rosie | griezmann

13

Rosie and Antoine walked on either side of Angel as the one year old used both of her small hands to hold her ice cream cone. They're gotten their ice cream and now, as promised, they would go exploring.

Rosie wore a blue sundress along with wedge heels and because the German was so majestic in Angel's eyes, she'd requested to wear an outfit similar to the twenty-six year old. So, she wore a blue tank top, sandals, and khakis; her thick hair was pinned back so that it was out of her crystalline eyes.

Antoine hadn't gotten any ice cream.  He'd been too busy stupidly, foolishly staring at Rosie as she held Angel while they stared at the case of flavors; by the time they were at the register he'd realized he didn't even take the time to decide what he wanted. The line was too long, he felt, to make everyone wait for someone as indecisive as him—despite the fact that he was Antoine Griezmann—so he'd just settled on a piece of candy and that was it for the Frenchman.

Antoine listened to Angel teach Rosie French words, which was rather entertaining because the one year old certainly couldn't pronounce them correctly herself, or even attempt to describe what they meant.

They were just bits and pieces that she'd learned from listening to her father speak with his sister or from listening to Olivier speak with Jade in a loving, fatherly sense; words like jolie, cherie, amour, c'est bon. All sweet nothings, which Antoine whispered against Rosie's soft, moist lips in between short and exuberant breaths as they intertwined their bodies with one another's underneath satin sheets; this was probably why her face was so red as she listened to his daughter say the exact same phrases.

Antoine sighed and glanced at Rosie, who wore a perfect smile on her lips as she sillily repeated the words. She thought they sounded weird against her German accent, but no one was judging her. Especially because if she were to teach Antoine the words she whispered to him in return to his own—German words, like liebe, weiter, tiefer—he would murder the pronunciation as well.

Antoine didn't even realize his hand was gravitating towards her until it actually landed on the skin of her shoulder. Rosie playfully glanced down at his fingers before acting as though she'd bite one, resulting in the Frenchman quickly drawing his hand away and blushing as she laughed. "I'm just playing, Antoine. You know I don't bite." Winking, sending a rush of nerves through his body, Rosie took his hand in hers and moved next to him so that they could both watch Angel trod on in front of them as they neared the art museum.

Antoine had been to Le Louvre twice before, once with his school in the third grade on a two-day trip to Paris from his hometown of Mâcon and secondly when he played for the U19 team and the boys wanted to go out and score women for the night—because, Antoine remembered thinking sarcastically, all of the stunning, model-like women of Paris could definitely be found in art museums—where they competed for spotlight among all of the other, non-human masterpieces that sat on the walls.

Well, he realized, stunning women could be found in art museums. He was with one right now. There was no competition between her and the paintings; andif there ever was one, it was over because she'd won it so long ago.

It was just her, her smile, and her quiet words of excitement that escaped her lips and his beautiful daughter; moments like this were golden to Antoine, and he wanted to savor them as much as possible and experience them for the rest of his life.