“French bread and hot chocolate. You?”
“Here, we could probably just call it bread. Seems redundant. Like everything could be French. French water. French carrots.”
“French pains in the asses,” she pointed at him.
“Okay, I asked for that.” He smiled broadly, with a seemingly unending reserve of good humor. “How about French sightseeing. What would you like to do?”
Her view of the bustling room included the concierge desk. Beside it, a wall of brochures beckoned. She headed toward the rack, feeling him close behind her.
“Have you seen that random game on Tiktok? Close your eyes and pick a brochure.”
Phoenix grinned. “Feeling spontaneous?” he teased her.
“I see your cheeriness, and raise you spontaneity,” she said, then added. “Don’t look. When I say stop, just pick a brochure and we’ll go do that.”
Phoenix stifled an eye roll and sailed over to the start of the rack.
“Okay. Go,” she said.
Curiosity played across his lips. He sauntered past the options, his right arm raking over the sightseeing photos.
This industry icon doing as she asked filled her with a sense of playfulness.
A woman with bright red lips scored Phoenix with a look of want, then moved on. His gorgeous elegance made even the most ordinary undertaking look appealing.
A secret hope ballooned inside Orchid. This weekend, Phoenix was hers. Neither knew anyone else here. The hours of the day stretched before them, filled with the potential of anything and everything. She tossed aside caution. Screw mentorship, and the etiquette of business. Today, they were simply two people in Paris.
“Stop,” she ordered.Never stop, she wished.
His long fingers plucked a glossy trifold from the high shelves where his reach had paused. She joined him, and he angled the find towards her. The photo featured a flat black expanse scrawled with white markings, set against a stone wall, surrounded by trees.
“Le Mur des Je t’aime,” she sounded out.
His hand pushed through his hair in alarm, as her high school French caught up with the meaning. “The something of I love you?” she asked, then felt heat rising in her cheeks.
“The wall. Le Mur is the wall,” he replied.
“The Wall of I Love You?” she repeated, understanding dawning. Not really appropriate for coworkers.
He cast his gaze at the description. “Eighteenth arrondissement. In Montmartre, very close to Sacre Coeur. Want to visit the basilica?”
She looked at the photos showing angles of the church, the water tower nearby, and the steep drop from the church down a hill. Some people were walking the steps, others were riding the tram. “It looks pleasant,” she said. “Like a lovely Parisian stroll.”
“Whatever your wishes, madame. Sunlight will help reset our inner clocks.”
“Pick another one too,” she said.
He closed his eyes and grasped a slick pamphlet.
They looked together at the cover. “Catacombes? I’ve never heard of that,” she said.
He hesitated. “We can do better. I’ll pick again.”
She slid the paper from his fingers and slipped both glossy brochures into her bag. “Let’s go to our love wall!” she announced.
“You’re fun,” he declared.
Together, they crossed the lobby and emerged in the time-adjusting sunshine.
