“This is Paris.” I drop my bag by the couch. “Your room is the one on the right. It has the best view of the Eiffel Tower.”
She moves to the window, and I watch her face as she spots the iron lattice rising above the rooftops in the distance. The wonder in her expression makes something warm settle in my chest.
She places her palm against the glass. “I’ve dreamed about coming here since I was a kid.”
Enzo joins her at the window. “Now you’re here.”
“Now I’m here.” She leans into him slightly, and he wraps an arm around her waist without thinking. The gesture is so natural, and rather than jealousy, I’m content watching her relax into what we’re building.
“Go get settled.” I move toward my own room. “We leave in an hour. Wear comfortable shoes. We’re walking everywhere today.”
The next three days are perfect in a way I didn’t know life could be.
We start at the Louvre, where Remy stands in front of the Mona Lisa for twenty minutes, just staring. Enzo explains the mathematical proportions in Renaissance art while she listens with rapt attention. I hang back and watch them, the way she lights up when he talks, how he softens around her.
Enzo doesn't open up to people. That's just who he is. Or maybe, that’s who he was. She's changing that, and I love seeing my brother so happy.
We visit the Eiffel Tower at sunset. The city spreads out below us, lights beginning to twinkle on, and Remy turns in circles, trying to see everything at once.
“It’s magic.” She grabs my hand, then Enzo’s, pulling us both to the railing. “This is actual magic.”
I’m not looking at the view. I’m looking at her, at the joy radiating from her, and I’m memorizing this moment.
We eat at tiny cafés, where the waiters speak rapid French, and I get to show off my language skills. We wander through bookstores in the Latin Quarter. We sit by the Seine and watch boats drift past while eating crepes from a street vendor.
And through it all, the relationship between Remy and us becomes something more.
Remy touches us more freely now—a hand on my arm when she’s excited, leaning into Enzo when we’re walking, reaching for either of us without thinking.
On the third day, we take Remy shopping at the Champs-Élysées.
“I don’t need anything,” Remy protests as Enzo steers us toward one of the luxury flagship stores.
“You need a proper Parisian wardrobe.” He holds the door open for her. “Humor us.”
Inside, a sales associate materializes immediately, taking in our appearance with the practiced eye of someone who recognizes money.
Enzo gestures around the store. “Pick whatever you want.”
Remy crosses her arms. “I’m not letting you buy me a wardrobe.”
“Not a wardrobe. Just a few things,” I tell her so that she won’t put up a fight. But I’m already moving toward a display of dresses. “This one. Definitely this one.” I hand it to the hovering associate. “We’ll take it.”
“I haven’t even tried it on!” Remy protests.
Enzo’s already selecting items, too. “You will. Along with everything else we’re about to pick out.”
An hour later, we emerge with several shopping bags. Enzo simply handed over his black card and told them to wrap up everything.
We move from one designer store to the next, each more exclusive than the last. Remy protests, we ignore her, she tries things on and looks stunning, and we buy everything. By the time we reach the smaller shops, she’s stopped arguing and started enjoying herself.
Remy walks between us, while Enzo and I carry the growing collection of bags.
We’re nearly back to the hotel when I spot the boutique I’ve been watching for. The window display features silk and lace in shades of cream and blush, with the kind of elegant sensuality only French lingerie achieves.
Remy stops walking when she realizes where I’m steering us.
“You need lingerie for these dresses.” I keep my tone casual, even though my pulse kicks up thinking about her in any of those pieces. “French lingerie is an art form. It would be a crime to leave Paris without experiencing it.”
