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We arrive at the hotel. It’s a splendid five-star in an old, grandiose building close to the heart of the city. The lobby is gilded from top to bottom. Sophie stands in the center of it, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling, until I take her up to our room.
We have a penthouse suite, decorated with tasteful, refined oil paintings and light, airy curtains. Sophie pulls them wide the moment we’re inside, gawking open-mouthed at the view: the Seine, a glittering ribbon of water winding its way past the Eiffel Tower.
“Unbelievable,” she whispers, almost to herself. “I can’t believe I’m actually here.”
I walk up behind her, wrapping my arms around her. Absent-mindedly, she takes my forearm and holds it to her chest.
“Believe it,” I say quietly. “You’re a tourist in Paris, but not a tourist to this lifestyle. You’re a guest in this hotel, not a stowaway.”
“I know. It’s just hard to wrap my head around.” She sighs.
“You’re not used to it.”
“Of course not.” She shakes her head. “How could anyone be used to this?”
“It takes some time,” I tell her. “But I promise, you’ll enjoy yourself so much more if you spend more time focused on what will bring you pleasure, and less time on whether you fit in wherever you are. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says dubiously.
I take her by the wrist, pulling her over to the king-sized bed. By way of a demonstration, I sit down on the edge of the clean, white sheets. I fall back onto the bed, rumpling the carefully smoothed, satiny fabric. “See?” I say, sprawled on my back. “Like this.”
She laughs, her head tilted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Relax,” I tell her. “Like this. The bed’s here for you to lie on it. It’s a great mattress.” I slap the bed beside me, and after a moment’s hesitation, she lies down there.
I roll over a bit so that I can wrap an arm around her. We lie there for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the touch of each other’s bodies and the blissful comfort of the fresh linen. The thread count in this fabric must be astronomical, but for what this hotel room costs, it’s to be expected.
“You’re right,” she says at last, smiling. “Very comfortable.”
“You’re going to sleep very well tonight,” I say. “Not just because of the mattress quality either, I can promise you that.”
“Oh?” She sits up eagerly. “Am I going to be tired?”
“Of course.” I push myself upright too, stretching. “We have a long day of shopping ahead of us, and then, of course, I have dinner reservations for the two of us. They eat dinner late here in Europe, you know.”
“Right,” she says with a chuckle. “You know, I’ve heard that.”
“It’s true. And naturally, after dinner, there’s always dessert.”
I enjoy the way she flushes, squeezing her legs together slightly. I want her to keep that thought in the back of her mind all day, because I know it’s going to be at the forefront of mine.
“But in the meantime,” I say, getting to my feet, “I believe our driver is waiting for us outside. Shall we?”
I offer my hand to her, and she takes it.
“Absolutely,” she says.
“There we go. That’s the spirit.”
As we head to the door, she says, “Declan, about shopping….”
I hold up a hand to cut her off. “No. No ‘about shopping.’ I’m taking you everywhere. I want to see you in everything. No arguments.”
Every time I remind Sophie that she’s supposed to be enjoying herself, she seems to relax a little more. This time, the smile that breaks across her face is completely genuine, without a trace of her earlier discomfort.
I think she was flattered and felt pampered by the plane ride—which is good; that’s how I want to make her feel—but she didn’t feel like she quite belonged there. I want to do everything I can to convince her that her place is right here by my side.
That there’s nowhere else in the world she should be.
