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)
Chapter Nine
BLAKE
While I may have had a habit of being fashionably late, Vance was predictably forgetful. Every day he’d leave the office at promptly four o’clock—after his alarm sounded—and, like clockwork, at around five after four, he’d come marching right back to his desk to grab something he’d left. Which was why it hadn’t surprised me when he’d left the hotel room that morning without our tickets to the Louvre.
Luckily for him, I’d spotted them on the dresser and grabbed them, and to make my day much more entertaining, I’d decided against telling him.
Tip number two, never turn down an opportunity to make your hated travel partner panic.
Sunlight heated my face when I stepped outside of the hotel. The sweet scent of lavender floated from the florist next door just before the annoyed tap of a shoe caught my attention. Vance stood to the side of the hotel entrance in a wrinkle-free T-shirt and jeans, a pair of Vans on his feet. Who the hell was that guy? The only thing that hinted at the high-strung, stick-up-his-butt coworker I knew was the way Vance kept checking his watch.
“Well, aren’t you tetchy?” I said, running a hand through my hair and telling myself that body language was not an attempt at flirting.
“Just say irritated, and yes, I’m irritated. How did it take you two hours to ‘freshen up?’ I don’t—” The loud whine of a moped silenced the rest of his complaint as it rocketed by.
Like he should complain anyway. When I’d come out of the bathroom, I’d found him sprawled out on my bed, asleep. And that little catnap had done him wonders. Not a bag below his dazzling eyes. Skin all glowing and fresh, like he’d had a facial. With the backdrop of the beautiful, taupe Parisian buildings, the man looked like he was ready to sit down for a photoshoot. Meanwhile, I’d had to use brightener and concealer to hide the circles of death below my eyes. Note to self: Get him shitfaced at least once, if for nothing else, so he’ll look like crap for one blessed day.
He started down the sidewalk. God, the man could out-walk an old lady trying to win a walkathon at the mall. “It almost took you as long to get ready as it would for me to take the Eurostar from here to London.”
“And you call me overdramatic.” My skirt swished around my knees as I picked up my pace. “It’s not like we’re going to be late. Or like I even imagined we’d be late since you set fifty gazillion alarms.”
“What did you do for two hours?”
“Makeup…” That was a lie. I was the kind of girl who applied BB cream with my fingers, used blush as eyeshadow, and still used Lip Smackers lip gloss. However, jetlag was a real bitch. As soon as I’d sat down in the shower to shave my legs, I’d nodded off, and if the idea that it took me two hours to get ready annoyed Vance, I’d let him keep thinking it.
“Well, that’s a waste of time. You don’t need it.”
Had he just paid me a compliment? I replayed the statement in my head. A waste of time. You don’t need it. Maybe it was a backhanded compliment.
Vance waved a hand in front of my face when we stopped at a crosswalk. “Why are you staring off into space like that?”
My cheeks heated, and I quickly reached down to dust off the toe of my leather sneaker. “Just making sure I didn’t scuff my shoe. You know, from tripping over the uneven pavement.” I didn’t glance back to see if there was any uneven pavement, but it was the safest lie I could come up with.
His pace picked up as he headed past a full café terrace. “We’re going to be late.”
“No, we’re not.” I lagged behind, snapping a picture of the pink and purple flowers dripping from the awning of the café.
“Move those little stumps you call legs.”
My attention dropped to the pint of beer sitting on the edge of a table ahead of me. The temptation to grab it and chuck it at Vance was strong. “I hope you trip on those stilts you walk on!” It was a terrible attempt at an insult, but it was the best I could do, given the brain fog from travel.
He chuckled before ducking underneath one of the iconic green metro signs looming over the stairs to the tunnels. In the time it took me to catch up with him, he’d already purchased tickets. He took his receipt from the machine and stuffed it into his pocket. “Here,” he said, handing me a tiny paper ticket before he took off.
“Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Yes. We’re going to line nine.”
The distinct notes of “Clair de Lune” being played on an accordion drifted through the crowded tunnel as we pushed through the turnstile. “And I’m just supposed to trust you?”