Married to Styles (Sequel to Working for Styles)

{25} Paris France

Harry 

I had always wanted to visit Paris and now, the time has come; I was so happy to be spending this time with Niall and Molly in such a wonderful place. I know France actually isn't all is cracked up to be, but I happened to really enjoy it. In certain parts of France I will admit, the locals are rude and its dirty, but I don't mind at all.

"So, where are we going today?" Niall asked me the morning after we arrived.

"Somewhere we can bring Molly," I said.

I didn't want to leave her in the hotel by herself while we were out all day. I mean, yes we've done that pretty much the entire trip, but I wanted Molly to enjoy Paris too. Especially because she's been in her carrier half the trip and she doesn't enjoy that.

"Well, I made notes of the places you and I both wanted to visit," Niall said while digging into his jeans to pull out the paper with the list on it.

"The Eiffel Tower, Palace of Versailles, um..." He scanned the list again then looked up at me with a questioning look.

"What?" I asked.

"Jim Morrison's grave?"

"I thought you'd be excited about that."

"Is a grave," Niall laughed.

"Yeah, but it's Jim Morrison's grave. And I know your a fan of The Doors, besides, Jim Morrison is one of the greatest poets that ever lived!" I exclaimed.

In case you're a bit rusty on classic rock, I'll fill you in: Jim Morrison was the lead singer and songwriter for the band, The Doors. He was an alcoholic and drug addict (want every rich start?), and he was known because of how crazy he was. I'm not kidding. Jim Morrison was an asshole and he was fucking nuts, but he was a damn good writer. His works were poetry and the band used it as songs. Jim died in Paris, France at around for in the morning in 1971. He was found in his bathtub where he was staying; his on and off girlfriend, Pam, was the one who called 911. Jim died at the age of 27 and was buried here in Paris, France.

No, he wasn't french in case you were wondering. He just likes to come to Paris to write poetry and escape Fame.

It was the alcohol that killed him.

"Well, yeah. We can go see it."

"We'll out flowers on it!" I smiled.

"Molly will probably shit on it," Niall laughed; I just frowned.

"No, she won't."

I glared as I picked her up of the ground and held her in my arms.

"So you want to go?" Niall asked as he reached for his phone and keys to the rental car.

"Yeah. Let's go. I'll grab Molly's leash."

**

Niall and I decided to walk to the grave. It was a nice day and the walk really wasn't that far. Plus, Molly loved the fresh air.

Since I was handling Molly, Niall was the one with the camera and he was the one taking pictures the whole time. We walked past several parks full of flowers gardens and children playing. It was easy to tell that they were locals; they were shooting at each other in French while laughing and playing in the gardens.

"God, it's so beautiful here," Niall said while he took another picture.

"Crazy how everyone told us not to visit Paris," I chuckled.