A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,65

a sign and back away.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, I am here with my friend and I don’t know what she has planned but maybe we could—’

‘Run,’ Ethan suggested quickly. He’d said the first thing in his brain just to get something out there. Apparently backing away wasn’t going to happen.

‘What?’

‘The… exercise we talked about. You said you sometimes like to run. I could… maybe show you hidden Paris this way.’

‘Early,’ Keeley breathed. ‘And, to be completely honest with you, I’m more a 4k person than a 10k person.’

Somehow she was suddenly closer to him now, her body only an inch or two away. ‘Early would work for me,’ he answered.

God, the overriding feeling he had now was that he wanted to kiss her. Long and slow yet fierce. As that realisation hit, it was all he could do to stop himself sweeping her into his arms. Why was he allowing himself to feel this way? How come he could not stop it?

‘Is six too early?’ she asked him, wetting her lips a little.

The action sent a shot of adrenaline spiralling around him like lights around the boughs of a Christmas tree.

‘Six is… comfortable,’ he whispered.

His heart was beating hard, and it took every bit of restraint he owned not to simply take her face between his hands and draw it towards his. And then, somehow, her fingers found his or maybe his fingers found hers. Whichever way it was, their hands became entwined, skin on skin, tiny movements, so delicate, but infinitely there. He had absolutely no words for how the connection was making him feel. And he understood it even less.

‘I should go,’ she said, breaking the contact, albeit slowly, one gentle fingertip at a time.

‘À bientôt,’ Ethan said, watching her as she finally stepped away from him. ‘Bonne nuit.’

‘Goodnight.’

Twenty-Eight

L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris

I want to see this guy. Take a photo. Find out his last name so I can stalk him on socials. French kiss his face off. I can’t sleep. Morphine needs to be stronger man.

The text ended with the emoji of the green pukey face and the smile dropped from Keeley’s lips at Erica’s message sent an hour ago. It was 5 a.m. and the comment about morphine reminded her again exactly how sick Erica was. There she was, texting every nuance of her chance encounter with Ethan and Erica was back in the hospice, clinging to the time she had left. She would FaceTime her again later, show her some more of the sights of the city and attempt to keep her spirits high.

Keeley put one foot out of bed and onto the carpet and straightaway the floorboards underneath let out a creak. She gritted her teeth. It was too early to wake Rach up. Rach was never good in the morning until she’d had at least three strong coffees with two sugars. Plus, Rach would ask her where she was going and Keeley still felt a little odd about telling her she was meeting up with a man she had met on the street. Holding her breath, she planted her second foot on the floor and stood up. This time the floorboard groaned like it was a bit-part monster in Doctor Who.

‘Who’s there?’ Rach sat bolt upright in bed, even in the dark a large shadow of blonde bed-hair apparent.

‘Sorry,’ Keeley whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, but this old building’s floor had other ideas.’ She crept across the room then, heading for the shower. Why she was showering before going for a run she didn’t really know. Except she didn’t fancy smelling day-old before the real perspiration kicked in. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be quiet.’

Rach’s bedside light flicked on and Keeley could see that her friend’s make-up was all over her face. Literally all over her face.

‘Rach, your make-up…’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I fucking know!’ Rach replied, whipping the covers off her body and leaping out of bed to get to the dressing table mirror. There was no concern for the floorboards and the people sleeping below. ‘This is after I tried to clean it off last night. It’s like… like… I’m Pennywise or something. Bloody Adie at Price Squash. This is supposed to be the best you can get in Bulgaria. They even call it Low Re-al.’ She put fingers to her lipstick-bleeding lips and rubbed to no avail.

‘How was the ballet? You should have woken me up when you got back.’ Keeley stepped across the bathroom threshold and