I rolled away from him, drinking the last of the wine in my glass, because screw it. I put the glass on the table, wiped my face with my shirtsleeve, and pushed to my feet. Keeping my head down, I muttered, “Je suis désolé.”
Then I grabbed Zoe’s hand and pulled her toward the door.
We got through the restaurant and out the door. I was just getting up to speed, dragging Zoe behind me, when Jean Claude vaulted over the wrought-iron enclosure and into our path.
He stared at me with red wine staining my shirtfront, making me look like a stabbing victim, and he said, “Chelsea? Chelsea Martin?”
I let go of Zoe and clapped my hands to my face. I felt like weeping. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
That was all I got out before he let out a cry of surprise and then scooped me up into his arms in a hug that lifted my feet off the ground. I grabbed his shoulders in surprise, not sure of how to react.
“Chelsea Martin!” He set me on my feet and cupped my face. He kissed both of my cheeks, stared at me in disbelief, and then kissed my cheeks again, once, twice, three times.
“Is it you? Is it really you?”
Okay, so as greetings went, this one was damn good. Laughing, I stepped back to catch my breath. “You remember me?”
“But of course,” he cried. He stared at me as if I was everything, then he gave me a reproachful look. “You broke my heart!”
I knew this should not have thrilled me as much as it did. I certainly hadn’t wanted to break anyone’s heart, but it was such a relief to find out that he remembered me and was happy to see me that I couldn’t stop the grin that spread over my face, making me lose any shred of coolness.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
He laughed. It was a low rumble that came up from his chest. “You do not look the least bit repentant, mon chou.”
I felt my heart do a backflip with a triple twist. He had always called me mon chou, meaning my sweet bun, and it was so ridiculous that it always made me blush, just as it did right now.
His brown eyes softened, and he ran an index finger gently along the curve of my cheek, as if marveling that he could still make me embarrassed with his endearment. “I was distraught when you left Paris, leaving me to face the cold winter all alone.”
“You seem to have survived it,” I said gently.
“Barely,” he assured me. “I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I missed you so.”
“I missed you, too,” I said.
Jean Claude had been a lot for twenty-two-year-old me to handle. And looking at him right now, I wasn’t sure twenty-nine-year-old me could manage him much better. The truth was, I’d been in deep with him. The world he lived in was passionate and dramatic, and I’d suffered terrible attacks of insecurity as I’d tried to belong.
Being young and a bit naive, I hadn’t always liked who I was when I was with him. Jean Claude had seemed to thrive on my attention—okay, more accurately, my fixation with him. While our spats had been the stuff of telenovelas, dramatic and ridiculous, making up had been breathtakingly erotic. While Colin in Ireland had been a kindred spirit who’d made me laugh and feel safe, Jean Claude had introduced me to true passion. He’d made me feel things I wasn’t ready for, so when my time with the Beauchamps was up, I’d fled for my next job in Germany during Oktoberfest.
“Ahem.” The sound of a throat being forcefully cleared caught my attention, and I saw Zoe standing there with a big grin on her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I . . . We . . .”
“I understand,” she said.
“Let me introduce you. Zoe Fabron, this is Jean Claude Bisset. Jean Claude, my friend Zoe.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said.
“Bonjour,” she replied. She then switched to English for my sake. Her face was pure innocence when she said, “What a remarkable coincidence that we ran into you.”
Jean Claude beamed at me. “I am a very lucky man today.”
I smiled at him, feeling guilty for our deception.
“I can see you two have much catching up to do,” Zoe said. “Chelsea, I will see you back at the café?”
“Right, yes, I’ll be there,” I said. “Later.”
Zoe stepped forward, kissed me on each cheek, and with a wave, left us to our reunion.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. He pulled me in for another hug. “How long are you in Paris? We must spend every second together.”
I laughed and hugged him back. “I have to be in Italy next week for work, but I’m free until then.”
“You are not working?” he asked. He gestured to my stained waitress’s garb, and I felt my face get hot. I hated lying. It never went well for me. I decided if Jean Claude and I were going to have anything worth having, then I had to tell him the truth.
“Zoe lent me these clothes,” I said. He looked at me in confusion. “So that I could sit outside Absalon and look for you.”
I paused, wondering how long, with the language barrier, it would take for him to get that I’d been lying in wait for him. If he ditched me now, I would totally understand.
“You are not a waitress?”
“No.”
“So you are not working right now?”
“No.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to lose,” he said. “I have a design meeting tonight, but I need a date for a party that is très élégant tomorrow. Go with me?”
“You do understand that I was sitting out here, watching for you,” I said.
“And you found me.”
Okay, clearly he did not care that I was a borderline stalker. Well, okay then.
“What should I wear to this very elegant party?” I asked. Judging by the pictures I’d seen of him on the Internet, this was likely to be rather high end, and I was not fashionably equipped for that at the moment.
“Haute couture, of course,” he said.
“Of course,” I repeated. Now I was definitely swimming in water over my head. I’d seen the price tags on those garments. A pair of pants could cost more than a month’s rent. Eep! Maybe I could talk him into meeting me for coffee instead.
He pursed his lips, and his eyebrows lifted. I had a feeling he knew exactly why I was hesitating. His words confirmed it. “It is too bad you do not know someone who has an entire design house at his disposal, yes?”
“I couldn’t,” I said. I shook my head. “That is too generous. Besides, I can’t go in there looking like this.”
“Of course you can,” he said. “You are my guest. You can do anything you want.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer but swooped one arm around me and whisked me into the design house as if it were a perfectly ordinary occurrence to invite a wine-soaked waitress into a high-end atelier.
Jean Claude led me through the showroom floor and up to the second level, where the seamstresses toiled in bright sunny rooms amid rolls and rolls of gorgeous fabrics. No one even looked up at us as we passed. We entered a space that was an immense closet, and I stared at the blouses and pants and dresses, knowing that I likely couldn’t afford to even breathe the air in here, never mind wear any of the clothes.
“Jacqueline!” cried Jean Claude, and a woman dressed all in black with silver hair and the most elegant sharp-edged features I’d ever seen appeared.
Jean Claude spoke to her in French too rapidly for me to understand. Jacqueline took a tape and began measuring me while he spoke. She pushed my arms up and sized my bust, waist, and bottom. I tried not to be embarrassed. I failed.
Jacqueline argued a bit with him, and I felt nervous that Jean Claude was crossing a line by asking her for outfits, but then Jacqueline turned and walked away. She came back a moment later with two dresses, one a pretty blue day dress and the other a pewter silk dress with a fit-and-flare skirt that would make me
look like an ingénue. Jean Claude looked pleased and chose the pewter dress.
“You must wear this one tonight, mon chou, and think of me while you do,” he said. His gaze lingered on my stained blouse. I had the feeling he couldn’t bear the thought of my walking around Paris in it. “And now that I have your size, I will send something over tomorrow for the party, especially for you.”
“Thank you, but this is too much,” I said. Jean Claude shook his head, refusing my protest.
Jacqueline led me to a curtained-off area to change, and while I got into the dress, which was a perfect fit and boasted exquisite hand stitching, she found some very smart black-and-silver pumps in my size and a black cashmere wrap. When I glanced at the mirror, I barely recognized myself, which was a good thing.
Jacqueline delivered me back to Jean Claude, who was downstairs in the showroom. He was standing with a group of well-to-do women, all of whom looked like they were about to swoon at his feet. This perturbed me. A possessive streak inside me that had been dormant for years was electrocuted back to life like my own private Frankenstein’s monster, and I found myself studying the cluster of women. I had planned to stand off to the side and wait, but as if he could sense my presence, Jean Claude spun around.
The smile on his face when he saw me was blinding in its brilliance, and I blinked. He held his arms wide and said, “Mon chou, tu es belle et innocente.”
Beautiful and innocent? I supposed the cut of the dress did make me look younger. Maybe he was looking to find the carefree, adventurous woman he’d known seven years ago. Well, that made two of us.
As I walked down the circular staircase to the main floor, he gestured for me to stop. I clutched the wrought-iron banister and posed on the marble steps, feeling self-conscious but thrilled that he approved. He held up his phone and took several pictures before gesturing for me to continue and giving me lavish words of praise.
The women in the showroom were clearly eavesdropping on our conversation while pretending not to be, but they had the grace to act as if they were discussing the fabric of the gown they were looking at when he said, “Jacqueline, if anyone asks, I will be back shortly.”
Jacqueline nodded, as if she had expected as much. She handed me a silk-handled embossed paper bag with my wine-stained clothes inside. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
Jean Claude took my hand and said, “Allons-y, Chelsea. I will escort you home.”
He swept me toward the door, and we were almost outside when I remembered one significant detail. I stopped, pulling him to a halt.
“Wait,” I said. This was it. The moment of truth. “I have one question.”
He looked at me expectantly, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Are you married?”
chapter fourteen
HIS EYES WENT wide in a look of horror. Then he smiled and held up his left hand. There was no ring. “Non. How could I get married when all these years I’ve been waiting for you?”
The ladies across the room audibly sighed, and I laughed. Always the charmer, Jean Claude was. I felt better, but wanting to be as thorough as an audit, I asked, “Engaged?”
He shook his head. “Non.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Non non,” he said. “My heart is yours, mon chou.”
And with that, he swept me outside and into the gloriously golden late afternoon. Jean Claude twined my fingers with his as we turned and walked down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. People moved around us, and I found myself pressed closer and closer to him until he let go of my hand and slid his arm around my back, resting his hand on my hip.
“It is okay?” he asked.
I could feel the heat of him along my side, and our faces were just inches apart. It was hard to believe this was real, that he was real. My heart swelled, and I nodded, unable to find the words to say how very right it all felt.
As I studied his profile—the lush lips, jutting cheekbones, and full brow—I was struck again by how beautiful he was. The man positively took my breath away. And in that breathlessness, I felt it. The flutters not just of physical desire but of the emotions that had lain dormant inside of me for so long.
He turned his head and met my gaze. His eyes glowed with affection. “Tomorrow I will have your party dress delivered in the morning, and then I will pick you up at sept heures. What do you say, Chelsea?”
“I say yes,” I said.
He grinned at me, a slash of white teeth against the darkening sky, but only I knew that what I was saying yes to was so much more than going to a party. I was saying yes to all of it: to him, to Paris, to feeling all the feels again.
* * *
• • • •
HE LEFT ME at my doorstep, with a kiss on each cheek and a look that scorched the soles of my shoes.
I’d been in my apartment for all of five minutes when Zoe arrived, demanding details and gushing over my Absalon dress. We squealed like middle school girls invited to their first dance when I told her about the party. She insisted I had to visit her salon the next day and promised to set up an appointment.
I would have stayed in and spent the evening daydreaming about him, but Zoe insisted that since I was dressed, I must go out with her and enjoy Paris. She convinced me to let her do my makeup, which she made very bold with glittery eye shadow and vibrant lipstick. She said it wouldn’t be healthy to fixate on Jean Claude. It was the sort of advice Annabelle would have given me, so I went.
Zoe took me on a whirlwind tour of all the hot spots. We danced on a party barge on the Seine under the blue glow of a full moon. We climbed to the top of an abandoned building in Marais and found a drag queen dance club on the roof with a DJ, strobe lights that shot out into the night, and a fully stocked bar.
A pretty black man dressed as Marilyn Monroe and killing it was completely taken with me even though we couldn’t converse over the loud music. When I took to the floor to dance with Marilyn, Zoe cheered me on, joining us with her own partner, a very tall and muscular Greta Garbo. Tipsy from the cocktails being served, we left in the early hours of the morning, stopping at an underground café for an enormous meringue filled with sweet Chantilly cream.
With a hug, Zoe and I parted ways in front of the apartment, as she had late-night plans to visit a special gentleman friend. I tried not to envy her that.
I jogged up the steps, still hearing the music from the rooftop party in my head. A delicious thrill rippled through me as I thought about my reunion with Jean Claude and the promise of a date with him tomorrow. I felt more certain than ever that this was what I’d been looking for, the thrill of infatuation. I was giddy.
I stepped into the dark hallway and turned toward my apartment. I was almost at my door when I saw a rectangular lump in front of my door. What the hell? I jumped, and then it hit me. My carry-on!
I picked up my pace and rushed down the hall toward the bag. Socks, my favorite hairbrush, my cow pajamas—oh, how I’d missed them all! I was almost on top of my bag when I saw a pair of legs stretched out on the other side of it. I braked hard.
They were a man’s legs in jeans and black Converse sneakers. Was it the airport person waiting for me? Was I supposed to pay them for delivery? Or was the guy waiting for a tip? Maybe he was running a scam and would hold my bag for ransom if I didn’t pay up. I wondered how much cash I had in euros in my wallet. Would it be enough?
I thought perhaps I should grab my bag just so he wouldn’t try to take it if the transaction didn’t go to his satisfaction. I bent down, put my hand on the handle, and gave it a gentle tug. With a yelp, the guy turned and grabbed the suitcase with both arms.
“Oh no you don’t!” he shouted.
His face was inches from mine, and I blinked. The first thing I noticed was that he spoke American, if that was even a thing, and the second was that I knew that face. In the dimly lit hallway, I couldn’t tell if his
eyes were gray or blue, but the scruffy beard that always covered his chin was unmistakable.
“Knightley!” I cried. “What the hell are you doing here?”
chapter fifteen
WHAT AM I doing here?” he asked. His hair was standing on end, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them. A vein was throbbing in his neck, and a frown line was chiseled between his eyebrows. He looked irate. “A more appropriate question is where the hell have you been, Martin?”
“Out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out.”
He looked me over, taking in my loose hair, exotic makeup, and overall sexy party-girl appearance. His expression became outraged.
“You look hot, Martin,” he said. It sounded like an accusation. “Wait! Were you on a date?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Um, when I signed for your bag two hours ago and had to bribe a guy from upstairs, who was kind of a dick, by the way, to let me wait by your front door, keeping watch over your stuff, yeah, it became my business,” he snapped. “So . . . François?”
“That’s not his name.” I crossed my arms over my chest, refusing to get sucked into his drama. “But if you must know, yes, I was out—with friends.”
He let go of my bag and stood. He put a fist against his back and stretched with a wince. His voice had the full range of sarcasm when he said, “Well, so long as one of us is having a good time.”
I glared at him. It was almost daybreak, and here he was, ruining my fun evening as only an overgrown frat boy could. Any warm feelings I had developed for him vanished like a pebble dropped into the Seine.
I unlocked my door and pushed it open, flicking on the light switch. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”
Jason followed me, grabbing my bag and another small carry-on, presumably his, and stepped into the small apartment. As he entered, he took the place in, from the windows to the fireplace to the loft. “Nice.”
Paris Is Always a Good Idea Page 17