Brothers of Paradise Series

But she doesn’t. She nods to the other side of the river, a fierce blush on her cheeks. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Ivy

I’m packed and my hair and makeup is done early the next morning. We only have a half day left to shoot in Paris, and most of that will be filming me walking around little streets and alleys. We’ve yet to shoot by the Eiffel Tower, too, which is an absolute must.

Beneath the fluffy hotel robe, I’m wearing the flowy summer dress the agency put me in. It clings to my shape perfectly, which means I’ll have to think about not hunching over. Combined with the hat they want me to wear and the flats, it does feel a bit… French countryside-ish, not that I have any frame of reference outside of movies.

Sitting on the giant gilded bed, the covers neatly made, my heart feels like it’s in my throat. Rhys will be here any minute, knocking on that door with his camera in hand, like he has for the past few days.

We said goodbye last night right outside that door, his kiss still lingering on my lips.

It’s only been five days since we left New York, and in that short amount of time I’ve managed to kiss him. My sister would pass out if I told her, but not before she yelled I told you so!

My lips still tingle at the memory.

I haven’t been kissed often. I’ve rarely let men get that close, and every time it’s happened, I haven’t been able to get out of my own head. But with Rhys, staying in my own head hadn’t been an option.

For the first time ever, it didn’t feel like I was on the outside looking in. I was fully there with him, my lips moving with his.

It was the kind of kiss that makes you understand why people love kissing so much. It was the kind of kiss that makes you want another.

There’s a knock on the door.

And he’s there when I open it, a stray lock falling down across his forehead. A dark eyebrow is already raised. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” I rock back on my heels, unable to keep from smiling. Why am I nervous? “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Did you?”

“Yes.”

He looks down at me. “Did you forget to get dressed?”

“What?”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

“The robe?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not terribly hungover, are you?”

“No, not at all. I was actually going to ask you for a favor. Come on, come inside.”

Rhys steps into my hotel room, and it shrinks. Perhaps that’s one of the undiscovered laws of physics or he’s just bending them entirely, but there’s a lot less space with him standing in here.

“Another favor?”

Another? Does he mean the kiss yesterday?

“Yes. Not… yes. Here.” I hand him my phone and struggle to find my way back to a joke, to our camaraderie. “I know you hate photographing with smartphones, so I’m asking you to go against your own principles here.”

He groans. “You want me to take a picture of you?”

“Please.” I open the double doors to my balcony, welcoming the already-warm air of the city. The sky is a beautiful pale blue, strewn with wispy clouds, and the Eiffel Tower beckons in the distance.

Nothing could break my happiness today, not even Rhys Marchand’s withering comments.

“While I’m standing here. Is that okay?”

He looks from my phone to me. “That depends. My fee is pretty steep.”

“Shoot. Do you accept favors? I bet you’ll need my help with something during this trip.”

He snorts. “I already have-and you helped me with that yesterday.”

For a mind-numbing second, I think he’s referring to the kiss. But no, it’s Baptiste, the dinner, and my role as buffer.

“Right. Well then, take pictures of me here, and then we’re even.”

“Is this for your social media accounts?” he asks.

My fingers clutch around the balcony railing. “It might be.”

He grumbles behind me.

“I know you hate that,” I add.

“Yes. But it’s the game I hate, not the player.” He holds up my phone. “Let me attempt a bit of pointing and shooting, then.”

I pose against the balcony railing, my robe wrapped tightly around me. Rhys backs up a little, changes his angles as I transition between poses. We’ve only been shooting together for a few days, and most of those had been fraught with tension.

Now it’s starting to feel… natural. I know what angles he’ll ask me for before he does. He knows what poses I look best in before I shift into them.

I’ve never shot with the same photographer for this long.

“This is a good idea,” he says, brow furrowed, the way it always is when he photographs. Concentration makes his features sharpen in intensity. “You’re selling the hotel this way, too.”

“Rieler might want one of these shots too.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

I nod towards the double doors. “What do you call French doors in France?”

He snorts. “Just doors, I suppose.”

“It’s a riddle.” I turn around, tossing my hair down my back, and lean out over the railing. The Eiffel Tower is gorgeous in the distance. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this view,” I tell him.

“To the left.”

“Look?”

“Yes.”