When I finally couldn’t take it anymore – my feet needed a break, and my stomach was starting to rumble – we left the Louvre. Wandering through the streets of Paris, we ended up finding a little out-of-the-way bistro filled with a number of office workers on their lunch break, and figured that was a good bet.
It turned out the expensive private school education worked out pretty well for Jack, who was able to order us lunch in – what sounded to my inexperienced ear – perfectly fluent French. We were motioned to a table in the corner by the window, which was perfect, and a few minutes later the most succulent chicken dish with gratin vegetables was brought out to us, and I was pretty sure I could live in this city for the rest of my life.
With lunch finished we took yet another train, crossing the Seine and getting on the C line of the RER before ending in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
“Stairs, or elevator?” Jack asked.
“Are you kidding? Elevator.”
“I only ask because the line for the stairs is always about a quarter as long,” Jack told me with a grin. I struggled. I hated waiting for things, impatience, especially in lines, was one of my weaknesses.
“Fine, stairs it is,” I replied. I needed to work off those croissants and chicken anyway.
Funnily enough, the 700 steps weren’t nearly as bad as I thought they were. By the time we got up to the second floor I was barely breathing heavily, and any discomfort I felt was immediately gone when I saw the view.
The stairs took us progressively higher, to the first floor, then the second, and then there was an elevator to go all the way to the top.
Jack and I didn’t dawdle on the lower floors, and quickly lined up for the elevator. The line moved pretty quickly, and only a couple minutes later we were being whisked up hundreds of feet above Paris.
If I thought the view from the lower floors blew me away, I had no idea what was waiting up top. It felt like we could see for miles. Cars looked like toys, the people milling around in the Champs de Mars gardens in front of the tower looked like ants.
Jack came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me as we looked down at the city.
“It’s gorgeous,” I told him, leaning back against his chest. I could feel his hard pecs against the back of my head, and closed my eyes, inhaling his scent. God, I loved this man.
“Certainly is. If I’m honest, I prefer Paris to London. The people here know how to live. They have the joie de vivre as they say here.”
“I can see that, yeah. It’s really nice, for sure.”
We stayed like that, Jack holding me in his arms, I’m not sure how long for. Time had no meaning, standing up there at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Nothing else mattered, except the two of us.
After the most romantic early dinner I’d ever had, we had to get back to the train station to catch the last Eurostar back to London. I made sure to stop by another boulangerie on the way back, where Jack bought me a whole box of croissants of different flavours to take home and enjoy for breakfast over the next couple of weeks.”
“I promise I’ll bring you back here sometime soon, and we’ll stay the night,” Jack told me as we settled into our seats on the train.
“That’d be nice. Thanks for today. It was amazing. Best day of my life,” I told him, and I meant it. No one had ever taken me to Paris before, even just for the day, and it had been incredible. I couldn’t wait to go back, and I wanted to go back with Jack.
When we got back to London there was no way I wasn’t spending the night with my boyfriend. We went back to Jack’s apartment, where a little bit of kissing quickly turned into a lot more. After all, isn’t Paris known as the city of love?
Chapter Twenty Four
The next day, Saturday morning, Jack offered to drive me back to his father’s place. I accepted, though it was a gorgeous day out.
“Only if you leave the top down on the car,” I told him. I wanted to feel the summer air running through my hair as we sped along the road.
It wasn’t a long drive, and we quickly arrived at the estate. Jack slowed down the car, so it made as little noise as possible. I recognized that he didn’t want to make his presence known, and I didn’t say anything. After all, it was Saturday, there was a good chance his father was home.
“Thanks for the ride,” I told him, kissing him before I stepped out of the car.
“No problem Jules,” he answered. His phone rang but he ignored it, kissing me again before I got out and went into the house.
Letting myself in, as Anita usually had Saturdays off, I immediately heard yelling coming from inside the house. It was John, yelling.