Forget (Changing Colors Book 1)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  She walks over to the bed, sitting beside me. “And just to be clear, I’m not judging, I’m not saying a fucking thing about anything. What happens in Paris, stays in Paris. It’s no one’s business what or who you do here. Not Ember’s, not Jamie’s, no one’s.” She stands up, kisses my cheek, and says, “Don’t think too much about it, Brooke. Now is not the time to overthink, now is the time to let the fuck go.”

  Once Lindsay is out the door, I’m left twiddling my thumbs. I change my outfit ten times, and finally choose comfort over anything else. Paris isn’t a city that you walk around in stilettos all day. I settle on black skinny jeans, my favorite worn in Chucks, and a t-shirt. My lip gloss is applied no less than thirteen times, and if I go one more coat of mascara, I’m going to have clumpy, spider-web lashes. Worst look ever, by the way.

  Glancing at the clock, I realize there’s still thirty minutes to spare. Good God, did time stop?

  After pacing around the hotel room a few more times, I decide to channel my nervous energy into something that won’t leave holes in the plush carpet of my room. I grab my messenger bag and meander down to the lobby, making my way outside. I find a bench that sits off the beaten path inside the quiet courtyard. I shoot Dylan a quick text letting him know where to find me, slide off my Chucks, plop my ass on the bench, and then lose myself inside the pages of my journal.

  Dear Whoever?

  Sometimes, I wish I were as carefree and spontaneous as Lindsay.

  Want to spend time with your best friend in Paris? Drop everything and do it.

  See a guy that catches your eye? Grab him by the balls and make him yours for the night.

  You think your best friend needs some alone time with a hot musician? Call that designer that wants your pretty face on their fall clothing launch, and then tell her to do whatever the fuck she wants and that you won’t tell a soul.

  Can life really be that simple?

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m my own worst enemy, like I’m the one preventing myself from really being myself. Most days, I feel like “me.” Most days, I’m comfortable in my own skin, happy with my life, my family, and my friends. But then there are those days that creep up on me, hovering like a black cloud. And it’s those dark days that make me wonder how one person, who’s surrounded by so many great and loving people, could still feel like the loneliest person in the world?

  Today isn’t one of those days. It feels like a new beginning. Like someone has washed the darkness out of my soul and is letting me see things differently for once. Maybe it’s because I’m in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, or maybe it’s because I get to spend more time with him. Dylan. How can a name I’ve only known for a week feel like a complete thought? A perfect thought?

  A shadow covers the pages of my journal. My brow furrows from the disruption. I glance up, meeting my reflection within mirrored aviator shades. They cover eyes that arc across the green spectrum of the color wheel. The first time I saw those eyes, they were bright green and luminescent in their depths. I wonder what they look like today.

  “I hope you haven’t been standing there long.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Dylan says, motioning towards my journal.

  The cap of my pen finds its way to my mouth. My teeth bite down as I take in his grin. I wonder if his eyes have honed in on my lips and darkened a few shades. Last night, after finishing a shot he bought me, their hazy depths became a deep hue as they watched my tongue swipe across my bottom lip.

  “Seriously, I’m in no rush,” he adds. “Finish whatever you’re doing. I’ve got all the time in the world.” He sprawls out on the bench, using my messenger bag as a pillow against the armrest. His long legs are still bent, the bench too small to accommodate his large frame.

  I turn towards him, still cross-legged and barefoot. “Well, please, make yourself comfortable,” I tease, nodding towards his makeshift pillow.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Soft laughter spills from my mouth.

  “Anyway, I quite like sitting here, watching you lose yourself in whatever you’re doing.”

  “Exactly how long have you been watching me like a creeper?” I ask, tapping his thigh with my foot.

  “Long enough to know I’m a fan of whatever has you looking so peaceful and content.”

  My nose crinkles. “You’re weird.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” He winks. “And what is that?” He nods towards the pages that are discreetly covered by my hands.

  “It’s just a journal.” I shrug. “I got it from someone who was very special to me. She damn near insisted I put it to use.”

  His aviators are now resting on top of his head, and I’m thankful I can actually see his eyes. “You keep putting it to good use and wake me up when you’re finished.” A small smile crests his mouth as his eyes fall closed.

  I lean forward, snatch his sunglasses and put them on.

  Dylan peers out of one eye. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  He chuckles softly and then resumes his napping.

  After a few minutes, Dylan hasn’t budged, and the soft rise and fall of his chest proves he’s at least entered the drifting stage of sleep. His sunglasses serve as the perfect cover-up. I’m able to look at him, really look at him, without getting caught. I think I could make a hobby out of this.

  Once I’ve filled my gawking quota for the day, my pen finds its way back to the paper.

  What are the odds that Dylan finds me in the courtyard at the exact moment my pen is writing his name? I should see if Paris sells lottery tickets.

  It feels nice having him sit beside me. His thick lashes rest softly on his cheeks. Full lips beckon me, and I wonder if those lips taste as good as they look.

  I’m generally a restless person. My mind is constantly busy making endless lists, always trying to figure out the next step. I wish I could be more like Millie in that aspect. She woke up every day with an infectious vigor for life. That’s a purity I will always aspire to have. She just lived, always enjoying the little moments in life and forgetting about all of the miniscule details—bills and appointments and work and other bullshit—that tend to clog up our brains.

  But last night was different for me.

  When I was on stage with Dylan, my head wasn’t busy making lists. When we were sitting at the bar—laughing and talking—I didn’t worry about what would come next or how the night would end.

  And right now, I’m only thinking about how peaceful Dylan looks, and how content I feel with him beside me.

  Is this what it’s like for a drug addict after they feel that first incredible high?

  Hooked. Utterly consumed.

  I want more of these moments.

  Maybe I won’t fall in love with Paris.

  Maybe I won’t fall in love with a man while I’m in Paris.

  Maybe I’ll just fall in love with moments like these.

  I think that should count for something towards Number 20 on Millie’s bucket list.

  More later,

  -B

  Dylan is lying on the bench, feigning sleep, while I put on the act of trying to wake him up. His face looks peaceful, and his body the picture of relaxation, but I know the bastard is awake. My soft nudges turn progressively rougher. I lean down, whispering into his ear, “It’s a shame you’re so tired. I was really excited about being shown a good time.”

  No response.

  “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.” I start to get up, but a yelp escapes my lungs when strong hands grip my waist. He pulls me back towards the bench. In a matter of seconds, I’m lying on top of him, our bodies flush against each other.

  “Don’t even think about it, love.” His eyes smile up at me.

  I know he’s just being playful, but I’ve never felt so turned on in my life.

  He is beneath me.

  He slides the aviators off my face and searches my gaze for a beat. “I always keep my promises,�
� he says. His voice drops a few octaves—deeper, and slightly rougher around the edges. It’s sexy as hell. I imagine it’s the kind of voice he uses when he’s engaged in extracurricular activities—the naked kind, that is.

  If I sit up, I would be straddling his hips. If I lean forward, I could easily crush my lips to his. My heart rate has tripled, and my breaths are coming out in tiny pants. If Dylan asks me to kiss him, straddle him, or fuck him on the bench . . . I’m pretty sure I will.

  I take a deep breath, trying to regain control, but my chest rubbing against his is more suggestive than anything else. Dylan closes his eyes. The grip on my waist grows tighter. I can’t find the mental capacity to figure out the meaning behind his reaction. I’m too busy thinking about the warmth of his skin, and how strong and muscular his body feels beneath mine.

  And dear God, the way he smells is beyond intoxicating. Soft yet tough, it reminds me of warm vanilla contrasted with amber musk. It’s masculinity meets sensuality, soft as cashmere yet tough in a woodsy kind of way. If it’s cologne that’s making him smell this good, then the bottle should come with a warning label spelled out t-r-o-u-b-1 -e. I have the urge to bury my face in his neck and inhale until I pass out or hyperventilate.

  I’m startled out of my daydreams when Dylan sits up, taking me with him. “All right, since I promised you a good time today, we better get moving.”

  He helps me to my feet. Within seconds, my body misses his touch. I need a fan, or at the very least, a cool, wash cloth. Holy hell. What was that? And was I the only one affected by it?

  Instead of analyzing, I keep my eyes on my messenger bag and start packing up my things. My pace is that of a ninety-year-old, but I’d say given the situation, it’s understandable. Lord knows my body needs the extra time to cool the fuck down.

  WE START OUR JOURNEY towards the 5th Arrondissement. According to Dylan, the Latin Quarter is the best neighborhood to dig for vinyl. The minute we sit on the métro, he grabs my hand, placing it, palm up, on his knee. He glances at me, a soft smile etched on his face.

  His fingers brush against my palm, tracing the remnants of black ink. It’s such a simple display of affection, yet it steals all of my focus. I feel every innocent touch down to my toes.

  Time flies when I’m in his presence, and before I know it, we’re shuffling off the métro.

  “Hungry?” Dylan asks, placing his hand on my lower back. He leads me across the street and through the hurried traffic.

  “Sure, but do you mind if it’s somewhere outside?” I ask, my eyes fixating on the busy streets of The Latin Quarter. The neighborhood is this odd yet seamless mix of academic dialogue, old world architecture, and hip demeanor.

  He stops in the middle of the crooked sidewalk, turning to face me, hands gripping my shoulders. “Sounds great, but you have to make one very important choice first.”

  People are literally tripping around us, but Dylan isn’t fazed. And since he doesn’t seem to care, I’m not caring either. Damn, I never knew apathy could feel so good.

  “What kind of choice?”

  “A very important choice.” His eyes sparkle with playfulness.

  A hand goes straight to my hip, as I sassily demand, “How many times are you going to say the word choice before you actually give me the choices?”

  Dylan grins. His hands massage my shoulders. “Wine or coffee, love?”

  “Wine or coffee? That’s the big choice?”

  “Like I said, important.”

  My nose crinkles at the last word, and he taps it with his index finger.

  I shake my head on a laugh, eyeing him with feigned irritation. Considering I had coffee this morning, it’s not a hard decision. “Wine.”

  “Good answer!” He claps his hands and then turns around, leaving his back to me. “Hop on, and I’ll take you to the second best wine bar in Paris.”

  A piggyback ride? It’s ridiculous, and I fucking love it. I jump onto his back, arms wrapping around his shoulders as I adjust my position, and I’m softly giggling into his ear. Dylan’s large frame carries me with ease, hands gripping my thighs and legs eating up the pavement in relaxed strides. I hang on to him like a chimp.

  My eyes focus on the ethnic and vibrant atmosphere of the Latin Quarter. I’m overwhelmed with how much there is to see. Students head towards universities, books tucked under their arms or backpacks slung across their shoulders. Two young children laugh as they run along a fountain, their not-so-happy mother trailing behind them. And eclectic shops are lined up like sardines, huddled together along the sidewalks.

  “All right, we’re here,” he says, gently sliding me off his back.

  The establishment is small, not kitschy like most tourist attractions; it’s quaint, and just feels like Paris. Instantly, I’m in love. We’re seated outside, where wine barrels are used as tables, and a red awning blocks out the sun. A few other tables are occupied, their patrons easily identified as locals.

  I stare at the French menu. My brain can only translate a word or two. This is one of those moments where if Millie were here, I’d have to tell her she was right. I should have worked harder at refining my French skills. Sighing heavily, I shut my menu and set it on the table. “I’m putting you in charge of ordering.”

  Dylan raises a questioning brow, eyes still focused on his menu. “Why? Nothing sound good?”

  Figuring honesty is always the best policy, I bite the bullet. No need to be embarrassed about my pathetic understanding of French. “Because I can’t understand anything.”

  His eyes meet mine. A soft laugh leaves his lips once he takes in my frustrated expression. “I’ll translate for you,” he says, sliding his menu to the center of the table.

  I shake my head, pushing the menu back. “No translation needed. All of the alcohol I consumed last night has officially made my brain mush. I’m deferring my meal choice to your expertise.”

  “Oh, come on, Brooke. Now is not the time to be stubborn,” he teases.

  I stick my tongue out. “I think stubborn suits me pretty well, thank you very much.”

  He exhales a soft chuckle, his eyes shining with amusement.

  “And the pressure is on buddy. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Oh, I can promise I never disappoint.” He winks.

  No promise necessary, I muse. My body is convinced that a man with a body like his, and a sexy smile like his, and gorgeous green eyes like his, and messy, sexy hair like his, would never disappoint. Him, disappoint? Pfffffft. Not fucking likely.

  Dylan orders, and surprisingly quick by French standards, our table is covered in small, tantalizing plates. Foie gras with artichoke salad, lamb and fig terrine, and several excellent types of cheese are just a few of the dishes.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  My wine glass is filled with French rosé. It’s mouth-wateringly good. My taste buds did a little dance once the refreshing flavor hit my tongue. Dylan says it’s a Paris staple when the weather gets warm, but I’d drink it all year long.

  “Good?” he asks.

  I nod enthusiastically, my mouth too full to answer.

  “Glad I didn’t disappoint.” He takes a hearty drink of rosé.

  I finish a bite of one of the most decadent cheeses I’ve ever tasted. “Seriously, this is unreal. I want to move into one of the apartments above this bar just so I can eat this food every single day.”

  A forkful of poached baby artichokes is pushed past my lips. Once the lemon and herb broth hits my tongue, I moan in satisfaction. I’m starting to think it might be possible to achieve an orgasm from food. Food-gasm.

  His deep laughter gains my attention.

  “What? Is there something on my face?” I ask, dabbing a napkin around my mouth. All of sudden, I’m feeling very self-conscious. Maybe I should have put more effort into not acting like I haven’t eaten in days? My current infatuation with food, and the fact that my mouth has been stuffed full since the waiter placed our meal on the table, is probably more repulsive
than attractive.

  He shakes his head, eyes smiling. “No, you’re still just as gorgeous as ever.”

  I set my fork down. I need to cool it on the whole, “My food is bringing me to climax” act.

  “Please, don’t stop, I’m quite enjoying watching you eat.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say, laughing and blushing at the same time. “And one hell of a good liar.”

  “Oh, I can promise I do not lie. I hate dishonesty. Although . . .” he pauses, eyes flashing a heated look.

  “Although what?”

  “In the spirit of trying to keep things friendly, my mind is having a field day with all of those sexy little moans that keep flowing past your lips. At the moment, they’re making it quite difficult for me to be completely honest with you.”

  “Oh.” It’s the only response I have at the moment. Normally, I’d be embarrassed that I’ve been moaning loud enough for him to hear, but the brief flash of heat I caught in his eyes makes it impossible to care about anything else. I’m wondering what his eyes look like when they’re not trying to be so friendly.

  “Friendly?” I question, curious about the meaning behind that.

  “I’m merely following your instructions, love. You were quite serious about us staying friendly. I believe ‘no funny business,’ were your exact words.”

  Why would I say that? Even drunk, it appears I was striving to put up walls. Well, some walls. Writing my name and number across his sexy abs in black marker is the complete opposite of trying to shut someone out. Is this why he practically threw my body off of his in the courtyard at my hotel?

  “I said that?”

  He nods.

  My brain searches to remember the context of that conversation. I rummage through memories of last night like a teenage girl going through her closet, quickly moving past anything that doesn’t fit.

  I remember walking off stage and getting a text from Jamie, telling me he was sorry for missing our phone chat. I remember feeling discombobulated and contemplating removing myself from the situation, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay there with Dylan.