We emerge from the park onto the Cours la Reine, and follow that street for a while before crossing at the avenue Winston Churchill. That road goes to the Seine, and turns into the Pont Alexandre III.
“Are we crossing?”
Damien shakes his head. “We can take the stairs down and walk along the water for a while or stay on street level and check out some of the sights. We’ll pass the Louvre in a few more blocks.”
“Can we go in?”
“We can,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “It’s already on today’s agenda. But there’s someplace else I want to take you first. You still okay with walking? We can catch a cab.”
“I’m great,” I say, meaning it. There is nothing I enjoy more than walking in a new city, unless it’s walking in a new city with Damien.
We stay on the street level until we’ve passed the Place de la Concorde and I’ve oohed and aahed over the Obelisk and taken a dozen more pictures. Then we go down the stairs and walk along the Seine until we reach the Pont des Arts. We head back up the stairs, begin to cross the bridge, and then I stop, confused by the odd appearance of the bridge’s railing.
“What’s that—locks?” I’ve stepped to the side, and Damien is beside me, as I realize that the odd metallic jumble I’m looking at is in fact a collection of padlocks that are attached to the bridge railing like barnacles.
I tilt my head to look up at Damien. “What on earth?”
“This is the bridge for lovers,” he says. “You’ve never heard of it?”
I shake my head even as I look farther down the bridge, not able to fathom just how many lovers have come here to pledge their devotion.
“They come. They write their names on a lock. They attach it to the bridge, and they throw the key into the Seine.”
“For luck?” I ask, and he nods.
“Is that why you’ve brought me here?”
“It is,” he says, and those two words warm my heart. “But I want to switch it up just a little.”
I frown a bit, confused, but nod.
“Not too long ago, part of the bridge fell off—it collapsed under the weight of the locks.”
My eyes widen. “Love is a heavy burden,” I quip, then immediately frown. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but even so. I thought we could start our own tradition. Carry our own weight, you might say.”
I cock my head, smiling as I wait for him to explain.
He draws a small box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal a silver charm in the shape of a lock. I pick it up, and see that it has our names engraved on it. “And it has a key, too,” he says, lifting the velvet to reveal the tiny key. “It’s for you, from me. And once I put it on your bracelet, I thought we could throw the key into the river.”
My chest swells and my throat is thick with tears. I nod stupidly because I can’t get the words out. It is romantic and sweet, and I lift my wrist for him, the little Eiffel Tower dangling there as he attaches the lock charm next to it.
“I love you,” I say as he puts the key in my hand.
“And I love you.” He cups his hand over mine. “On three?” he asks, and we start to swing our joined hands. Once. Twice. On the third time, we let go, and the tiny key goes flying.
“Forever,” Damien says.
“Forever,” I agree.
The rest of the afternoon feels just as soft, just as romantic.
We wander along the Seine, looking at the street vendors’ wares, taking silly pictures of each other, and holding hands. Once or twice I see people looking at us—a few even snap pictures—but I tell myself that it is nothing. That if there are less than a dozen people who recognize us, then we are having a good day.
We spend two hours in the Louvre, and I gasp in awe at the majesty of some of the paintings, and then gasp in surprise at how diminutive the Mona Lisa is, certainly not as big as I expected given the enormity of her reputation.
After, we buy cheese and wine and have an afternoon picnic in the Jardin des Tuileries, where we do nothing but laze about enjoying the weather, the surroundings, and each other.
As night approaches, Damien takes me back to the Seine and we take an evening cruise. We sip champagne and watch the lights of the city come on. And when the Eiffel Tower lights and sparkles on the hour, we toast to love and laughter and romance.
As we are heading back to the dock, Damien receives a text, and since he has ordered strict silence except in emergencies, he glances at the screen. I watch him, dividing my attention between my husband and the Parisian skyline.
The muscle in his cheek tightens, so I know it is not good news, and he taps out a reply quickly, his fingers practically attacking the screen. But when he turns back to me, the frustration is gone and he is simply Damien again, a man sharing champagne with his wife on their honeymoon.
“How do you do that?” I ask. “You must have a million things going on and a trillion fires to put out, and yet you can just shut it all down. Turn it all off.” I wish that I could do the same. Because although I have reveled in every moment of this day, the truth is that the threat of that damn lawsuit has been lying under the surface, clinging to my enjoyment like tar.
“I don’t know,” he says, brushing my cheek. “I simply will it away. It isn’t gone. Only shelved.”
“I can’t even manage that.” I press against him, sighing as his arms go around me. He smells of fresh air and grass from the garden, and his body is hard and hot against mine. “Make it go away,” I murmur as I feel the need rise within me. “For just a little while, make me forget everything but you.”
I lean back just enough so that I can tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are like molten steel, and I quiver simply from the thought of his touch.
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.” I hear the strain in his voice, as if he is fighting back the urge to touch me. The boat has reached the dock, and he leads me off, then pauses on the quai to study me. “I wasn’t sure, but, Nikki—yes. Come on.”
I’m not at all sure what he has in mind, but I go willingly. Eagerly, actually.
On the street level, we catch a taxi and Damien instructs the driver to take us to À la Lune in the Quartier Pigalle. I note the way the driver glances back, his expression almost a leer, and I raise my brows. Damien only shrugs. “Think red light district.”
“Oh,” I say, and then settle back in the upholstered seat. I have no idea what Damien has planned, but I’m completely confident I will enjoy it.