RAJI wove her fingers in the chain-link fence that surrounded the second observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, pressing against the wire.
The big sunglasses and baseball hats they both wore shielded them from the autumn sun. Far below, scarlet, gold, and green puffs of trees waved along the Parisian streets. The river winding through the city scented the air with water amid the car exhaust.
Peyton stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. He had picked her up from the airport and driven straight to the center of Paris to climb the stairs.
“I can’t believe that no one will recognize you just because we’re wearing hats and sunnies,” Raji fretted.
“No one who knows us should be out here,” he whispered in her ear. “Xan has imprisoned the rest of the band in a recording studio for a demo session. There’s no chance they’ll escape. I slipped out because I’m sneaky that way and because no one cares about the bass line. Surely no one from your hospital will be at the top of the Eiffel Tower today.”
“I’ll admit, it’s a slim chance,” she said.
He turned her around and kissed her, his lips softly caressing hers and his dark sunglasses jostling her sunnies. The brims of their baseball hats bonked.
“Up to the top?” Peyton asked.
Raji consulted her phone. “I think I have time. I have to be back at the airport in seven hours.”
He kissed her again, and then said, “Then up to the top, and then back to my hotel for some Parisian afternoon delight before you have to leave again.”