Morning in Paris sounded different than morning anywhere else.
I woke to church bells ringing somewhere in the distance, the soft murmur of French voices drifting up from the street below, and the smell of coffee so good it actually pulled me out of bed.
I found Vincent in the kitchen, standing at the counter with an espresso cup in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was wearing dark jeans and a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Casual. Comfortable. Nothing like the suit he'd worn at the Rosewood.
He looked up when I walked in. "Good morning. Coffee?"
"Please."
He poured me a cup and slid it across the counter. "There's a bakery down the street. I picked up croissants earlier. They're still warm."
I grabbed one from the bag on the counter and took a bite. Oh my
