Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  Griffin has other ideas. He closes my fingers over the sweet. I whimper. He says something, and I furrow my brow, trying to understand. He slows down. “I need something from you.”

  I nod. “Yes?”

  He glances at my hand. “Tell me what it smells like.”

  “What?” I ask as if he’s gone nutso. “Why?”

  He speaks in English. “You have this amazing nose, don’t you?”

  I laugh. “It’s not amazing. It’s just well-exercised.”

  He arches a naughty eyebrow. “Like my mouth.”

  Tingles spread across my chest. This man. Everything he says can sound dirty and delicious. I’m pretty sure he knows it, too. He does it on purpose. It’s almost as if he loves to remind me that we were once going to have a brief and potent Parisian affair.

  “I wouldn’t really know how well-exercised your mouth is,” I say coyly. Then, because he started it, and why shouldn’t I continue it, I tap his top lip with my finger.

  A little growl is my reward.

  I open my hand, and bring the chocolate in it to my nose, letting the decadent aromas spread to my brain—berries and lime juice. Then, I hold it under his nose. “Do you smell berries?”

  He closes his eyes and sniffs. He looks so vulnerable here with his eyes shut in the middle of the store, trying to reconnect with one of his senses. I steal this moment to study his face. Those cheekbones I noticed the first day I saw him, prominent but not too sharp. That square jaw, so masculine. His lips, soft and full. The shape of his handsome face. Sometimes, there’s a faint trace of stubble on his jawline, but mostly he’s clean-shaven, and I like the smooth look. I like watching him, too, wondering what’s going on behind those closed eyes.

  “A little,” he answers at last and in French. Holy smokes. I understood him! He arches a brow. “Raspberries?”

  I know that word, too, courtesy of all the raspberry tarts I’ve snapped up at the upscale patisseries I’ve been frequenting. Good thing I’ve been walking all over this city. I need the footwork to burn off my tart work.

  “I think this one is blackberries, but you’re close,” I say excitedly, switching back to English now.

  He doesn’t correct me as I continue, “And then when you bite into it, try to smell the zippy notes of the lime juice in it.”

  Even with his eyes closed, his expression is quizzical. His eyes scrunch more. “Smell it when I taste it?”

  I squeeze his shoulder. “Smell and taste are connected. Things taste even better when they smell amazing. Scent enhances taste. It’s the whole kit and caboodle.”

  His lips quirk. “If you say so.”

  He parts his lips the slightest bit. I linger briefly on the alluring vision in front of me, and the way a hot spark spreads down my chest as I stare at his mouth. Like a voyeur. But a voyeur he’s invited in.

  I put the chocolate square on his tongue. He chews and murmurs. His eyes open, and the blue in them is brighter than before. “It’s good.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Now I’m supposed to see a smell? You nose people are so very complicated.”

  I laugh. “Did you smell the lime and the berry?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe?”

  My shoulders sag. “And that would be a no.”

  “Sorry,” he whispers. “But it was tasty.”

  I screw up the corner of my lips, considering. “Okay, I have an idea.”

  “Say that in French, Joy. I’ve been slacking off with you.”

  I groan, but then, this is a sentence I can manage. I do as I’m told, then I return to the counter and ask for several more squares. I order two hot chocolates as well, and soon we head to a small table in the back corner of the shop, with a tray of chocolates and two cups of frothy chocolat chaud.

  Yes, this is heaven.

  I give him the Earl Grey ganache, telling him to search for the smoky flavor of the infused tea. “Surely, being English you know what Earl Grey tastes like,” I say.

  “Clearly. Since there’s nothing better than a cuppa.”

  “Oh, I bet this hot chocolate will be better than tea. But go on.” I wave at the treat.

  He takes a bite, and with intense focus, he seems to hunt for the smoky scent. “I can sort of taste it. Sort of smell it.” He hands me the rest of the square, and I pop it into my mouth. “How do you have such a good nose?”

  I shrug happily. “Anyone can learn to distinguish smells with precision. But for me, it’s my job. You just train your nose. The more you use it, the better your olfactory sense becomes.” Since we’re talking about talents, my curiosity turns to his impressive skills. “By the same token, how are you so good with languages? You know Spanish, too, right?”

  He grins. “And Italian. And I’m learning Portuguese.”

  “You’re learning a fifth language?”

  He nods. “I take classes.”

  “Is that on your bucket list?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I mean, it’s not on Ethan’s list. But yeah, I suppose it’s on mine, in a way, even though I don’t have a bucket list. It’s just something I’ve wanted to do, so I’m doing it. I love languages. Always have.”

  “Why?”

  “I love the way you can play with words, and how different combinations of words mean entirely different things. It’s like a crazy puzzle. If you put the pieces together correctly, you can do the most incredible thing.” He spreads his arms out wide. “Communicate.”

  I flash him a smile. “Communication is incredible. I realize that more every day when I fail at the most basic forms of it.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t think of it as failing. Think of it as relearning. Reworking the basics.”

  “I like that attitude.” My mind catches on something he said in the elevator my first day of work. “You said something about a hospital. That your nose had been terrible since then, and that’s why you couldn’t make out the lilacs very well my first day of work.”

  “Yes.” He stares up at the ceiling. “I suppose it’s right around then, if I were to try to pinpoint.”

  “That’s probably because the smells in it were so antiseptic.”

  He nods. “Yes, cold. All the smells were so cold.”

  I nod, puzzling together why he says he can’t pick up the scents well. “I think you shut it down. Your sense of smell. There were so many unpleasant ones, and they brought painful memories along with them. Our sense of smell is closely tied to the portion of our brain that controls memories. Yours was linked with something that hurt you. So you kind of subconsciously turned off your nose.”

  He tilts his head. “You think so?”

  “I do. It’s not unusual. We sometimes shut down things that bring us pain.” I raise my hand, miming turning off a knob. “But I can turn it back on for you.”

  He inches closer. “I’ve no doubt you can turn it on.”

  I roll my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an irrepressible flirt?”

  “Did you mean an irresistible flirt?”

  “Yes. That, too.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. A gorgeous redhead did about ten seconds ago.”

  Those sparks? They flare harder, brighter, faster. Tingles spread over my shoulders, and a charge rushes down my body.

  But we don’t linger too long on dangerous ground, because he flips the switch once more, repeating himself in French.

  I return to my mission of the moment, too—retraining his nose. Helping him relearn, so to speak. I reach for another chocolate, then another, guiding him through the scents and tastes. This one has a hint of pepper, this tastes cool because there’s the faintest bit of mint, this one oozing with caramel should taste warm and sweet on the tongue.

  His eyebrows wiggle. “Warm and sweet on my tongue.” He repeats himself in French.

  “You have a dirty mind,” I say, pointedly, and now we’re back here again.

  “I do. And you do nothing to make it clean.” He winks at me. Then he
clears his throat. “But thank you for giving me such a fantastic sensory experience on a Friday night.” He runs his finger down the end of my nose, and I shudder.

  That’s not supposed to feel erotic.

  That’s not supposed to be sexy.

  But he doesn’t tap my nose. He doesn’t squeeze it. He slowly brushes the tip with his finger, and somehow that faintly sexy gesture sends shivers across my skin.

  Then, we talk.

  As we drink our hot beverages, we chat about the chocolate, the weather, the day, and it’s as if a key in a lock turns just the slightest bit, giving me hope that the door might eventually open for me.

  Not today. Not tomorrow. But perhaps soon I might be able to converse in this country’s language without him.

  When we finish, Griffin clears the cups and the tray then offers me a hand. We exit, but once we hit the street, I hold up a finger and tell him I’ll be right back. “Wait for me.”

  “I will.”

  I turn to go get the one last thing I want for him, but as I glance back over my shoulder, I see him waiting. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and here on the sidewalk outside the chocolatier, with the lights of the tower behind him, he’s what I want to photograph. I want to snap this shot, post it on Instagram, and hashtag it “boyfriendaspirations.”

  As soon as that thought lands, I mentally smack myself.

  I’m not sixteen. I’m thirty.

  But in my defense, he’s completely photo-worthy, and I have no doubt the ladies of Instagram would love this image. Instead, I take a mental picture because I want to remember Griffin waiting for me on the street, patiently, with a smile that reaches all the way to those bright blue eyes. He’s not checking his phone, grumbling, or grimacing. He’s waiting. Happily. For me.

  Hustling back into the shop, I order one last item from the clerk. She gives it to me and wishes me a good night.

  I yank open the door, hand him the wrapped treat, and say, “Voilà.”

  He arches a brow curiously as he opens the paper. A smile plays on his lips. “I’ve been waiting for a chocolate tart from you.” He takes a beat. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, and our eyes hold. He looks at me like he did in the restaurant. With desire. With longing. He leans closer, dusting his lips to my cheek. “Merci.”

  I. Die.

  My knees go weak. My stomach executes cartwheels.

  It’s the barest touch, but I want to cup my hand on my cheek and hold that kiss close all night long. I’m not supposed to want this from him. But I want it. Oh, how I want it.

  Then, it hits me. He’s not kissing me. He’s saying good-bye, European-style. The other cheek will come into play any second. My heart drops, knowing the evening is ending.

  “Are you leaving? Are we done?” My voice rises, and I can’t hide that the thought makes me feel bereft. I want more of his words. More of this conversation. More of his finger on my nose, his willingness to taste new things, his confidence in teaching me.

  I want the night with him to unfurl into whatever comes our way.

  He doesn’t kiss my other cheek. Instead, he shoots me a sexy, lopsided grin that ignites the butterflies in my chest once more.

  He scoffs. “Done? We’re not done in the least. In fact, I’m still waiting to learn something about you, Ms. Danvers-Lively.” He gestures to the sidewalk.

  I could skip with happiness. The night isn’t over at all. We’re going to have a twilight walk in Paris, and I do believe I’ll be going to bed on a cloud tonight. This is a dream. “What do you want to learn?”

  “You said something last night that piqued my interest. Your friend Elise told you that you needed more fun. Why? What was un-fun about life in Texas?”

  My chest tightens. Here we go.

  “Why would you think it was un-fun?” I toss back, since a part of me doesn’t want to ruin the flirty vibe with the archaeological excavation of my pre-Paris life.

  He taps his chin, adopting a studious look. “Hmm. Could it be that when we first met, you said you just got out of a bad relationship and you weren’t looking for anything serious?”

  Busted.

  But I’m busted, too, with the stark reminder of why I can’t back him up against the glass wall of the boulangerie we’re strolling past, and kiss him hard with the cobbled streets of the Rue de Grenelle as our witness. Because my last relationship weighed me down. It entangled me. In my experience, relationships are chains around my ankles. When you’re finally free, you don’t check yourself back into the asylum. I’m finally finding myself again in Paris. I’m stepping into the person I’ve wanted to be. I can’t fall into the mistakes I’ve made in the past.

  “I was involved with someone for a few years,” I admit. “At first, it was good, like most relationships are at the starting line.”

  “True. If they weren’t, we likely wouldn’t begin any,” he says as we wander down the street.

  I offer a half-hearted smile at the sentiment. It’s both true and a little sad that so many relationships start, and yet so many end. “As for my ex, he wasn’t a bad person, and we clicked at first. But after a year, I grew apart from him. It just happened. I didn’t feel the same for him anymore. I wanted more out of life, out of work, and he didn’t. There was no big fight. No big reason. It was just one of those things.”

  He shoots me a quizzical look. “No reason at all?”

  I hold up my right hand as if I’m taking an oath. “None, I swear. No cheating. No lying. Just no longer feeling like we had anything to talk about. I tried to get the spark back, but when he didn’t put in the same effort, I felt more alone. I was ready to end it, and that’s when he fell from a ladder at work.”

  Griffin recoils. “What?”

  “He’s a contractor. He was working on a house. It was a workplace accident. He injured his back.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Exactly. I couldn’t end it then.”

  “You couldn’t?” Griffin sounds thoroughly flummoxed.

  “Of course not.” My response is crisp and clear. “That would be cruel. The man was in the hospital for a few days. He was in pain. He could walk, yes. But he was in constant pain from the injury.”

  “Right. Sure. But why fake your feelings?” he presses.

  “I didn’t fake my feelings entirely. He was still a friend. He wasn’t a jerk,” I say, bristling at the direction this conversation has taken.

  We stop at the boulevard, and the light ticks as I wait for it to change from red to green. We’re nearing Champ du Mars, the park that rings the most famous icon of France.

  “Well, that’s good. But why stay together if you didn’t love him anymore?”

  He makes it sound like it was such a simple answer. But there was nothing easy about those times. “I cared about him as a person, Griffin. I couldn’t just leave him when he needed someone. His family wasn’t in town, and he was trying to get back on his feet.”

  “His family should have helped him,” Griffin says resolutely. “They should have come to town.”

  “Well, they didn’t.” I wrap my arms around my chest, irritation brewing rapidly in me. I don’t like being judged for my choice. “Look. I stayed because it was the right thing to do. He needed help, and I was the only one there. When I originally planned to break up with him, I was no longer in love, but he was still a good friend, a stable guy. Then, he was injured, and over time, he grew addicted to painkillers, and he turned into a completely different person. He questioned everything I did. He wore me down. He became manipulative. He wasn’t like that before. The man he was when I finally left wasn’t the man he was when I wanted to leave. A year later, he was someone I no longer even recognized. He wasn’t someone I loved and he was no longer a friend, either.” We stop at a tree inside the park, darkness shrouding us. I stare at Griffin, my eyes hard. “You’re judging me, and I don’t like it.”

  The harsh reality is he’d probably judge me even more if he knew I let myself become consume
d by the madness. The drama of an injured, addicted Richard was a powerful storm, and I was caught in it. I let myself be dragged down. I let his health and my own deep, potent desire to try to fix him become more important than my goals and dreams.

  Maybe that’s what I really don’t like.

  I felt like I was losing myself then, and Griffin calling me out on it makes it all the more real.

  He reaches for me, but I back up. “I didn’t mean to judge. I was just trying to understand what happened, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but it’s like you’re saying I made the wrong choice, when I hardly feel I had a choice to make at all,” I say, my pitch rising.

  “I’m sorry, Joy. I didn’t mean to be harsh. I can tell this is a sensitive topic, and I don’t want you to think I was judging you.”

  I purse my lips. “I feel like a fool now.”

  “Please don’t.” He tucks a finger under my chin. “I think it just bothered me that you were with this guy when you didn’t want to be.”

  I swallow, wishing he’d take that hand off me, and wishing equally that he’d spread his fingers over my jaw and tug me close, pull my body next to his and let me sink into his arms. “I wanted to do the right thing,” I say, softer this time. “Does that make sense?”

  His smile is gentle. “It does, and I do understand. I was just feeling . . . retroactively protective of you.”

  I smile back. That’s kind of strangely sweet. “Thank you.”

  “So few people want to do the right thing, but you did.”

  “I did what made sense at the time.”

  “Different things make sense at different times.” His voice goes low, smoky almost. The sound threads into me, as if I’m drawing it into my body. My chest zings.

  His hand is still on me, holding my chin. He’s looking at me like I’m the thing that makes the most sense to him right now. Like we make sense.

  My entire body pulses with energy. With longing.

  Kiss me.

  Don’t kiss me.

  Take me.

  Let me go.

  I call upon some store of resistance that I’ve evidently packed inside me for moments just like this. “I should go.”

  He drops his hand from my chin.