Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
I picked up my pace, bypassing him, when I spotted M9 on an overhead sign. Call me slow…
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To line nine…”
The rumble of the train on the tracks echoed up the stairwell. Everyone around me took off in a sprint down the steps, and I followed suit. Halfway down the steps, the train whizzed into the station, screeching to an abrupt halt in front of the busy platform.
“Blake!”
“We’re going to be late.” I grinned like a fool when the metro doors opened, and I shot into one of the packed cars.
Vance clamored in just as the doors slammed shut and the train took off.
“I’m fast when it counts.” I stared up at him.
He stared down at me with those fuck-me green eyes. The little tic of his jaw practically reached between my thighs. “You got on the wrong train.”
“I got on the number nine.”
“Going in the opposite direction of the Louvre.”
Well, shit. Smiling, I patted the slight stubble on his sharp jaw. “I’m just giving you all kinds of good material for your articles. You’re welcome.”
We got off the train at the next stop and boarded the one going toward the Louvre. And, as my lack of luck would have it, a few stops before the museum, a lovely woman a seat up from us vomited on the floor.
The second the doors had opened, Vance was off. I had to practically run to keep up with his ridiculous stride. After the third flight of concrete stairs, I stopped to catch my breath while Vance stood at the top, waiting.
“A sloth could beat you in a race,” he called down the steps.
I would kill him before the end of this trip. I could feel it. “A sloth wouldn’t enter a race. So, your point isn’t very valid.”
Ten seconds after I’d made it to the top, the man was already a good twenty feet ahead of me. He could speed walk faster than a Hoveround could zoom.
The homey scent of freshly baked bread wafted out from an open bakery door, and my steps slowed. I stopped in front of the window, staring at the eclairs, beignets, and a plethora of tarts on display in the shop window with tiny black chalkboards behind them. The prices scribbled in chalk. Something told me with details like that, they had to taste delectable.
“I swear, you’re actually slowing down!” he called.
I spun around. “Actually, this…” I waved a hand over my non-mobile body, “is me stopping to take in all that Paris has to offer.” Because from the looks of those eclairs, this was absolutely why people came here. My tastebuds salivated at the thought of the delicate pastry. “I’m coming back for you,” I whispered before shoving away from the window.
We continued along the busy street, him stopping every few minutes to tap his foot and wait for me and my short legs to catch up. Eventually, the gargantuan palace-like taupe building came into view, along with the iconic glass pyramid. People taking selfies littered the open courtyard, and directly behind them, a long, zig-zaggy line.
After we’d zipped across a busy roundabout, I stopped to snap a few pictures.
“Late!” Vance called, already at the back of the line.
Huffing, I sent a subliminal fuck you and took one more photo before I headed across the courtyard. His timer went off as soon as I fell into line beside him.
I glanced at his pocket, debating on fishing the damn thing out and chucking it into the roundabout behind us. The image of Vance falling dramatically to his knees, pulling at his short dark hair as it shattered beneath the wheel of a double-decker sightseeing bus, gave me a little more pleasure than it should have.
“You wouldn’t be half as annoying if you weren’t such a punctual lunatic,” I said as he jabbed his fingers at his screen
“Lunatic is harsh…”
“Trust me, lunatic is a nice way of putting it.”
After he’d silenced the alarm, he crammed his hand into his other pocket and went rigid. “Oh, shit…”
I fought a smile. Judging by the trepidation working across his pretty, asshole-ish face, he’d just realized he didn’t have the tickets, and what better time to realize it? Being on time doesn’t matter if you’ve forgotten the tickets…
He checked his other pocket. Then both at the same time. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” He dragged a hand through his thick hair. Somehow it looked better all disheveled than it had combed. “I left the tickets,” he said.
Don’t smile. Don’t smile. I crossed my arms over my chest and gave what I hoped was a disapproving look. “And you want to give me crap about walking slow. Call me crazy, but I think having the tickets is step one to being admitted, not being on time.”
But he wasn’t listening. He had his phone out, jabbing his fingers over the screen while frowning at the device like it was to blame. “Why?” he said, irritation deepening his already gravelly voice. “Why can’t I buy tickets at the door?” He huffed and puffed and jabbed some more. “Sold out. Sold out? How?”