Page 8 of Keep Paris

I want to give her ammunition. We’re not just blowing off education totally. I whisper, “Musée Picasso.” Her face brightens, and so does my whole fucking day.

LIZZIE

He’s taking me somewhere wonderful. And he’s not running from the freak getting yelled at by her father.

My father’s always so disappointed. He’s so sure of what he’s doing and what everyone else should be. My mom must like being told what to be and how to speak, since she’s stuck around. I love him, but I don’t like his demanding tone, not when he’s the one who forced me to come to France in the first place.

I’ve never lived in the moment until Danny kissed me out of nowhere. And now I’m addicted.

His voice is strong and he speaks in English. I know his French isn’t as good as mine, so he probably wants the upper hand again. “Answer my question, little scholar. Where are you going that you think is more important than being in an academic environment?”

My gaze drifts to Danny. He’s staring at me, but he’s not angry or frustrated. His eyes are piercing, understanding, and sexy. And he wants to hold my hand and take me to exciting places. We have eleven weeks left. My brain has been trained to analyze things but I want to fall into confusion and Danny without thinking of consequences or deadlines. I stop my brain, look at my phone, and say, “Musée Picasso.”

I’m not allowed to date. It “detracts from my studies and pursuit of excellence.” My father is a stickler for the rules. But I’m choosing to believe those are United States rules. This is the Danny loophole.

There’s a long pause. “It’s not the Louvre, but it’s still culture.” Danny puts his fists up like he’s going to fight my dad. “You were trained to study the classics but take excellent notes to create a study guide for Art History next year.” He talks a bit more, and I don’t tell him to stop. I wish I could. I will someday. He finishes his lecture and I hang up and shove my phone into my bag.

I turn away from Danny because I’m so full of rage it’s leaking down my face. He reaches over and pulls my chin towards him. It’s so unfair he gets to control me from another continent. Danny pulls me into his arms.

I say as I lean on his chest, trying to recover, “Are we really going to the Picasso Museum?”

“Oui.”

I sit up and look at him. “Danny, I’m so sorry. This is so cool and I totally messed it up by answering my father’s stupid FaceTime. But it’s worse if I don’t.”

“It can get worse?”

I wince and say, “I’m so sorry. They’re professors at Stanford and my father is an education snob. My whole life has been taking the next step before anyone else. Never-ending mantras in my house are extracurricular, extra credit, and extra assignments.”

I look in his eyes and refuse to say my next thoughts. They’ve always pushed me to be extra. I just want to be enough. Danny makes me feel like I might be enough.

He lifts an eyebrow and smirks. “No need to apologize to me. Only Picasso.”

His understanding spurs my emotions to bubble over to a place I never let speak. “I’m fucking pissed off. All the time. I hate second-guessing a good time because someone might find out. Or that I didn’t stand up to him and say, ‘I skipped class.’ But fuck it. I’m eighteen. I live in Paris for now and what consequences could he bring?”

“Damn, girl. You’re exactly who I thought you were. That’s a good thing.”

Danny doesn’t hesitate to draw me into a deep kiss. It’s lovely and chaste but meaningful. He pulls back a little and smiles, then says, “En français.”

I giggle and drop my lower lip as he slides his tongue into my mouth for a perfect French kiss that lasts most of the ride. Every place he touches me, I want to tattoo the sensation on my brain. Usually, I’d stop and be polite. But maybe, well, maybe in Paris, I’m not polite. I’m the girl who gets things she wants instead of the things she’s told she should have.

DANNY

This is the second time I’ve been here and I’m still going to need to come back. House Salé is grand and impressive, even without the art. Fuck, it’s so beautiful, just like the girl on the end of my arm. We’ve walked for hours, but I want to show her something. Something that draws me in and fills me up.

We turn a corner and I guide her to the cases with my hand on her back. It’s chilly here, and her burgundy sweater is scratchy and scrapes along my fingers, but the warmth from her back is awesome. Her sweater hangs below her puffer jacket sleeve. I can deal with some slight woolly irritation if I get to touch her.

I lean down as she’s staring at the first Picasso notebook. His handwriting on display on postcards and notebooks fills me with inspiration. It’s similar to mine, and if we’re similar like this, perhaps I am an artist and not just a fucking jock on a scholarship.

“I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me what you wrote on the Metro.” I kiss her neck lightly and she shimmies, as if I gave her a chill. Like a sex chill. Fuck, I want to do that to her. Jesus, I need to get it together. I step back from her and breathe slowly in and out. I need to calm my dick down to a semi. I want to have sex with her, but I don’t think she’s ready. I won’t rush her because I want to keep her.

I don’t know what it is about her, but I go to sleep—if I’m able—thinking of her and rush to see her in the morning.

She pulls out the paper from her bag and hands it to me. I take it and sit on the bench.

It’s scribbled notes: Old lady, Parisian carpet bag, looks like she still rides the Metro to stay young or remember her youth. Everyone she loves is scattered around the world, and she looks for her lost loves all over the city. She is the city.

My eyebrows lift. “You’re a writer.”