Page 43 of Meet Me in Paris

His voice grew husky with emotion. “You have no idea.”

Great. I’d be a blubbering mess in front of him yet again. My heart pounded painfully as it thawed from its frozen state. I’d locked it up in my vault for so long it now rebelled against being shut away in the shadows.

Time for it to see the light no matter what pain came with it.

I closed the distance between us. Sliding my hand up his shirt and around his neck, I pulled his head down so only inches separated us. I felt him tremble at my touch. Whathad I done to this poor man? Had he locked up his heart too?

“If this is our last day together,” I said softly, “I want to spend it with you.Reallywith you.” We had four years of lost happiness to seize, and I refused to waste another minute.

He must have felt the same because he released a desperate breath, and a second later, his lips practically devoured mine.

Here, in Hunter’s arms in this place of red-velveted history and shadows, I found where I belonged. Last night’s time with Claude had been a play, an act. I’d acted exactly as expected, and so had he. It felt nice and casual.

But this . . . wasnotthat.

Every cell in my body exploded with pleasure at the feel of Hunter’s mouth on mine. The ebb and flow of our lips moving together like a dance on stage, the turn of his head at exactly the right time, his hands grasping my waist and pulling me closer,closer,tighter,tighter.

Jillian was wrong. The same river could be both steady and unpredictable, slow and full of winding, utterly thrilling rapids. Hunter made my experience with Claude feel like a puddle on the sidewalk.

Like the Paris Opera House, there was plenty of Hunter to explore, and every inch seemed a wonder.

I only pulled away when my lungs screamed for mercy. We stood there in one another’s arms, breathing hard and staring at each other in awe as the sparks threatened to overcome us altogether.

This felt both familiar and dangerous, like dancing at the edge of a cliff, feeling the firm ground beneath my feet but knowing an inch sideways would send me plummeting.

A smattering of applause sounded behind us.

I whirled to find a group of tourists standing near the entrance, smiling and clapping.

“Well done, mate,” a man with an Australian accent said.

There was only one thing to do. I curtsied. “Thanks for coming, everyone. We appreciate your support.”

The group laughed and scattered.

When I turned back to Hunter, he watched me in wonder. How had I missed the emotion in his eyes? It was clear as day.

“I only have one question,” he said with a smirk. “That year you insisted on calling me Erik? I thought Erik was the childhood friend-turned-rich-aristocrat who saved Christine in the play. It took me forever to figure out that Erik was really?—”

“The Phantom.” My turn to laugh, and it came more freely than in a long time. I threaded my fingers through his. “Let’s face it. The world has enough rich aristocrats. But mentally disturbed and murderous yet sympathetic dudes hiding in a candle-decorated cistern beneath an opera house? Way less boring.”

Thanks, Mom, for the lesson.

At the Louvre, Hunter and I walked through every room we could, admiring the art, statues, and all the other treasures the building offered. I knew the museum was big, but it felt especially big after having walked somuch already. Even my supportive shoes didn’t feel quite supportive enough.

After fighting the crowds to see theMona Lisaand checking out the art pieces I most wanted to see, my very favorite remained. Frowning, I scoured the trifold pamphlet that served as a map.

“What are you looking for?” he asked. We’d walked hand in hand this entire time, and it felt perfectly comfortable. Gloriously familiar yet completely magical.

“Monet is my favorite artist. He’s from here, right? Yet I haven’t seen a single work of his.” The water lilies with their idealistic and dreamlike colors and shapes never failed to make me feel at peace.

“They’re all at the Monet Museum,” Hunter said. “You didn’t know?”

Of course they were. I sighed. “Well, there’s no time to go there today.”

Hunter looked thoughtful. “I have an idea. Follow me.”

Minutes later, we stopped in front of a relatively small painting of a winter scape. Snow-covered and wind-bent trees leaned toward a road that led past a house in a snowdrift. In the distance, darker trees filled the background. I leaned forward to read the plaque and felt my eyebrows rise. “This is a Monet?”

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