I may never admit it out loud, but Matthew is sofucking adorable.The way he was acting on the plane, calm, confident, all business I thought maybe that sweet, awkward version of him was gone for good.
But he’s still there.Thank God,he’s still there.
I’ve gone out with the macho types, the ones who puff up their chests and talk abouttheir womanlike we’re some kind of collectible. And sure, that’s fun at first. Who doesn’t want to feel wanted? But it gets old fast. The possessiveness, the controlling crap, it stops being flattering and starts feeling like a leash.
I don’t want a daddy. I want a partner.
And Matthew… God, he’s… He’s kind and steady and infuriatingly decent. The kind of guy who’s probably overanalysing the fact that he waved before the elevator doors closed.
I flop back onto the bed, laughing softly to myself.I wonder if I can still make him blush.
I used to do it all the time in college, make him blush, I mean. A well-placed compliment, a too-long look, a whisper near his ear, and his face would turn the shade of a ripe tomato.
With that memory fuelling me, I start getting dressed.
Every outfit I packed suddenly feels wrong. I’d thrown in mostly casual stuff, jeans, T-shirts, a black dress meant for clubbing, none of which scream“let’s go exploring Paris with a man I haven't seen in two years.”
Wishing I’d packed my grey sundress, I settle on the next best thing: soft, fitted pants and a loose top. Comfortable enough to walk in, polished enough to blend in if we end up in a museum or a café.
I bite my lip as I catch my reflection. I haven’t changed that much in two years. My brown hair’s longer, sure, and my eyes maybe a little older. But at my core, I’m still the same me. Still the same curves, still the same smile.
I decide against a ponytail, my hair’s spent enough time twisted into a bun. Instead, I let it fall loose over my shoulders.
I tuck my phone, some cash, the room key, and a tube of lip gloss into my purse. My gaze lands on the box of condoms I impulsively packed. I doubt I’ll let him getthatclose… but still. Better safe than sorry.
I grab two, then hesitate, rolling my eyes at myself and putting one back.One is more than optimistic enough, Masters.
A sudden knock at the door startles me. “Coming!” I call, shoving it into my purse.
With one last glance in the mirror, hair loose, lip gloss just right, I sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the door.
I swing it open and freeze. Then I burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” I manage between giggles, “we look liketwins at church.”
Matthew glances down at himself, then back at me, and starts laughing too. “Or a couple.”
“Or that,” I say, still smiling as I pull the door shut behind me.
We stand there for a beat, side by side in the hallway, both wearing blue pants and white shirts, his a crisp button-down, mine a loose blouse. And he’s right. Wedolook like a couple.
The thought warms something small and stupid in my chest.
The elevator ride is quiet but comfortable, filled with half-smiles and little glances when we think the other isn’t looking. By the time we reach the lobby and step out onto the street, the city hums around us, Paris unfolding like a secret waiting to be shared.
“So,” I say, slipping my hands into my pockets as we step out into the soft Paris afternoon, “where are we going?”
“Well,” he says, falling into step beside me, “I figured we should get something to eat before anything else. Fuel up before the adventure.”
“Adventure?” I arch a brow. “I thought we were just grabbing food.”
“Foodisan adventure,” he counters, dead serious for about two seconds before that familiar lopsided smile gives him away.
I laugh, shaking my head. “God, you’re such a nerd.”
“Hey,” he says, mock-offended. “I’ve grown up. Ditched the glasses and the hoodie.”
I laugh again, louder this time. “Youlivedin that hoodie. And for the record, I liked the nerd.”
