. The edge of Juliet’s shadow trailed over my torso as she sat on the patch of grass next to me, and I unhooked my hands from behind my head, rolling onto my side.

After spending the past two hours at the Musée d’Orsay, I could say with absolute certainty I hadn’t paid attention to a single painting. Instead, I had studied Juliet’s profile from the corner of my eye, committing it to memory and imagining a hundred different ways to capture her likeness on canvas.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled. “What about you?”

“I did. I particularly liked Renoir’s Country Dancing and City Dancing, the paintings of the couples waltzing. I love how they symbolize different ways of living, with the urban couple moving elegantly through a ballroom while the country couple danced in the open air full of joie de vivre. It really resonated with me.”

“Very insightful.” I reached over and extracted a leaf from her hair. “So, where to next? The Musée de l’Orangerie also has a good selection of impressionist paintings if you want to head over there. They have Monet’s Water Lilies on display.”

She hesitated, winding a blade of grass around one finger. “Maybe we could save that for another day?”

“Okay, sure. There’s also the Picasso Museum or—”

“Actually, I was wondering if we could go back to your gallery instead.” I froze, my mouth parted on an exhale. “To see your art,” she continued in a rush, batting a hand back and forth, as though dispelling the memory of the last time she was there. Under me. On top of me. Naked and panting my name.

And now I’m picturing her naked.

Fantastic.

“I only meant I was hoping to see some of your paintings.” She looked down at her hands, and I took advantage of her temporary distraction to adjust myself in my jeans.

“Really? You want to see my art?”

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