Page 45 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Would you like a picture in front of it?” the brunette asks.

“Yes, please.” I hand them my phone.

When we stand in front of the wall, Pepper gazes up at me, and I feel something powerful, too. But it has nothing to do with the wall. Pressing my lips to hers feels as natural as breathing.

“Now, there’s a great picture,” the brunette says, reminding me we have an audience.

When she hands me back my phone, I thank her and offer, “Would you like me to take a picture for you?”

After I take their picture, we chat with them for a bit and ask them where we should go next.

“Have you been to Place du Tertre?” the blonde asks.

“No,” we answer.

She tells us it’s a square that was once a gathering place for famous artists like Renoir, van Gogh, and Dalí and is now used by amateur artists. “Ask one of the artists to sketch a picture of the two of you together. It’s a wonderful experience. We still have ours from fifteen years ago.”

“We’ll do that,” I promise. “Thank you.”

On the walk to the square, I’m still thinking about the way Pepper looked at the wall. “Hey, Reckless, have you ever been in love?”

“No. I had a major crush on Ravi when we went out, and I might have thought it was love at the time. But we were just kids, so…” She shrugs.

“You mean the lucky bastard who got to pop your cherry?” As the words leave my lips, I bite back a sting of jealousy.

She looks amused. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She rolls her eyes. “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” She looks up at me with disbelief. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I fell in love at five years old, and I’m still in love with the same game.” The business of it has gotten old, and it’s taking a toll on my body, but my love for the game is still there.

She squeezes my hand. “You’re such a brat. I’m being serious. Have you ever fallen for a woman?”

“I have been in lust, but never in love.” I pull her closer, trying to ignore the unfamiliar tug in my chest. “I guess those chemicals you mentioned haven’t mediated that particular reaction yet.”

We find a vintage photo booth on our way to the square, and I drag her into it, pulling her onto my lap. She smiles properly for the camera, and right before it takes a picture, I tickle her ribs, catching her mid-laugh, with her head back and her mouth wide open. I kiss her as the camera flashes again, and it catches us in various stages of silly faces and hilarity.

We walk away arm in arm, each with a strip of four black-and-white pictures, laughing at ourselves. It only takes a few minutes to reach the square, which is bustling like a street fair with artists and people and shops along the periphery. We visit all the artists, watching them paint or sketch, taking pictures of everything and of the two of us. We sit at a table outside a café sharing a croissant and having a glass of wine, people watching. My shoulder burns, and a dull ache radiates up my neck. I try to rub it out, praying it doesn’t lead to a headache today of all days.

“Are you okay?” Pepper asks.

I lower my hand. “Yeah, fine.”

“Did you hurt your shoulder when you carried me up the stairs?”

I scoff. “No. I could carry you for days.”

“Are you sure? Yesterday at lunch, I heard the guys say you had a shoulder injury.”

“It’s nothing. They were just talking shit. I’m fine, really.” I look out at the square and try to distract her. “This place is pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t seen anywhere like it since I got to Paris. I love the energy here. It’s like a hidden village all its own.” Her eyes shimmer in the sunlight, more beautiful than ever. “It’s kind of magical.”