“It’s gorgeous.” They turned into the rue Saint-Severin and walked down the narrow street, past restaurants and shops. They crossed the street and turned towards the Seine. Notre Dame loomed in the distance. Sophie stopped to gape at the view. He put an arm over her shoulders and moved her off to the side of the busy walkway. She looked up at him in surprise.
“You were going to be run over by those little old ladies,” he told her. She giggled and he smiled back at her.
“They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“They just might. Old ladies in Paris are dangerous.” She gave him a playful shove. He used that opportunity to draw her closer, feeling the press of her lithe body. “You need to be careful.” Of him.
Sophie laughed as he winked at her. She didn’t pull away until they started walking again. “Good thing I have you then.”
They turned into the rue de la Bûcherie, and she easily spotted the aged signage of the bookshop. Shakespeare and Co. was doing a brisk business this afternoon, and Marc could hear several languages being spoken.
“It is charming.” Sophie looked delighted. They made their way inside, squeezing past the queue at the cashier and up an uneven set of stairs. Sophie paused to look around at the shelves and piles of books. The little shop was crammed full of more books than seemed possible. Here and there were rickety old chairs tucked into corners, and a faded green velvet armchair was nearby, almost lost in stacks of paperback books.
Marc followed a step behind Sophie as she wandered through the shop. When they came across a neatly made bed with a bright, knitted quilt in a small side room, she glanced at him. He gave her a suggestive look and she made a little sound, almost a gasp. He was tempted to close the door and take her right there on the bed, pressing her naked body into the homely quilt.
“That’s not what I meant.” She was embarrassed.
“People do sleep here.” He took pity on her and kept the conversation light. “They get interns every year who stay in the shop.”
“I’d never be able to sleep if I worked here. There are too many books. I’d want to read them all. If I lived in Paris I’d be here all the time.” Her words tumbled out, awkward and hurried.
“You could come every day for the rest of your stay.”
Sophie laughed.
“I wish! But I’d never get anything done on my thesis, and I’d run out of money. I can only afford to be here for the next month or so. If I go home empty handed, my grandmother will consider it proof that I should have done something ‘more sensible’ with my studies.” Sophie sighed.
“Your grandmother doesn’t like art?”
“According to her, I should have gone into finance. She said that at least I’d get a good job.” Sophie stopped to look at a shelf full of coffee-table art books. While she looked at a book on Manet, Marc pulled down one on Degas. He flipped through it idly, leaning against the shelf. He looked up and saw Sophie eyeing his book.
“Do you like Degas?” he asked her.
“Not his ballerinas. My bedroom was decorated in them when I was younger.”
“You had dreams of being a prima ballerina?”
“Never, though my grandmother tried. I had the worst coordination.”
“You would look lovely as a ballerina.”
Sophie shook her head. “I preferred to sit and read.” Marc replaced the Degas book on the shelf. Sophie tucked the Manet under her arm and they continued on. It took them another half an hour to make their way through the rest of the shop. They stopped so Sophie could pay for her book, and then stepped back out into the sun.
“It’s such a nice day—I wish I hadn’t promised my roommate that I’d go shopping with her.”
“Cancel. Spending a Saturday afternoon on the terrace of a café is a much more pleasant pastime than shopping.” Sophie hesitated, and seemed caught up in an inner debate.
“I should meet her,” she said. She looked at Marc regretfully.
“You were going to be run over by those little old ladies,” he told her. She giggled and he smiled back at her.
“They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“They just might. Old ladies in Paris are dangerous.” She gave him a playful shove. He used that opportunity to draw her closer, feeling the press of her lithe body. “You need to be careful.” Of him.
Sophie laughed as he winked at her. She didn’t pull away until they started walking again. “Good thing I have you then.”
They turned into the rue de la Bûcherie, and she easily spotted the aged signage of the bookshop. Shakespeare and Co. was doing a brisk business this afternoon, and Marc could hear several languages being spoken.
“It is charming.” Sophie looked delighted. They made their way inside, squeezing past the queue at the cashier and up an uneven set of stairs. Sophie paused to look around at the shelves and piles of books. The little shop was crammed full of more books than seemed possible. Here and there were rickety old chairs tucked into corners, and a faded green velvet armchair was nearby, almost lost in stacks of paperback books.
Marc followed a step behind Sophie as she wandered through the shop. When they came across a neatly made bed with a bright, knitted quilt in a small side room, she glanced at him. He gave her a suggestive look and she made a little sound, almost a gasp. He was tempted to close the door and take her right there on the bed, pressing her naked body into the homely quilt.
“That’s not what I meant.” She was embarrassed.
“People do sleep here.” He took pity on her and kept the conversation light. “They get interns every year who stay in the shop.”
“I’d never be able to sleep if I worked here. There are too many books. I’d want to read them all. If I lived in Paris I’d be here all the time.” Her words tumbled out, awkward and hurried.
“You could come every day for the rest of your stay.”
Sophie laughed.
“I wish! But I’d never get anything done on my thesis, and I’d run out of money. I can only afford to be here for the next month or so. If I go home empty handed, my grandmother will consider it proof that I should have done something ‘more sensible’ with my studies.” Sophie sighed.
“Your grandmother doesn’t like art?”
“According to her, I should have gone into finance. She said that at least I’d get a good job.” Sophie stopped to look at a shelf full of coffee-table art books. While she looked at a book on Manet, Marc pulled down one on Degas. He flipped through it idly, leaning against the shelf. He looked up and saw Sophie eyeing his book.
“Do you like Degas?” he asked her.
“Not his ballerinas. My bedroom was decorated in them when I was younger.”
“You had dreams of being a prima ballerina?”
“Never, though my grandmother tried. I had the worst coordination.”
“You would look lovely as a ballerina.”
Sophie shook her head. “I preferred to sit and read.” Marc replaced the Degas book on the shelf. Sophie tucked the Manet under her arm and they continued on. It took them another half an hour to make their way through the rest of the shop. They stopped so Sophie could pay for her book, and then stepped back out into the sun.
“It’s such a nice day—I wish I hadn’t promised my roommate that I’d go shopping with her.”
“Cancel. Spending a Saturday afternoon on the terrace of a café is a much more pleasant pastime than shopping.” Sophie hesitated, and seemed caught up in an inner debate.
“I should meet her,” she said. She looked at Marc regretfully.
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