This Is Paris Book Novels & Stories

**Evelina’s POV** I could scarcely believe that I’d stepped into a luxurious hotel room in the heart of Paris. The walls were adorned with hand-painted murals depicting scenes from French history, each one more exquisite than the last. In one corner stood a velvet chaise lounge so deep and inviting, it seemed to whisper my name like a sinful secret waiting to be uncovered. A grand four poster bed dressed in finest Egyptian cotton linens beckoned to us from its position in front of those breathtaking windows offering glorious views that stretched on for miles; showcasing a full frontal view of the Eiffel tower twinkling against the indigo sky.

Yet if I had to do this to save Zoey it was about time that I came face to face with my fears. I sat down at the desk and then opened the book to find the thick and yellowish of color the page. I scanned through the text until a familiar word caught my eye: **Paris**. My heart thudded in my chest. Paris. It was the city where I found my biological parent, The city that changed my life until this very moment. My fingers shook as I ran them over the words again, the story of a coven of witches that used to plague all supernatural beings there, from werewolves to vampires and hybrids. These had been strong, holding power as if they were the only ones allowed to rule the world, they terrorized o

Paris nodded and I noticed him being unusually quiet as he unbuckled his seatbelt and got off the car to wait for me at the railing overlooking the river as I got out myself and locked the car. The evening was a bit chilly and I saw that Paris was only wearing a blue and white checkered shirt with dark blue denims. Taking off my coat, I placed it over his shoulders when I saw him rubbing his arms as the cold wind blew his hair back from his face. “Thank you.” Paris looks over his shoulders at me, a little startled at first. “Why did you bring me here?” “I thought a change of scenery would help clear your mind.” I shrugged, leaning on the railing next to him. “Do you feel better now? Knowing

She took a long drink of her wine. “It’s a pretty cool cover.” “Thanks. I was proud of it but I guess I should have told him the book is about a space detective with two cocks looking for a fugitive human woman. It might have did some damage to his medical equipment company and his father’s telecommunications company. Their stocks have taken a plunge.” “No way!” Paris threw her head back and laughed. “I’m going to order this and read it. It sounds amazing.” “Thanks. I hope you enjoy it. In the meantime, I’m going to go to bed and try to figure out how to extricate myself from this insane mess I’ve created all on my own.”

Poise and elegance have never been a problem for Paris and she is never afraid to let her wealthy upbringing show in her manner of approach. The young waiter nods in understanding. “This way.” He leads us to a table where Paris takes her sits. He smiles and walks away. I do not dare to take a seat, well, until. “Come on and take a seat, Taylor, don’t want anyone thinking you’re my bodyguard,” Paris says and I sit down. We both waited a few minutes and in the while of waiting, Paris didn’t stop looking at her phone. I felt tempted to play Candy Crush, too.

Paris said, showing both reverence and lechery. Her hands moved up Sigfri’s legs, from the ankles to the inner thighs, with a slowness that made her tremble with anticipation. Her fingers brushed the edge of her lingerie, becoming a delicious torture. "Paris, please..." Sigfri begged, her voice already a thread of fever. "Please what, my love?" Paris asked, her hot breath against the damp lace. "Is this what you want? Then this is what you shall receive."

Olivier asks, catching my expression in the rearview mirror. "First time living here," I reply. He nods approvingly. "You will love it. Paris is not a city you visit, it is a city you come back to." "I've never been before." He shrugs in the specifically Parisian way that means this detail is irrelevant. "Then Paris has been waiting for you." I look back out the window. Paris has been waiting for me. I decide to believe that. The key is under the mat exactly where the landlord says it will be.

He looked at me. Neither of us said a word. Breakfast became the best morning of the trip. No schedule. No pressure. Just four people around a table in Paris on the final day. Warm croissants. Fruit cut with ridiculous precision. Silver coffee service. Fresh orange juice in crystal. Paris understood power best when it served it quietly. Then I thought of Leo. And smiled. "Why are you smiling?" Isabella asked. "I thought of Leo." She laughed immediately. "He texted me this morning."

And definitely not a romance. Wedging the book back between its friends, she stood. Stopped. Rose on tiptoe and reached, bringing down a larger book. This one bound in creased red leather. Beneath the dust the title was French. The words—and, with zero illustrations, it was nothing but words—all French. Her French sucked. She skimmed the story about a woman in a city—Paris?—trusting a man, a kind stranger. Following him? Elle le suivit. She—elle—followed—suivit—him—le.

But she shook her head, "Don't thank me just yet. We still need to hear what he has to say." Later that day, in the evening, when Paris returned home, he found me in the living room, going through books that had storied on the ancient pack and he leveled me with one of his scary gazes, "Should you not be somewhere packing your things?" he asked, and I pressed my lips together, "about that, Paris…" I said, setting the book aside, and he held up his hand, a gesture that so resembled his mothers and I bit my lower lip,