Page 44 of Sawyer
Her words, frank as ever, eased any lingering tension in his belly. “Knowing thyself is hard enough but sharing what you think you know is soul-shredding torture.”
“Who said that?”
He could feel heat on his cheeks. “Ah…I did.”
“And you say other people express you better?” She reached for her purse and opened it. “You write that down. Right now! That’s as powerful as any quote by Voltaire orShakespeare—minus the sheer musicality of iambic pentameter, of course.”
The small notebook she handed him had a landscape watercolor scene on it. The pen that came out a second later was high-end, black, and moved with beautiful fluidity as he wrote what he’d said.
When he handed it to her, she shook her head. “That’s for you, Dr. Jackson. For your own book of thoughts to be published someday. Or for your memoir.”
He blinked. Memoir?
“It could happen, Sawyer.” She tilted her head to the side. “I see the possibility in you. There’s a lot inside of that supposedly steady guy that wants to be expressed. I’m excited to have a front seat to the show.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same about you and the Phoebe Anderson Theater. You are ever an original. I would buy a ticket every night.”
Her mouth curved. Her eyes glowed. In that moment, he was desperate to frame her face and press his mouth to hers. But that would come.
She took the notepad and pen from him and wrote something before thrusting it out. “Here’s your ticket. Unlimited time frame. Come as often as you wish.”
Her fingers trembled then, and he helped her out by taking the ticket and then carrying her hand to his mouth where he pressed the most reverent of kisses. This touch, this connection, was one he didn’t have to wait for.
“Like I said, a romantic,” she said in a hushed voice.
They held each other’s gaze as he tucked the ticket into his suit pocket, careful to keep it from creasing. Nothing could be allowed to mar such a gift. Later, he would trace the lines of her handwriting and see what their curves and lines told him. He’d studied handwriting analysis—one of many rabbit holes he’d leaped down. With her, his love of research didn’t feelweird. Maybe even on another date, he’d share that part of himself with her and his analysis.
The meal was fabulous, of course, but watching her enjoy it with all of her usual enthusiasm was his favorite part. After getting a heartfelt farewell from both Mathieau and Chef Marie, who stepped out of the kitchen, they started towardSacre Coeurhand in hand.
She cuddled close to him as the crisp wind ruffled those black Oxford commas on his head along with the mahogany strands of her hair, darker in the evening light. Thankfully the restaurant’s location allowed for a descent toSacre Coeur.Climbing the hills of Montmartre could be punishing. When they finally reached the famous viewing area on the back side of the church, she thrust her hand out toward the panoramic scene below them.
“Isn’t it beautiful?
God, it really was. When he’d seen it for the first time as a boy, he’d thought the golden lights of the city and the shining spotlight from the Eiffel Tower were like a fairground. Now he thought the famous edifice seemed more like a lighthouse, helping people find their way home—to their heart.
“I haven’t been here in ten years—not since I first came to the Sorbonne and worked at Nanine’s. My roommates and I did the trek. Dean insisted on walking up the staircase from Square Louise Michel to the basilica. In the oppressive summer heat.”
She turned until she was facing him then, the gold streetlights bringing out the different shades of red in her hair.
“I tried to tell him it was two hundred and twenty-two steps, but when he’s in dreamer mode, details don’t matter. We all wanted to kill him by the time we got to the top. I stood panting along with the others, sweat dripping down my back. I can still hear someone playing an accordion, something nostalgic and so Paris. The smell of crepes hung in the air, and it made my mouth water. I was thirsty and hungry,but all I could do was stand here and look. Because the view was so beautiful that it took my breath away.”
His heart was pumping hard in his chest now, like he’d run up that famous staircase. This memory was so sweet, he wished it could fill his brain and crowd out every bad one. Even though it didn’t, couldn’t, it did soothe the bad memories—so had her earlier compassion and warmth. He took off his glasses and slipped them into his coat pocket, no longer able to hold back from doing what he’d been dreaming of all night.
Cupping Phoebe’s face between his hands, he stared into the sparkling emeralds of her eyes. “That’s how I feel right now about you. Phoebe, you take my breath away.”
Then they were meeting halfway, their mouths brushing as the promise of their first kiss was realized at last. His heart expanded in his chest as they lengthened the kiss. Nothing short and careful was going to satisfy. He could feel her urgency in the press of her hands into the sides of his body where she’d anchored herself.
When she gave a throaty moan, he crushed his mouth to hers. She met him. Opened. Shared more of her secrets with him—the way she tasted, the way she sighed with pleasure, the way shegave. Her zest and passion were unspoken now, communicated in the way her mouth moved in time with his own. Their hearts thudded together. He felt the moment they synched, that perfect mastery of the heart, something a person didn’t even need to think about or orchestrate. The kind of magic that simply happened with the right person. At the right time. In the right moment.
This was theirs, and he savored every breath, every moan, every sigh.
When they finally separated, she laid her head against his coat, inhaling deeply of the cold night. He did the same. Inside he felt transformed. His heart, which always felt bigger in Paris, felt even bigger inside his chest tonight.
Because of her.
“I’d like to say it was the view that made that kiss so powerful,” she said softly, the cold wind bringing her words to him easily. “But it was you and me. Us. Oh, Sawyer, I hope you know… I’m so happy we’ve met.”
He slipped his glasses back on and tipped her chin up. “Me too.”
