The next day when Alistair suggested that we go to the Louvre I was all over it despite the fact that he looked like hell. Clearly he hadn't stopped drinking after I left. The pale skin that looked sickly and the bloodshot eyes were enough to tell me that his hangover was something savage. And the surprise that coated his face when he glanced at all the empty bottles in the living room told me he didn't remember all that much from the night before which I was thankful for. I was not ready to be opening myself up to another conversation just yet.

Yes, he said things that left me uneasy and with many questions in my head, but now was not the time. I would poke and prod him eventually, but only when I was in a position where I controlled the situation.

We shared another quiet breakfast together, then we were off into the city.

Alistair was obviously in pain due to his aggressive consumption of alcohol last night. I noticed the way he winced when we stood on the train and the light streamed in a little too suddenly. He didn't force a conversation or even make eye contact with me often. Luckily, he was till monitoring the world around us with his usual care which eased my anxiety.

When we did get to the Louvre I was stunned by the spectacular glass structure that jutted out among all of the glorious old buildings. And then I gasped at the horrendous line up of people. Alistair gave me a sideway- and slightly queasy- smile and led me to a small kiosk. There, we were able to purchase tickets and hop into an accelerated access line.

"You know all the secrets in this city, don't you?" I murmured.

"It's part of my job." He responded.

Then that gentle hand settled against the small of my back and he pressed me forward as the line moved.

When we had gone on our 'date' that subtle touch had made me anxious and giddy all at once. I was worried about being touched by any man at all because I had learned that no matter how a man appeared on the outside there could be evil beneath. And he had seemed to have some of the same traits that Josh had boasted. But it had also been exciting. The crowds in the museum had offered security at the time and I had reasoned with myself, appreciating the newness of the feeling. Then, when he had found out who I actually was, that same touch had become an act of control and hatred. One of force and loathing that had taken me into Smith.

And now, after his loaded confession, I had no idea how to feel about his routine touch. But, for the time being, I didn't have much mental capacity to worry about it.

As we progressed through the entrance I was stunned by how many people there were in the museum. From the top, under the beautiful glass pyramid, all the people below looked like ants.

"There's no way we are getting through all of this." I said softly.

"You're right." Alistair agreed as we descended downward. "But I have a strategy for hitting my favorite things fast enough that we have time afterwards for aimless wandering and maybe a steamed milk, if you're up for it."

Alistair strategy was bizarre and unrefined, but oddly effective. It seemed to be a mad dash to and from certain pieces. Through heavy crowds Alistair would grab my hand so we wouldn't lose each other and he would pull me along confidently. But when we reached his target I would see his expression shift. Those strong green eyes would soften and all the urgency would leave his body. As we stared at the beautiful brush strokes that created a painting or spectacular stone sculptures he would lean towards me like he had in Ottawa and explain things to me ever so softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear. I would have a hard time focusing on what he was telling me and instead be absorbed by how close his body was to mine.

After we saw the Mona Lisa and I made a soft comment about it being surprisingly underwhelming I saw a flicker of something in Alistair's eyes, almost like he saw my observation as a challenge. Then he took me over to a nearby painting called 'The Raft of Medusa'.

"Wow." I breathed, my grey eyes bouncing from one detail to the next.

The work was spectacular, but hard to look at. The painting held images of men who had died, their corpses rotting on a raft that was being tossed about wildly on waves. Aside from the dead, there was as some that you could see that were on the brink of dying. Pale skin, looks of despair. And as a stark contrast, some men were holding up clothing, looking optimistic and excited as they tried to flag down another ship that my eyes could barely make out. They were attempting to flag down a ship that could not see them, their hope overpowering logic.

"This is amazing." I said, finally tearing away my eyes to look at Alistair.

"The rawness of the human emotions makes it one of my favorite pieces." That hand was back against my spine as his lips came closer to my ear. "And the awful secrets that few know about."

"What kind of secrets?"

"Like the fact that this painting isn't based on a myth or a legend. It's based on historic events."

Very quickly, the painting became much more repulsive and haunting than it had at first. But so much more enticing all the same.

"And the artist did a lot of research. Like looking at drowned corpses and studying the flesh of the dead."

Then, as the crowds moved towards us, Alistair pulled me away and we continued on our journey.

Throughout the day we saw so much. Alistair's crazy strategy seemed to work in our favor. It required a lot more walking, but somehow, we managed to slither around all the clumps of tours and sheep-minded humans who followed one another blankly, taking pictures but looking uninterested. And we saw all of the highlights like Winged Victory, supposedly based on the goddess of Nike. The French Crown Jewels- which glittered more than I could've imagined. And the Marly Horses that looked more life-like than the sculpture should've.

And each time we stopped Alistair would fill my ear with information. I always listened to him as well as I could, but sometimes my brain would be flooded with the words he spoke last night. My cheeks would flame and I would be able to think about nothing other than his proximity and the warmth of his breath on my ear and neck.

The final piece that we saw was a masterpiece carved out of stone. It involved Cupid and a goddess in a breath-taking embrace that would've stirred emotions in the most coldhearted human being. And it was the piece I used to revisit the conversation we had last night.

"Your parents seem to be incredible people." I murmured, pretending that the sculpture of two lovers had brought up the idea.

"They are and they love each other very much." He agreed as we walked out of the museum.

I took a deep breath when we finally exited the building, happy to be breathing the outside air again.

"They seem young to be retired." I pressed gently.

"They are by normal standards, but quite old for their line of work they're in. My dad started doing office work when he was about forty while the norm is about thirty five. My mom did field work until she decided to retire completely a few months ago."

It seemed bizarre that anyone would retire so young.

"What will they do with their time now? They can't be more than mid-forties."

"Normal things I guess. My mom got a job as a receptionist and my dad is working as an accountant."

"So they retired so they could get different jobs?"

"Less stressful and less dangerous jobs to keep themselves busy." Alistair corrected. "I know it sounds weird but most people only do field work- like what I do- for five or so years. It's too stressful, demands too much of your body, and doesn't allow you to have a life. Your life is your work because it has to be. That gets exhausting very quickly and my parents held out much longer than average."

The image of a dead, open mouthed Smith shot through my brain.

"So if people are working for five years and retiring at thirty five then the normal age to get into that line of work is thirty?" I questioned, scanning Alistair over.

He caught my roving eyes and gave me a reassuring smile.

"I'm twenty three." He said, answering my unasked question. "I'm the youngest person doing my kind of work in Canada."

"How did you get into it so young?"

"Coming from a twenty four year old multi-millionaire?" he teased back. "You could say it's a family tradition to do my kind of work. I was raised for it."

He let the answer hang in the air as we boarded the train that would take us home. I wanted to ask more, but I knew that now was not the time or place. We were safer than we could've been in Canada or the states, but we still had to be relatively mindful. So we traveled back home in almost complete silence. We only spoke again when I saw him frowning deeply, looking like he was concentrating.

"What is it?" I whispered, fearing the worst.

The hard look fell away immediately and a soft smile replaced it.

"They're playing one of my favorite songs." He answered, pointing to the intercom. "After a full day of nothing but my parent's classic it's nice to hear."

I strained my eyes, trying to focus on the one sense completely. He was right. I heard the strong guitar of an American rock band and was able to identify the lyrics of a fairly popular rock song. The little taste of the English language and the rawness of rock was refreshing after such a sophisticated day.

And when we entered our quaint residence he told me he was going to take a shower before I even had the opportunity to re-ask my question.

Still, I understood why he wanted to dive into the shower. It had been a long day of walking. My feet and back started aching again, despite having a mindless time yesterday. And being surrounded by all of those people made me feel a little filthy as well. So after scrubbing my hands, washing my face, and changing out of my clothes I curled myself up on the couch in the living room and turned on the TV. I almost gave out a content sigh when I stumbled across my favorite movie: Beauty and the Beast. It was in French, but I knew the movie so well that it felt like it was in English anyway.

About halfway through the movie Alistair reappeared in the hallway and my mouth fell open when I saw him.

The very first thing that I took into account was that he was very much shirtless with only jeans on. And I couldn't help but look at his muscular chest, the smooth curve of his strong shoulders, the tease of his abdominal muscles. And a dark tattoo that looped his bicep that I had never seen before. But I tried to snap my eyes off the bare skin. Unfortunately, my attention only drifted to his hair that was still damp and the scandalous way his pants seemed to dripp off his hips.

"I forgot to grab a clean shirt." Alistair said softly.

There was a coat of redness on his cheeks.

My mouth snapped shut and I forced myself to look at the TV once more.

And when he walked away all I could think about- all I could feel- was this wild wave of emotions that I didn't want and couldn't handle.

****The holidays are coming to a close! What was the best gift you gave someone? What do we think about Alistair and Camila's second museum adventure?****