The Summer of Him Page 9

  Then he leaned in, and his lips brushed mine, slowly finding their way until he gently sank in deeper, claiming more of my mouth. I felt myself respond instinctively, melding with his delicious lips. When we drew back, he traced a line over the contour of my face. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for hours,” he said.

  “That must’ve been distracting,” I said, putting my hand on his chest and tilting my head to look at him.

  He laughed quietly. “It was distracting. And it was worth the wait.”

  “Then, maybe you should do it again.”

  He cupped my jaw in his hand and leaned in again, sweeping his tongue into my mouth and kissing me in a way I wouldn’t forget anytime soon. His kiss was sweet and hot, and it gave me a hint of what I might feel if we gave in to the feeling completely. I instinctively knew I wanted that. I also didn’t want to shortchange the kissing, the sweet beginning part.

  I felt myself press into him, lifting my hand to the back of his head and running my fingers lightly through his hair. He had good hair—well-conditioned, it seemed, and soft against my hand. And his lips were also soft, exploring mine and breathing heat against my neck. My insides churned and I felt a small moan escape my lips. Sounds were possible; words were not.

  The warm summer air held us in its grasp as Chris turned so his back was against the railing and pulled me in tight. He tilted his head back a couple inches to look at me. His eyes roamed over my features like he was memorizing them. I understood the urge to commit the moment to memory. We had the one photo, but I wanted the feeling etched in my brain and my body so I could return to it after tonight.

  His look didn’t require a response, at least not a verbal one. So his lips were on mine once more, more certain and insistent and hot. Now there was no question that he was capable of setting my whole body on fire with one kiss and two very capable hands, which he wove into my hair. I didn’t want to question it. Or to think. I just wanted to kiss him on that bridge, holding onto the moments that I knew would end by morning.

  When our lips parted and we looked at each other, it felt like I’d known him for longer than a day. I was at a loss for words, my heart pounding and my brain suddenly empty of anything but sweet thoughts about how much I liked him.

  And then fear. And realization—that this was an everyday thing for an actor.

  He could kiss any woman he wanted and probably did. And because he did, he’d gotten good at it, and I’d been naive enough to fall for it and think it was anything more than the fun nightcap to a nice dinner. Maybe he even thought I owed him because he’d insisted on paying and I’d finally stopped protesting. He was an actor, a player. And I was an idiot.

  My brain tried to reel my emotions in, but they were already down in the abyss. I needed to leave right away before I fell in any deeper. I was tipsy from the wine and attracted to his nice face and pleasant conversation and definitely out of my depth. Before I could speak, Chris was looking embarrassed and saying something I hadn’t expected.

  “Um… this isn’t something I do often. I… just so you know, I wasn’t planning it.”

  “By ‘this’ you mean, kissing me on a bridge, this?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I was just expecting we’d have some dinner. A couple of Americans in Paris.”It was a line. It had to be a line. Of course he was planning it, of course he expected we’d do more than have dinner, but protesting such a plan was just the kind of thing a person like him did. It was the right thing to say, so a person like him didn’t sound like a player.

  “But you’re a big actor. Don’t you—by definition—do this? It’s got to be in the movie star manual or something, making out with willing participants, of which there are certain to be many.”

  He laughed softly and his face settled into an amused expression. “I haven’t read the manual. You’ll have to share your copy. But no, I don’t go around kissing women on bridges. Or in tunnels. Or at railroad crossings.”

  “So no transportation-related kissing,” I said, feeling another shiver when he cupped my cheek with his hand and gave it a soft caress. Chris shook his head.

  He brushed a few strands of hair off my shoulder and bent to kiss a trail from my collarbone to my ear, where he whispered, “But I’m making an exception for you because I like you.”

  “So you don’t just think I’m a starstruck groupie who you’re obligated to kiss so I can Tweet about it?”

  “Not the way I’d describe you, no.”

  I smiled, wanting to believe that he wasn’t an actor-player. He brushed the few strands of hair off my face that had been taken up by the breeze. “I’ve been staying in an apartment not too far from here. I don’t want to sound like I’m making a move, but if you felt like coming back there with me, I could fix us a drink. Or some coffee.”

  I had to laugh. “I appreciate the disclaimer. But what if I want you to be making a move?”

  “Then consider the move made.” He had his arms around me and he leaned in and kissed me again. I wasn’t sure if he knew how persuasive his kisses were. His lips tasted like Sancerre and cherries. “Come back with me,” he whispered. He was running a hand through my hair and pulling me closer as I inhaled the smell of rosemary and mint from some sort of body product. I couldn’t do anything but nod like a zombie.

  It was the second time he’d suggested doing something by saying it like it was a command, the first being when he told me to have dinner with him, earlier outside the market. I normally didn’t like being ordered around, but coming from him, it didn’t feel that way. And I definitely liked it. “Um, okay, yes.”

  He kissed me once more by my ear before promising quietly, “No strings. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  It made me burst out laughing. “Ha. I have no doubt,” I said, imagining his gentlemanly hands just might have their way with me as soon as we had some privacy. I didn’t think I minded.

  But I knew what he meant. He was telling me I was safe. I wasn’t nervous about being alone in an apartment with him. I trusted my gut, and it told me he was one of the good guys. He didn’t seem like he was playing me to get me into bed just to prove something to himself. I already knew he was leaving, so if I wanted to hook up, it was my choice to make. It was a built-in assumption that whatever happened next would be a fun Paris one-nighter.

  We both knew how it would end, either late that night or early the next morning—with him leaving for the airport and me spending the balance of my two weeks here alone. I was fine with that. The whole point of my trip was to push boundaries and have adventures. It made me game for whatever happened with him.

  He took my hand, and we walked back the way we’d come, to the right bank and farther than he’d implied when he said his apartment was not too far. We covered at least a mile, if not more, winding our way into the eighth arrondissement, but I didn’t care. We talked just as intently as we had in the restaurant as the world fell away, and the only thing I could see was Chris.

  Every so often, while waiting for a light to turn green, he’d turn to me and we’d kiss some more, like so many couples I’d seen the night before at the little fake beach on the riverbank.

  Johnny who? Yeah, over it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Crazy-Beautiful Apartment in Paris

  The apartment was gorgeous. Calling it an apartment made it sound like a one-bedroom efficiency, a small box on top of another small box. Chris’s place spread out over the entire story of a building that was several hundred years old. The wood floor of the foyer went on for yards and yards in a burnt-brown herringbone pattern, leading through an entryway that held a baby grand piano and had several doors leading in different directions, each doorway framed by triple molding and each door its own work of art.

  Chris led me by the hand into the living room, which had a chandelier hanging from a ceiling decorated with swirls of floral designs sculpted into the plaster. Paned windows that reached almost to the ceiling were flanked by heavy drapes pulled back with metal tiebacks
that were festooned with the faces of lions.

  “Wow,” said. “This is incredible.”

  He looked around as though seeing it anew. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”

  “I just… wow. It’s like the setting of a classic French film. I almost feel like everything should be in black and white.”

  He laughed. Above the fireplace, Chris lit two candles on the mantle, still not letting go of my hand. The flames danced in the breeze from the open window, doubling their light in the large mirror reaching from the mantel to the ceiling. A pair of footed sofas covered in pale-beige velvet flanked a yellow upholstered settee that conjured an image of someone lying on it being fanned with a palm frond. The term fainting couch came to mind, but I had no idea why. The coffee table in the middle was an antique rectangle inlaid with a woven top.

  I knew Chris hadn’t selected all the furniture himself because he’d made it sound like he didn’t own the apartment, but I couldn’t help complimenting its splendor. “This is what I always imagined French royals would have in their living rooms.”

  “I have no idea who owns this place. My assistant rented it for me,” he said.

  His assistant. Of course he’d have an assistant. The actors on the PR firm’s roster had them for all kinds of reasons, and some of those actors were definitely abusive. They had their assistants take their dogs to the vet or pick up their dry-cleaning or buy their wives birthday gifts. I’d always rolled my eyes at the entitlement and what I perceived as pure laziness on the part of those actors who had so much money and months off between films, yet they thought nothing of paying other people to cart around their laundry.

  Chris seemed different, yet here we stood. In a place sourced and procured by his assistant. He hadn’t had a hand in deciding where to stay in Paris.

  Then again, neither had I. I’d taken the suggestion of a kind waiter and never questioned it. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.

  “Nik?” he asked. “Did I lose you again?” His voice shook me out of my reverie, as did the fact that he’d called me Nik. Only my closest friends did that. I’d always been highly annoyed by people who reverted too quickly to nicknames for people they barely knew. But it didn’t bother me when he did it. Maybe that was because I’d stood on a bridge kissing him for an hour. I liked him. I knew I should squash those feelings, but I couldn’t.

  “Yeah. Sorry. So… you have an assistant?”

  He nodded, starting to clue in. “Is that weird?”

  “I mean, I’m sure you’re really busy, so it’s probably necessary, right?”

  “Depends. When I’m on a project—or sometimes two at once—I don’t even have time to read the newspaper, let alone answer letters.”

  “Letters? Like fan mail?” I still hadn’t grasped what it meant to be Chris Conley. In our few hours together, he’d seemed so normal—spectacular looking, but normal. It was hard to picture him surrounded by piles of fan mail and walking red carpets with paparazzi screaming his name. Thinking about him that way made me uncomfortable and intimidated. I decided I didn’t need to picture that. I liked the live version standing in front of me better. And after one night, that was all I’d be left with.

  I shook my head. “Never mind. I don’t care about your assistant. I care about the view from that window. Does it open?”

  “Oh yeah, wait till you see.” He led me to the tall dormer windows, undid the latch, swung the doors open, and stepped with me onto a small balcony. He stood behind me, his hands on either side of my hips and his head tipped down toward my shoulder, which he grazed with his tongue and a series of light kisses. There it was again, the Eiffel Tower, guarding the city with its sparkly lights. The view didn’t disappoint. Neither did he.

  “Hang on,” he said, looking at his watch. “Oh, good. Five minutes.”

  “Wow, you wear a watch?”

  “I find it’s handy for knowing the time,” he said with a wry grin.

  “Well sure, but don’t you just use your phone for that?”

  “No, I use my watch.” Forget about not seeming actor-y. He was different from most people I knew. In a really good way. Confident, matter-of-fact, wholesome.

  “Oh. Okay.” I shrugged. I liked that he wasn’t obsessively checking his phone. The watch passed scrutiny. “What’s happening in five minutes?” I asked.

  “Were you outside last night on the hour?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “You’ll see.” We waited, staring off at the lights together. That was too long to stand in a small space without feeling an intense need to kiss him, so I turned to Chris and put my arms around his neck. The feeling of desire and heat was fueled by the fact that I knew my time with him was fleeting. He kissed me like he was oblivious to time, as if each time his lips met mine was a new chance to start the clock on forever. He pulled me to him tighter, more urgently. I wasn’t sure that whatever was supposed to happen when the hour struck even mattered anymore.

  Then he pulled a few inches away, still holding me close. “Look.”

  I turned and was awestruck. The Eiffel Tower had started glittering like a Fourth of July sparkler, lit up with a thousand tiny bulbs that flickered over its surface, like jewels glinting in the sun. Except that it was popping white lights against a black sky. So beautiful. “It does that every hour?” I asked, mesmerized by the sight. I knew I’d be outside each night, every hour, on the hour for the rest of my time in Paris.

  “Yes, then at one in the morning, there’s a grand finale that lasts a few minutes longer. When it’s done, the tower goes dark for the rest of the night. It’s kind of sad when that happens, but maybe if it didn’t, no one here would ever go to bed.”

  “We’ll have to stay up and watch it.”

  “Oh, I had every intention of staying awake.” His voice came out as a sultry growl and he dropped his lips again to the soft spot beneath my ear. I felt the effects of him on the skin of my neck, in the depths of my chest, down in my core. Then he was walking me back inside and over to the couch.

  The velvet was surprisingly soft as he guided me into a reclining position and hovered above me. We kissed like that for a long time—an hour, maybe more—our lips like liquid molding into each other. He never suggested we move to the bedroom, which was fine by me. I was happy on the fainting couch with my brains scrambled by his touch.

  I wasn’t a one night stand kind of girl. In fact, I’d never had one. I always needed a little time with a guy—a few dates, a sense we might be headed somewhere—before I took the plunge. I didn’t know how I’d feel about myself tomorrow if let my body take over and make my decisions for me.

  Did I need to know?

  The Eiffel Tower saved me from having to make a decision. By one in the morning, we were back on the tiny balcony. The light show finale left us silent, a soft blanket wrapped around us on the terrace, staring into the night. The tower sparkled with vigor, on and on, until it seemed like it had spent its final diamond sparkle. Then it went dark.

  In the sudden darkness, it was as though the night shifted into a different, more intimate phase. Chris’s lips brushed over mine, making me shudder with every pass. He cupped my cheek with his hand and his tongue swept across my bottom lip, causing my breath to hitch and my eyes to lull closed. I parted my lips and felt the swish of his tongue over mine, lazily drawing me in.

  We still didn’t know each other all that well, but our bodies didn’t seem to feel inhibited by it. For the first time in a long while, I felt good about myself and my desirability.

  I pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the taut muscle under his shirt and wrapping my other hand around his neck. His hands moved down my back and over my hips to where he tugged up the hem of my dress. The minute I felt his hands against the skin of my thighs, the impossible heat ignited again and I think I let out a sigh. Those hands, his lips, that spark. He melted me like a pat of butter in the sun.

  We stayed on the balcony for what felt like an hour. But what did
I know about time? I was lost in the aura of him.

  When I finally opened my eyes, something felt different. Without the sparkling tower, it was like the light that had propelled our dinner forward into the magic of kissing on the bridge and coming back to his apartment had been extinguished with the lights. Time for bed, the tower seemed to say.

  It was late. I fought a feeling of sadness. I didn’t want to go back to my tiny room in my sensible hotel. Not if it meant saying goodbye. I wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  But I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. More than that, I didn’t want anything like an awkward goodbye to ruin the memory of this night. So I had to make it quick, a thank you and a farewell, the finale after the finale.

  “So… I should get back to my hotel. I’m sure you have some packing to do before you head out,” I said, trying to be logical about the Eiffel Tower’s implied curfew.

  He looked surprised. Maybe he’d just expected me to fall into bed with him like every other fangirl he’d met. Or maybe he didn’t know what it was like to be with someone who wasn’t a fangirl. “Really? The old ‘I should pack’ line?”

  “It wasn’t a line. I just thought…” I didn’t know what I thought. All reasonable thinking had gone out the window a long time ago. I felt flustered and suddenly unsure what was the right thing to do. And I always knew the right thing to do. He was confusing everything.

  “Stay here with me tonight,” he said. “I’m not trying to get you into bed. Though I’m not gonna turn you down, just to be clear. But”—he put his hands up in surrender—“we can just hang out here and talk. Whatever makes you happy. I don’t care. I’m just not ready to let go of you yet.”

  I smiled at him. He was so genuine, so real. Except that I still couldn’t fully accept that he was for real. Because he was an actor and he was good at saying believable things in a way that melted hearts. He got paid millions to do it, so I had a hard time taking him at his word. There had to be a catch.