Page 40 of One Time in Paris
Yet here he was, standing around and waiting for the appropriate moment to tell Isla they were mistakenly husband and wife.
But he’d spent the entire day waiting for the opportunity to present itself, and it still hadn’t appeared.
He checked his watch. Nearly nine thirty. Sidling up beside Davy, he asked in a low voice, “Do you have any idea when we’ll be done?”
Davy frowned and then pulled out an iPad. “Yeah, I think we’ll probably wrap here in a few minutes. We have more than enough footage for the day. I’m not sure what Boyd is waiting for.”
“All right, well, I’ll be outside getting some air over in the square when you’re ready to head back.”
He left the coffee shop, then headed across the street toward the main square of the town, where bright string lights lit the trees. In the center was a white fountain, which a plaque stated was a gift from a J. J. Culbertson. The fact of the matter was, it really was charming, and the cool evening air and sparkling lights were a refreshing break from the noise and crowds of the people on the wine crawl.
A few lovers strolled hand in hand near the fountain, and Aiden stopped under the shade of a tree and leaned against the trunk, arms crossed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a date like the people around him were. With Lola, every date had been about status—the fanciest, most exclusive restaurants, the hottest tickets to the best shows, and quick getaways to expensive resorts.
But picking a girl up, a stroll through a quaint town, taking her back to her home, perhaps hoping for a kiss...the days of those simpler relationships were far, far behind him. He’d chosen that—couldn’t blame anyone but himself—but it hadn’t always been that way.
When did life get so complicated?
He couldn’t quite understand, either, why it had bothered him so much when Isla had given him a look in the van this morning like he was Aidenthe businessman. Maybe because he’d always counted on a handful of people to see him as he really was and she was one of them.
But more than that, heropinion mattered.
Even as children, there’d been an understanding between them as the “younger” siblings of their respective brothers. But as they grew older, too. She believed in him when others didn’t. He could be himself around her.
And now . . . there was this new, unexpected need toimpressher. Not with his job or money or anything like that. Something else. Something more important. Like he could be in a crowded room with her and they’d still be alone together when they made eye contact—know what the other was thinking. Share something secret—deeper—just with one look.
“Trying to escape?” Isla said from behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you wrap that quickly?”
She appeared to be in good spirits with a smile on her face and carried a brown paper bag in her hand.
“Ugh, not soon enough,” Isla said, bending down and tugging her heels from her feet. “And I still have to go back to the trailer—give them the mic and the camera.” She straightened, dangling her heels from the straps, looping her fingers through them.
“Not soon enough? You seemed to be having fun. YouandTomas.”
Isla rolled her eyes at him. “It’s called acting, Aiden. Maybe learn to do some of it, rather than sitting there all day, sulking and brooding and whatever the hell else you were doing.”
Sulking?
Isla held the paper bag out to him. “I got you something. Thought it might cheer you up.”
With a frown, he accepted the bag, then reached inside it to pull out a soft, navy T-shirt emblazoned with “I Love Paris.”
“You got me one of these?” He tilted his head, his lips curving despite his mood.
“To commemorate our time here in Paris.” She backed up, with a grin, toward the fountain.
“What are you doing?” Worry grew in him as she went up the stairs to the fountain, backward. He left the tree and headed toward her.
“What do you think?” She tied her long hair back, some of the pink glittering in the warm, electric light. “Soaking my feet; they’re throbbing. I work on a beach—ask me how often I wear something other than flip-flops and sandals.”
Aiden had already reached her, his alarm rising as he drew closer.Is she drunk?
“How much wine have you had to drink tonight?” he asked, gripping her arm as she stepped closer to the fountain.
“Don’t know. Six glasses? Plus, the tastings? I’m fine. Who knows?” She threw him a breezy smile. “Just a bit tipsy. Contrary to what you may believe, I amnotan alcoholic. They just kept putting glasses of wine in my hands while the cameras were rolling. I was working.”
She teetered forward, and his hands shot out—one firm around her wrist, the other slipping instinctively to her waist. Her skin was warm, damp from the mist, the soft give of her body against his chest sending an electric bolt through his nerves. She smelled like wine and something sweet—strawberries, maybe.
