They walk, hand in hand, along the Seine, Oliver’s fingers knotted through hers. They climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower and wander through the manicured gardens below it. They walk the narrow cobblestone streets of the city, with no destination in mind, until they find a quiet spot in the shade of an old tree in a park. Oliver spreads a picnic blanket on the grass beneath it, and they sit together, her leg brushing against his, his arm around her back. They eat their supper of bread and cheese and wine while the setting sun bathes the city in a golden glow.
Beautiful, precious time, slipping through Beatrix’s fingers like sand.
She studies Oliver’s face in the warm sunlight, commits every detail to memory. The way his loose curls drift lazily in the breeze, and the faint crease lines in his brow. The shade of his eyes, perfectly matched to the cloudless sky over Paris.
Oliver catches her. “You’re staring.”
“I’m making sure I don’t forget.” She takes her Polaroid from the picnic blanket and hands it to him. “Here, take our picture.”
She leans into Oliver. Their shoulders brush. He holds the camera at arm’s length, counts down from three, and snaps their photo.With a click and a flash and a grinding whir, the moment is captured, frozen in time on a few inches of film. As if that could possibly do it justice.
Beatrix pulls the photo from the camera and lays it between them on the blanket. They watch the image emerge together, a heavy fog burning away to reveal the waiting world hidden beneath it.
Oliver tenses. He hovers his thumb over the edge of the photo, blocking her image. He shudders.
“What is it?” Beatrix asks.
“Déjà vu.” He hands her the photo. “It’s the one from my obituary.”
She stares at him, wide-eyed. “I didn’t mean to,” she says, as if she could have changed his fate by leaving her camera behind in London. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Oliver says. “I know why Theo picks it. I look—I am—happy in it.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, as if Oliver has manifested his own dark clouds. “We should probably go.”
Beatrix nods, though she doesn’t want her perfect day to end. They pack up the remains of their picnic and she slips her hand into his. They set off toward the hotel, racing against the gathering storm.
The skies open up without warning. A cool summer rain pours over Beatrix in sheets, soaking her through in an instant. She swipes her hair away from her face and braces herself for her own déjà vu, the crushing weight of living in the here and now and the past and gone, all at once. It never comes.
“Are you all right?” Oliver asks. His curls are plastered to his head by the downpour and his shirt clings to his skin.
Beatrix beams at him. “Wonderful.” She takes his face in her hands and kisses him. His arm slips around her waist, draws her close, and it is only Oliver, only Paris, only here and now, with this rainstorm and this man.
Thunder cracks overhead and Oliver pulls away. He grabs her hand. “Come on.”
They run through the streets until they are gasping and laughing, in the hotel lobby, the concierge muttering under his breath about the mad foreign guests dripping rainwater all over his floors.
Beatrix is glad the elevator is empty. Her dress clings to her skin, leaves little to the imagination. She leans into Oliver, tries to steal some warmth from him. He wraps his arms around her back, but they are no better than two drowned rats. She can’t stop shivering.
He kisses the top of her head. “Hot bath?” he asks.
She tilts her chin so she can see his face. “Is that an invitation?”
His mouth lifts at the corner. “Do you want it to be?”
Her heart skips. “I’ll bring the champagne.” She stands on her toes to kiss him, and his mouth parts for hers. He reaches for her face, slides his thumb along her jaw. She melts into him, presses her wet skin against his.
The elevator dings its arrival, drawing them apart. Oliver’s head tips back against the wall with a soft thud. The doors slide slowly open. Beatrix reluctantly moves away from him.
Outside their room, Oliver fumbles with the key. He pushes the door open, and Beatrix steps inside, her heart pounding as the storm beyond the balcony darkens the afternoon. The door clicks shut, and then Oliver is behind her, his hands on her hips, kissing her neck.
“I have never wanted to get stuck in an elevator so badly in all my life.”
She turns to face him, and he pulls her close. Heat pulses through her. She drapes her arms over his shoulders, pressing tighter against him. “Where were we?”
He searches her gaze, his eyes shining with desire. “Are you sure about this?”
Beatrix still doesn’t want this to end. Still knows that it will. But not here. Not now.
