Page 65 of Sinful Escape

Outside, I found Roman leaning against the wall with his foot up on the windowsill. When he saw me, his expression shifted to a smile that would’ve had Hollywood paparazzi clicking their cameras.

My heart did a weird flutter. Damn, girl. Cut that out.

Maybe Pierre’s kiss or Luca’s fingers had triggered the release of some kind of primal lust endorphins that’d been hibernating for winter. Actually, many winters.

Forcing my eyes away from Roman, I made my way to the front of my group. The second Sunny stepped from the restaurant, I raised my hand. “All right let’s go. Follow me.”

I led them toward Les Halles Market, which was a short fifteen-minute walk downhill. Along the way, I identified three ancient doors that led to secret passages, and I pointed out one of the two five-star Michelin restaurants in Lyon. I’d never eaten in either of those award-winning restaurants, and with the limited time I had left in Europe, I probably never would.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I picked up my pace.

The bustling food hall was the epitome of multiculturalism. Every stall offered diverse delicacies from a different culture. The hive of activity was an explosion to my senses. Aromas alternated from sweet to savory. Cinnamon and cumin. Vanilla and paprika.

The sounds were as much from people as machines. Chopping, grinding, whirring. A dazzling array of colors sprung from every aspect of the hall. There were vibrant green vegetables that looked like they’d been picked that morning. Creamy pastries that made my mouth water just looking at them. Rich red berries, promising to sweeten any dessert or drink.

I drew my group’s attention to the stall selling spices from around the world. With dozens of different-colored powders and seeds hemmed in wicker baskets that were lined up in rows, it was a photo opportunity not to be missed.

After paying Felicity ten euros for allowing us time at her spice stall, we continued along the bustling corridor to Clostan, the only shop in Lyon dedicated to macarons. A rainbow of sweet treats was nestled tightly against each other in the display cabinet. Pistachio, salted caramel, blood orange, and delicious dark chocolate sandwiching rich creamy vanilla, there were thirty different flavors.

I’d tried them all.

Leonardo flashed a brilliant grin at my arrival, and as per usual, I ordered two of everything and he lined two white cardboard containers with each color. I helped translate a few of the macaron descriptions and subsequent orders for my group.

Roman stepped up to the counter, and in perfect French, he ordered three macarons, pistachio, French vanilla, and passionfruit sandwiched with dark chocolate. Roman was full of surprises. First the sign language, now French. Then again, most young Europeans could easily flit from their native tongue to another language without pause.

I’d always planned to learn fluent Italian during my time here.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Back on the bus, I did a head count before settling onto my seat. We had five hours of driving ahead of us. Roman navigated through the traffic and onto the A7, which we’d remain on for most of the way to Monaco. Within twenty minutes of hitting the main highway, I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

I told myself it was the comfort food, not my steamy morning with Luca that had me sleepy.

Deciding to close my eyes for just a minute, I curled my hands next to my cheek and rested against the window.

Chapter Fourteen

I lurched upright, blinking against the glare. Shit.

“Ahhh, sleeping beauty is awake.” Roman’s grin implied so much more than his words.

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and smacked my lips together. Glancing out the window, I got my second shock in as many seconds. We were approaching Antibes. I’d slept for more than four hours. “Wow, I really zonked out.”

“Must have been all that exercise this morning.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “It was the champagne. I shouldn’t drink in the middle of the day.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“I do say so.” I stood, grabbed the boxed macarons from the seat at my side, and headed up the aisle. Most passengers were fast asleep. I stopped at the ladies from the US.

“Can I tempt you with a macaron?” I held the multi-colored delicacies forward.

“Oh, yes please,” Angie said, and both her and Bronwyn helped themselves to one each.

“What did you think of Lyon?”

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