Daisy
This must be a dream. Or heaven. Or some strange twist of fate because it’s the second day I’m spending in Paris with Ronan Kade, and I still can’t believe this is happening.
Hell, I can’t believe last night happened—his hand between my legs. Those expert fingers that knew all the right things to do. Coming faster and harder than I ever have in my entire life.
Of course, I was practically edged all day long, with the plane ride, and the moment on his bed, and then the sex club. The need was so painful. I hate the analogy, but I quite literally felt like a cat in heat.
And his hand alone did the trick.
Well…as much as it could, I guess. It didn’t stop my ache for him, completely.
But I’m not pushing it.
After we woke up today, my body still cradled against his, we didn’t talk about it. We just continued on the way we were before.
He promised me food, which is what brought us to a cute little cafe about a block from his apartment. It must be good because it’s filled to the brim with customers, and the waitresses are running around like mad.
“Ronan!” one of them yells from behind the bar when she spots us.
“Bonjour, Ilsa,” he replies with a wave and a smile.
“It has been so long” she says in perfect English, and I feel Ronan’s hand at the small of my back, leading me toward a table by the window. I smile at the waitress watching us, and it feels as if I’m walking around with a celebrity.
When we sit down, I stare at him with scrutiny. “Why does it feel like everywhere we go, everyone knows you?”
He picks up his phone to read a message and answers without looking at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That night at the gas station, you were talking to the owner like you knew her name.”
“Her name is Sherie.”
“See. How do you know that?”
He sets his phone down and looks at me with a smirk. “Because I take the time to get to know people. Why is that strange to you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. A moment later, the waitress, Ilsa, brings us menus, but Ronan waves them away. “No need, Ilsa. You know what I like.”
“A raclette, two plates?” she asks with a smile.
“Yes, please.” He shoots her a dashing smile, and I bite my lip, staring at him across the table. “Champagne as well.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
After she leaves, he glances toward me, his arms folded on the table.
“What did you just order?” I ask curiously.
“You’ll see.”
About fifteen minutes later, Ilsa brings an entire contraption to our table, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s half a wheel of cheese tilted over an open flame, so it melts slowly over an assortment of cooked potatoes, bread, and sliced sausage.
“Oh, I definitely died, and this is heaven,” I say, as soon as the first bite of warm gooey cheese hits my tongue. Ronan watches with a pleased expression as I savor each delectable bite.
“You like it?” he asks after a sip of champagne.
My mouth is full as I hold back a giggle, covering my face with a napkin. “I’m so happy right now,” I reply, and when he grins back at me, it becomes even more true.
It’s not about the luxury or the age difference or anything other than how incredibly good I feel around him. Someone else’s happiness has never mattered so much to me in my entire life.
And it’s very clear by the lavish meals and what happened last night that Ronan really does find pleasure in spoiling me. Just the way he’s contentedly watching me proves that.
But I can’t help but wonder—who spoils him?
“I’m going to write a song about this cheese,” I say with a mouthful, and he laughs.
“I’m glad you like it, and I look forward to hearing that song.”
As he refills my champagne, he shoots me a wink before handing it to me.
“Eat up, baby girl,” he murmurs.
“Yes, Daddy,” I reply sarcastically.
I’m still feeling a little tipsy from the bubbly we had with lunch as we take another walk around the city. Ronan’s apartment is near the same part of town as an old bookstore that we spend over an hour in. It’s like a dream, stacks of dusty old paperbacks in every little nook and cranny. I pick up a French songbook as a souvenir, and he finds an old edition of Emily Dickinson poetry. When he tries to pay, I nearly tackle him away from the register. It’s not much, just a couple books, but it means something that I can at least get him this.
When we’re done at the bookstore, we continue our stroll. My fingers itch to touch him, so when our hands brush, I take the opportunity to link them together, which he doesn’t seem to mind. His large hand is soft, and I nearly melt when his thumb strokes the back of my hand.
From time to time, the people passing us stare for a moment too long, but I actually sort of love it. I’m sure they’re thinking that I’m much too young for him, but I don’t care. I feel like his, and I want them all to know it.
As we reach a promenade near the Louvre, I hear a piano playing in the distance, and I don’t even realize I’m walking toward it until we’re watching a young man play a purple upright piano covered in graffiti. A small crowd is gathered around him as he does his best to get through a simple classical piece.
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips as I watch. His fingers stumble on certain chords and transitions, but it’s clear he was classically trained.
When the song ends, the crowd cheers, and he stands from the bench and walks away with a small group that I assume is his family.
The piano sits on the cobblestones in silence as the mass of spectators disperse.
“Go ahead,” Ronan says with a nudge.
“No,” I snap, shaking my head and staring at him in shock.
“It’s for everyone to play, so play it.”
“I don’t…like to perform for others,” I say, pushing back against him.
“Then, perform for me.”
I lift my eyes to his face and we share an intimate look. Then, he curls a strand of hair behind my ear. “Go, Daisy.”
And I can’t not listen to him. While everyone on the street passes by without a second look, I ease my way up to the lonely piano and have a seat on the bench. It’s covered in dents and scratches, but as I set my fingers on the keys, the sound is surprisingly beautiful.
Even with all that it’s been through on the streets of Paris, this instrument makes a perfect sound. So with my eyes on Ronan, standing just on the other side, I play a song. This one is upbeat, fast and melodic, and without thinking about the people passing by or anyone hearing the little notes I mess up, I keep my focus on him. Even when I look down at the keys, I imagine that he’s the only one listening.
But before long, he’s not the only one. In my periphery, I see the crowd starting to collect in a circle around me, but I keep my cool. Just like in his apartment, I let the music take me somewhere else.
And I can’t stop. I feel like an old version of myself, and I’m practically weightless as the song continues. When I glance up and see someone drop a bill on the top of the piano, my eyes widen. I glance at Ronan, who’s beaming with pride.
As the song ends, everyone standing around me erupts in cheers and applause. I’m swimming in the celebration as I rise from the seat and take the coins and bills dropped on the top of the piano and rush into Ronan’s arms.
“That was amazing,” he says, squeezing me tight.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his neck. When I pull away, I gaze into his eyes. “For everything.”
