Forget (25 page)

My lips take a tentative sip. I shrug. “It’s not bad, not as good as coffee, but definitely tolerable.”

He chuckles lightly and then nods towards my shirt . . . well,
his
shirt. “Big fan of The Kills?” he asks.

“I know it’s a total cliché because everyone says it, but
Baby Says
is probably my favorite song of theirs.”

He chuckles again, nodding in agreement. “It’s the lyrics. They’re bloody brilliant.”

“I know, right? I mean, I have ten years’ worth of albums by them, but there’s just something about this song . . . I can’t put my finger on it, but if you’re feeling broken, this is the song to put on repeat, it’ll fix you up in no time.” I rest my chin in my hands, elbows relaxed on the small bistro table. It’s a nice change of pace to feel so at ease. No concerns about bumbling through idiotic comments or blinding him with my camera. No worries about anything. I’m just sitting here, enjoying this time with him.

“Favorite lyrics from that song?” he asks.

“Okay . . .” I pause, running through them in my head. It’s damn near impossible to pick. “Damn, this is harder than I thought.” I tap my chin with my index finger as I narrow down a few. “Okay . . . I think I’ve got it . . . Wait . . .” I ramble, still trying to pick my favorites.

Dylan leans back in his seat, crossing his leg. His green eyes are smiling at me, more than amused by my indecisiveness.

“The only way to do it right, is to sing them for you,” I say. Being alone with Dylan, chatting music and albums and favorite bands comes so easy. Little tidbits of our day spent at the record store float around in my brain, reminding me how the conversation between us just flows. It’s damn near effortless. I guess that explains why singing a few verses doesn’t have my stomach knotting up in nerves.

“Let’s hear it,” he encourages.

I tap the table with my hands, mimicking the beat of the song, and his smile gets wider. His eyes grow infinitely interested in what’s about to come out of my mouth. I sing the four verses that mean the most to me. For most, they’re obscure, but to me, they pull at my heartstrings every time I hear them.

“Perfect.” He claps his hands a few times, eyes shining at my impromptu performance.

A surprised laugh escapes my throat as I sit back in the chair. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“You’re far too talented, love. You need to share that gorgeous voice more often.”

The compliment makes me look away. I internally groan at my stupid reaction. Why do women do that? Why can’t we just take a compliment and say thank you? Instead we blush or wave it off, or avoid eye contact. I clear my throat, steeling myself, and then bring my eyes back to his. “Thank you,” I say, proving that I do have the balls to accept a fucking compliment.

“You’re welcome.” He glances out towards the street, and I get the sense he’s thinking about something. “When I first heard The Kills’
Blood Pressures
album, it was on repeat for a month. I can play every record on that album without even having to think through the chords.” His words surprise me a little, and I’m thankful he was merely just thinking about my favorite pastime, music.

My subconscious whispers,
you’ve got a new favorite pastime, and he’s sitting right in front of you.
I ignore her. She’s probably still horny from coming all over his hand.

“
Baby Says
sounds amazing acoustically if it’s done right. I’m a little disappointed you didn’t play it the other night at Pop In. It would have had me all starry-eyed, and maybe even a little swoony. Hell, I might have melted into a puddle at your feet.”

“Bloody hell.” He snaps his fingers. “That would have had me more than chuffed. I could have accomplished my life’s mission.”

“
Chuffed?”

“Excuse my British slang. I mean, pleased,” he explains.

“Chuffed,” I test the word out and then crinkle my nose. “Nope, it only works when you say it in that sexy English accent of yours.”

A mischievous smile forms at his lips. “First my body, now my accent. What else do you find sexy, Little Wing?”

“I can’t really think of anything else.” I shrug, acting indifferent.

Dylan’s smile gets wider, his entire face beaming. His hand slides across the table, turning my hand over, palm-side up. “This is very sexy,” he says, fingers tracing the smudges of black ink. “I quite like the idea of leaving my mark on you, knowing you’ve been walking around Paris with my name and number on your hand.”

“Do you always make a point of branding women with your number?”

He shakes his head. “You’re the first woman I’ve branded.”

I’m oddly comforted by that fact, and more than thankful he’s never acted put out or pissed off that I didn’t call him. “Just so you know . . . I wanted to call you,
really
wanted to call you, but I was far too embarrassed. I made a complete ass out of myself that day.”

“I’m pleased I’m not as forgetful as I thought. You really know how to leave a bloke hanging . . .” he trails off. His eyes shine with humor, and then flicker down at the faded black ink on my skin. “Why were you embarrassed?” he questions, smirking like the devil.

The picture . . . Oh dear God, he wants me to admit it.

I flash an annoyed stare. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

He feigns confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is there something you feel like you need to admit?”

I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Fine, I’ll be the bigger person here.” My hands drop unceremoniously to my lap. “I was, in fact, taking your picture on the métro.” I feel like a Catholic schoolgirl who just confessed her dirtiest sin to a priest.

“I knew it!” he exclaims. His grin is all “I told you so.”

I point my finger at him. “Go ahead and wipe that cocky grin off your face, I was taking your picture because of Lindsay. I promised her I would send pictures of every hot French guy I saw.”

“Every
hot
French guy you saw?” He waggles his eyebrows.

If his head gets any bigger, I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit him back inside the apartment. With a roll of my eyes and an exasperated sigh, I say, “You know you’re ridiculously hot. It’s practically unreasonable, to be honest. No guy should look as good as you and sound as good as you or smell as good as you . . .” I stop, realizing the hole I’m digging is only getting deeper. At this point, I’ll be in China by midnight.

“I wish I’d recorded that.”

I stifle a laugh. “I’m blaming this entire conversation and my horrid display of picture-taking skills on Lindsay.”

“So it’s all Lindsay’s fault?”

“Exactly. You’re lucky I only promised face shots. I doubt you would’ve enjoyed a strange girl asking you for a dick pic on the métro.” The fact that I just said the words
dick pic
has my cheeks threatening to burst into flames. Considering that less than twelve hours ago, my brazen hand was stroking him through his pants, the blushing responses he pulls out of me are ridiculous. What happens if we have sex? Spontaneous combustion?

“If you would’ve blushed like that when you asked me, I definitely would’ve obliged.”

“You’re crazy.” I laugh, and then abruptly stop once visuals of him naked blaze into my dirty mind. I can’t deny the curiosity that revolves around seeing Dylan in that state. Hell yes, I want to see him naked. I’m a little disappointed in myself for being too drunk to reach that point last night. Shaking my head, I dislodge the filthy thoughts.

“I’m not sure how Americans apologize, but in England
and
France, we generally expect the whole getting on your knees and begging for forgiveness bit. It’s the only way to prove the apology is heartfelt.”

Not only is Dylan a little cocky, now he’s acting like I should be groveling for his forgiveness.
Cheeky English bastard.

I point an index finger at him. “And I thought you were a lot nicer than your brother . . .”

“Believe me, I’m way nicer and more well-mannered than my brother. He can be quite the sod when he wants to be.”

I’m guessing sod is like the American equivalent of bastard. “Yeah, I found out he can be quite the arse,” I add jokingly. “I’ll say that getting asked for I.D. at your family’s pub was an interesting way to meet your brother.”

Dylan shakes his head, seemingly not surprised by Jesse’s behavior. “Since I’m showing you just how nice I can be, I’ll accept your silent apology for taking that picture without my permission. I know, deep down, you’re truly sorry.” He winks.

“Yeah, I’m
real
sorry.” I scratch my cheek with my middle finger.

Dylan laughs and then takes a sip of tea. My eyes can’t help but watch his full lips curl around the cup. “So back to those lyrics you just sang, which you delivered quite beautifully, in fact, why did you choose those?” He takes another drink.

“Hmmm . . .” I look away from his curious gaze, my brain busy replaying the lyrics, and striving to find the right words. And then it comes to me in a rush of thoughts and words and visuals. “I feel like those lyrics are saying, no matter what you’re doing, no matter what you’re trying to do, even if you’re creating a huge fucking mess in the process, just work to turn it into something positive.” I sit up in my seat, leaning closer to Dylan.

“It’s probably not even what the song is about or why it was written, but I don’t know, the words just scream,
You can always do it.”
My hands move and gesticulate as I continue to explain. “I think it might be one of the best verses The Kills have ever written. I hear it, and automatically think . . . Screw it, I’m going to amount to something. I’m going to fix this. Even though I feel like I ruined everything, I’ll fix it. I’ll make something positive out of this.” I inhale a deep breath, my lungs finally catching up with my rambling mouth.

He’s grinning at me, and I can’t decide what has him so entertained.

“What?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion, and flushing a little from the idea that he might actually be laughing at me.

“You’re bloody adorable,” he says.

My cheeks grow hotter, which only spurs more soft chuckles from his lips.

“I love how passionate you are about music. It’s sexy as hell.” He reaches out, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “And I love this fucking blush of yours. I want to put you in my pocket and carry you around . . .” he pauses. “I’m coming off a little barmy, aren’t I?”

“Join the fucking club with the putting me in your pocket concept, and
barmy?
What does that mean?”

“Crazy,” he interprets.

“Seriously, I’m going to need to buy a British slang translation book just so I can understand half the things that come out of your mouth.”

He grins.

My stomach growls and I give in to the scrumptious, sweet treats sitting in front of me. I pick out a pastry that looks like a croissant, but it’s covered in a sugary glaze and sprinkled with tiny red candies. Once it reaches my lips, I have to fight back the moan that wants to fly out of my mouth. It’s
that
good. I’ve been in Paris for nearly two weeks, had pastries every single day . . . how did I miss these things?

“Good?”

“So good,” I purr like a smitten kitten, which is weird because I’ve always been more of a dog person. “What is this? I think I need to order a year’s supply to send back home.”

“Croissant Ispahan. Those little fuckers are hard to get your hands on. If you’re not walking through a patisserie’s doors when they first open, I guarantee there’ll be none left, especially on a weekend.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably ship a thousand of these to my house before I head back to Cali.”

Dylan laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure why, but I’m quite fond of that sweet tooth of yours. I’m adding an addendum to my new mission, not only will I make you all
swoony
. . .” I love the way that word rolls off his English tongue. I want to record him saying it and use it as my ringtone. “ . . . but I’ll also help you properly explore that sweet tooth of yours while you’re here.”

“Please do,” I say between bites. I’m secretly praying he helps me explore a lot of things in this beautiful city. Pleasurable things . . . naked things . . . how many orgasms can I have kind of things . . . I nearly choke on my pastry, coughing into my hand to avoid spraying bits of food in Dylan’s face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, face etched with concern. Dylan slides closer to me, patting my back softly.

I nod, forcing a smile on my face while raising a hand in his direction. It’s the universal, “I’m all right, motion,” but I’m really saying, “Please ignore me, I’m just a huge idiot.”

ONCE WE FINISHED BREAKFAST
on the terrace, Dylan carried all of our dirty dishes inside. He was fully intent on cleaning everything up. Just a glance around the white-walled flat makes it easy to assume he prefers things quite
spotless.

Since a sink full of dishes might have given him a stroke, I took over the task of tidying up, bumping his sexy ass away from the sink with my hips. Ignoring his adorable pout, I staked my claim to the kitchen, and obstinately refused help.

He busied himself with a shower, damn near cursing my name once he realized I’d used all of the hot water. By the fifth “
Bloody hell,
Brooke!”
that echoed from the bathroom, I was laughing my ass off and convinced that doing the dishes was the least I could do.