Chapter 111: The Art of Loving an Annoying Omega

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I expected to be impressed. What I didn’t expect was to immediately start explaining its history to everyone within earshot.

"The tower was built for the 1889 Exposition Universelle," I said as we approached, pointing upwards. "Originally, it was supposed to be temporary."

One of the guards, Timothy, glanced at me, but I powered on anyway.

"People actually protested against it back in the day because they thought it was fucking ugly and would ruin the city."

Timothy looked at Lorenzo, who was looking at me.

I kept yapping about Gustave Eiffel, the World’s Fair, and the tower’s controversies until I realized Lorenzo wasn’t looking at the Tower at all... he was looking at me.

"What?"

His expression softened. "I like listening to you."

I blinked.

"Oh." Suddenly, I was way more interested in the ground. "Well, someone’s gotta teach you."

His smile got wider.

Behind us, Timothy muttered, "Are we still moving?"

I spun around. "History isn’t a race, Timothy!"

He sighed. "I understand, Donna."

"No, you don’t. Now shut up."

The real danger of Paris, I soon discovered, wasn’t the stunning architecture. It was the bakeries. Every few minutes, another one popped up, each one housing something I simply had to try.

"This one!"

Lorenzo looked at the shop. "We just went to one."

"That was five minutes ago."

"And?"

"This one’s got better croissants!"

He looked at me like I’d lost it. "You decided that from standing outside?"

"I don’t mean to brag...but I have good instincts when it comes to food!"

I pulled him inside. My French was decent enough to place my order without embarrassing myself, but the woman behind the counter fired a rapid sequence of sentences at me, and I froze, staring at her.

She stared back.

Lorenzo stepped forward, but I held my hand up. "No."

"Alex."

"I can handle this."

The woman repeated herself, and I gave her a nervous smile. "Oui. Bien sûr."

I had zero idea what she’d just said.

Somehow, thanks to a mix of pointing, gestures, and sheer will, I managed to complete the transaction. When I returned to the table with several pastries, I couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. "I did it!"

Lorenzo smiled. "You did."

"I spoke French!"

"You survived French."

"Same difference." I said, refusing to believe I was a disgrace to my french ancestors.

We ended up with way more food than we actually needed, mainly because Lorenzo had given up trying to get me to limit my choices.

I took a bite of a croissant and launched into its history.

"The croissant has a pretty complicated history...there’s a whole ass debate about where it originated—"

"Eat before it gets cold." Lorenzo said.

"I’m eating!"

"You’ve been talking for five minutes."

"History needs context!"

Lorenzo glanced at it. "You know I don’t like sweets, love."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because I wanted to, come on! Try it!"

He studied me for a moment before taking a bite from my hand instead of just taking it...it made me blush a little with was very irritating.

"It’s good." He said.

I grinned. "Really?"

"Très bien."

I felt my cheeks flush even more, I looked away clearing my throat.

His quiet laugh followed me as I pretended to be captivated by a nearby display.

By the afternoon, we were strolling along the Seine.

The river flowed slowly in the midday sun, boats cruising by with tourists leaning over the railings, while artists set up their stalls along the stone walkway and street musicians provided a soundtrack with their accordion melodies that somehow made everything feel more cinematic than it had any right to be.

I spotted the green bookstalls before Lorenzo did. "Oh, oh,oh!"

I grabbed his hand and dragged him toward them before he could even react.

The moment I reached the first stall, I forgot everything else. Old books, prints, postcards, historical photographs, little souvenirs, shelves filled with worn volumes that had clearly been read by hundreds of hands before mine.

I picked up a history book about Paris and instantly became absorbed.

"This is fascinating!"

Lorenzo leaned next to me. "I had a feeling you’d say that."

I flipped through the pages. "Look at this!"

I started to explain a historical event described in the book, only to catch one of the guards checking his watch.

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you bored?"

He immediately dropped his wrist. "N–no, Donna."

"You just checked the time."

"I was checking the time."

"Which means you’re bored!"

"I checked the time because we have dinner reservations."

I shot a glance at Lorenzo. "Did you hear that?"

"I did."

"He’s attempting to hurry me."

Lorenzo kept his cool. "Take your time."

The guard briefly closed his eyes, as if trying to summon patience from the universe.

I grinned triumphantly.

Not long after, I found a passage in French and tried to read it aloud. I made it halfway through before stumbling over a word. "That word is ridiculous."

"It’s pronounced differently."

I looked at Lorenzo. "You speak French?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"I’ve been doing business here for years."

I stared at him, taken aback. "You never told me."

"You never asked."

I grumbled under my breath before letting him help me through the phrase.

I bought two books before we left, one on history and another horror novel I found hidden under a stack of old paperbacks.

Lorenzo reached for them, but I immediately pulled them against my chest. "I’m paying."

"I didn’t say otherwise."

"I know that look."

"What look?"

"The rich husband look."

His mouth twitched. "I have no idea what that means."

"It means you’re about to pay for something I want."

He raised both hands. "Then you can pay."

And he let me.

Later, I found out he had made sure to wrap the books carefully before placing them in one of the bags, but he didn’t mention it. I pretended not to notice.

By the time the sun began to set over the Seine, my feet were sore, my stomach was full of pastries, and my mind was buzzing with everything I’d seen.

The light turned that special golden hue that only happens in cities that have been perfecting their photogenic quality for centuries, catching against the water, the ancient stone bridges, and the windows of the buildings along the river.

I caught sight of a man in a dark hooded coat standing across the street, watching us. Something about him made me stop.

I couldn’t explain why, he vanished into the crowd before I could get a closer look.

I frowned, what the heck?

"Is something wrong, Donna?" A guard asked.

I turned back to the guard. "Nothing."

Maybe I was just imagining it. After all, this was Paris.

I’d spent the whole day behaving like an overexcited tourist, indulging in pastries and lecturing armed guards about historical architecture. Perhaps I was simply tired.

I slipped my hand into Lorenzo’s and continued walking down the street, letting that strange feeling fade beneath the warmth of the evening.

For now, Paris still sparkled.

And for the first time in my fucked life, I felt completely free to enjoy it.