“Here,” he says and bends down.
I frown at him from the end of the bridge. There’s no way he can find it. There is absolutely no f**king way he knows where it is.
“Here,” he repeats with more conviction, a padlock in his hands. He turns to face me. “It’s here.”
“There are thousands on padlocks on this bridge. You honestly think I believe you know the exact place ours is?”
“Twenty-eight steps in, roughly.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Kind of halfway down because you had a freak-out about it not being even.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Silver and gold. We scratched our initials in with a penknife we found in my suite.”
So much emotion rises in me at that memory. The moment I realized forever would never happen with the guy I loved beyond belief.
I swallow the remembered pain. “If it’s ours, what’s under my initials?”
“A hoof print. Just like Bambi’s.” He glances at it. “Come see if you don’t believe me.”
My legs take me toward him. They shake the whole time, and I hide my trembling hands around my waist. I stop beside him and know he’s right before I bend down. I know that the padlock he holds in his hand is ours, the one we so lovingly carved our initials into. The one I painstakingly carved a deer’s print into so we’d always remember it was ours. So if we ever found it, we would know.
It’s unmistakable. A generic lock like so many others, yet so unique.
I stare at it in disbelief and cover my mouth with my hand. “How do you even know where it is?”
“I counted. As we walked away, I counted the steps to the end of the bridge. Just in case.” He stands and pulls a second from his pocket.
I reach my hand out but hesitate and curve my fingers back. I swallow all the crazy shit pounding and clenching in my chest and take the padlock from his hand.
Our names are on it. Not our initials. Our names. Perfectly inscribed and underlined by the date we first met.
I curl my fingers around the cold metal. It feels as natural as it did the first time we stood on this bridge with a lock exactly the same. I bend down and hook it around the bridge beneath the first one. Aaron kneels next to me and wraps his arm around my body. His hands cover my shaking ones and lock it into place. My lips part the instant it clicks, and he holds up a small gold key.
“I threw the first time,” he says into my ear. “Now it’s your turn.”
I take it and stand, staring at the River Seine, the way it winds around and through the city until I can’t see it bend any longer. I feel his hot breath on my cheek and his hands at my hips and his body at my side.
And I tighten my grip on the tiny key. It digs into my palm but I ignore the sting. I already know I’m going to throw it. And I know what throwing it means. Everyone does. Every damn couple that visits Paris knows what this signifies.
The first time, he threw it, and in my mind, I promised the summer. I promised what I knew I could give. I promised him all I could.
This time, I’m throwing.
This time, I’m the one making the real promise.
This time, I’m promising him that I’ll love him forever.
Regardless of what happens when we touch back down in Seattle, when real life intersects with this magical rendezvous, I’m promising him that he’ll always have my heart.
I’ll never love another the way I love him.
I pull my arm back. With his fingers at my hips, I force my arm forward. He inhales deeply.
The key hits the water with a tiny splash and sinks.
I curl into his hold, offering a forever my heart can guarantee but my body can only hope for.
***
Moulin Rouge.
The movie every teenage girl watches, wishing she could be Nicole Kidman. The first time I saw it, I know I spent the whole time wishing I were. Wishing I had my own Ewan McGregor acting as Christian.
Except I do. And he’s been plying me with wine all night. By the time we leave the building headed by a bright red windmill, the night air certainly gets to me.
I tilt my head to the side and gaze at him all through the journey back to the hotel. Aaron smirks, scratching at his neck, and I can tell by the tightness of his jaw that he’s fighting the urge to look at me. Like it’s a mammoth, nearly f**king impossible task not to meet my eyes when I’m staring at him as if I want him naked right this very f**king second.
Our journey through the hotel foyer consists of my calculated steps and his hand twitching at my waist. The seconds in the elevator are taken up by the aimless traveling of his fingers up and down my side. They’re filled with sparks of need jolting through my body.
Aaron locks the suite door behind us, and I walk to the fridge. The wine bottle is cold beneath my fingers, and I focus on each drop falling into my glass instead of him watching me.
“Dayton.” My name leaves him, hot and heavy.
I turn, meeting dark blue eyes filled with a need so intense it engulfs my body in red-hot flames. He approaches me and closes his fingers over mine. Just when I expect him to pull the glass away, he doesn’t. He lifts it to my mouth and tilts. His breath is hot against my neck, and his chest smolders against my back as I down the wine before me.
“I’ve always loved Moulin Rouge.” I run my finger around the rim of my empty glass. “Do you think I could do the dances like they do?”
“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters.
I spin from his hold and catch my tongue between my teeth as I cast my eyes around the room. They fall on the coffee table in the middle of the room, and my lips curve into a wicked grin.
I throw a glance over my shoulder and move toward it. A deep chuckle fills the room when I climb up onto it. I pause for a second to catch my balance and smirk at him.
“Well, do you think I can?”
“Dayton, get off the table. You’ll break your damn neck.” He makes a grab for me but misses as I step back.
I waggle my finger in his face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do tonight, remember? I’m in charge. Ooh la la!” I wink saucily and spin.
My body contorts and undulates as I recreate a routine from the show from my tabletop stage. I keep my balance and dance like it’s what I was made to do—like I should have been a f**king stripper instead of a call girl.
Despite his concern for my safety, Aaron makes no move to get me off the table. I expected his arms to loop around my waist and pull me off or that he’d climb up and sling me over his shoulder. He does neither. He does nothing but stand and watch me with his hands resting in front of his body.