“Great! I’ll meet you at either the concierge desk or outside in thirty minutes. Since you’ll be joining me, I have to make some last-minute arrangements.” She looked around his body, then smiled. “Oh! And ditch the bodyguards.”
He didn’t know what he was in for, but so long as it was beside her, he was game. Their magical night under the EiffelTower ended with him alone, tossing and turning, wanting to continue their conversation—about anything—at two in the morning. Surprisingly, he wasn’t drunk on the libations, but they did manage to loosen him up a bit, soften his heart so much that he accepted her apology without even discussion. What had Caroline been thinking to do this to him? What hadhebeen thinking, allowing himself to slip back into yesterday so easily? He feared that the inability to protect his heart was going to be his vulnerable end this time, and so long as Jane was still in Lizzy’s life, any pseudo-friendship was going to end badly, again.
Still, with an unusual spring to his step and a staccato in his heart, he rushed down the hallway to the open shops, eager to spend their fleeting hours together until returning to New York.
Thirty-five minutes later, wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, he dashed down the front steps to the sidewalk.
“You’re late,” she said, standing beside two green ebikes.
“Well, it took me a minute to find what you wanted.” He opened his arms to show her he capitulated. “I ended up trading clothes with a tourist browsing around in Armani. The shoes are a little tight, but I’ll survive.”
“That’s eww-ish,” she said, crinkling her nose, reminding him of the night he took the bloviating water bottle client to Cavalleria. Yeah, he was a little repulsed, too, but at this point, he’d walk barefoot over burning coal to spend more time with her.
“Electric bikes? You can’t be serious?” he asked, suspecting the horrifying truth that he’d have to straddle one of those things.
“Dead serious. We’re going to spend the day touring the Sixth Arrondissement, specifically the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district where I went to school.”
“On those?”
“Yes, silly. So, that’s now your second complaint in as many minutes.”
“I’m not complaining, but I could easily hire a car and a private tour guide. We could see Paris in style with champagne and without breaking a sweat.”
“Where’s the fun in that?I’myour personal tour guide, and it won’t cost you a penny. Well, maybe lunch and a hot chocolate.”
“You, I can manage, but bicycles—over cobblestone—fun? I’m not wearing protective gear.”
“So, I guess, then a helmet is out, too?” she astutely surmised his concern for his nuts.
He gave her a look that made her laugh, which was music to his ears.
“Ok. No helmet, but just so you know, the traffic could be a little intense this time of year, and Parisian drivers are crazy,” she said rolling a bicycle to him. She stood there watching—and smirking—as he struggled to straddle it.
“It’s been like twenty years since I’ve been on one of these,” he complained, expecting her retort.
“Oh, poor baby. Do you need me to adjust the seat for you?” she teased, pointing to the lever at the front of the seat.
Yes, please.“It’s good. I got it. I’m not that much of a spaz.”
The next thing he knew, she plugged a walkie-talkie earpiece into his ear, then one into hers. Climbing upon her bicycle, she said something in French to the bellman, followed by the guy’s tutorial on how to start the bike. The bellman laughed, then she laughed, and, to his mortification, instinctively knew they were laughing at him.
“C’est tipar!” Lizzy declared into the walkie-talkie mic, whatever that meant, but she was full steam ahead on her motorbike. Petrified, yet simultaneously stoked that she was histour guide, he followed behind her shapely bottom. It was going to be one hell of an adventure.
“Please don’t ride like a maniac,” he begged into the mic. “I don’t want a repeat of that night when you drove my Mustang over the 59thStreet Bridge. My life passed before my eyes.”
“Ha! Chicken.” She laughed like a psycho. “Just make sure you stay in the bike lane and be a polite rider. No one likes a lane hog. Some Parisians will send you to the guillotine if you act like an arrogant tourist.”
“Good to know.”
“To your left is Marconi’s Café. Don’t get coffee there. It used to smell like poo, the place and the coffee.”
“Also good to know.”
Ignoring the charted route on the matching GPS strapped to their handlebars, Lizzy turned down a cobbled alley. Again, she maniacally laughed, “You’d better grabvos parties intimes,” she advised for the bumpy road. “And look out for dog poop. The stuff is everywhere!”
“Gee, you’re full of shitty information. Don’t quit your day job,” he teased, bike bouncing over the stone-destroying stones.
He’d hate to admit it but the ebike, along with Lizzy’s anecdotal tour facts, was an amusing way to see the city, apart from the physical harm, of course. They weaved in and out of bike traffic and down picturesque, narrow streets of little tourist interest beyond selfies and overflowing flowerpots. Lizzy stopped in front of a gallery, kicked her bike stand, and jumped off with an alarming squeal into his ear. He slammed on the brakes, almost flying over the handlebars into a pile of dog shit.
