Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Hello?” she said.

  Startled, I tried to gather my wits. I failed. “Is Glen Martin there?”

  “I’m sorry—he isn’t,” she said. “May I take a message?”

  I froze, panicked. Did I admit it was me, his daughter Chelsea? Would I then have to make conversation with her? What could I possibly say? I wasn’t even sure how much my dad had told her about the reason for my trip. Probably everything, and if he hadn’t, Annabelle likely had. My family was not known for its ability to keep confidences.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “It’s . . . uh . . . me, Chelsea.”

  “Oh,” she said. There was a ten-volume set of unspoken conversations in that one syllable. “How are you, Chelsea?”

  “Good, really good,” I said. “I’m just calling to let Dad know that I have my cell phone back, so he can call me anytime.”

  “Excellent, that will relieve his mind,” she said. There were a few beats of silence, and then she continued, “I hope you’re okay with me answering his phone. If I’d known it was . . .”

  She trailed off, no doubt realizing that what she was about to say—that if she’d known it was me, she wouldn’t have answered—would only take us to the basement level of awkward.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I mean, of course it is. You’re going to marry him, after all.”

  Yes, a teeny tiny part of me threw that out there in the stupid hope that she would say they’d come to their senses and changed their minds. She didn’t.

  “I’m glad you understand,” she said.

  I legit had no idea what to say to that, because in truth, I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand any of it.

  “Yes, well, I’ll let you go,” I said. Seriously, I could not hang up fast enough.

  “Chelsea, if you ever want to talk—about anything—I’m a really good listener,” she said.

  Maybe she was just being polite, but it felt like an overreach. Like something someone who wanted to be your stepmom would say when she wanted you to start calling her Mom and baking cookies with her. That was never going to happen. Still, I kept it cool.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said. I ended the call before the conversation could wander off into any other uncharted territory. Once I had showered and slipped on a pair of beige Capris and a black thermal shirt, I decided to let my hair air-dry and didn’t bother with makeup, since I had my salon appointment that afternoon. I figured it was better to leave the makeup application to an expert.

  I hoped Jason had managed to find a place of his own, even if it was a hotel, because I could not invite Jean Claude back here if there was a man in my teeny tiny efficiency. Of course it could be that we’d go back to Jean Claude’s place, and I found myself wondering where he lived and what his place looked like. I imagined it was as beautiful as he was, filled with art and books. The thought made me smile.

  I crossed the apartment to the balcony, half expecting to find Jason waiting, as he seemed to always be underfoot. He wasn’t there. I stepped outside, taking in the sight of the bustling Parisian streets below. I heard the yip of a dog and glanced over the railing to see a woman in a pencil skirt and high heels, walking a tiny little pooch who yapped at everyone they passed. I smiled. It seemed so Paris.

  “That is not a real dog,” a man’s voice said. I turned to my right to find Jason sitting on the balcony beside mine, enjoying a cheese plate and a bottle of wine.

  I frowned. “What are you doing? How did you get over there? If the residents catch you—”

  “Relax,” he said. He lifted his glass and took an appreciative sip of the white wine. “For the next few days, I am the resident.”

  “What?” I blinked.

  He grinned. It was a wicked, wicked grin that made something in my belly—probably rage—unfurl like a flame licking around a log.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he said. He gave me a little finger wave.

  chapter sixteen

  I WAS CONSUMED by a flash of anger that burned so hot and bright I was surprised it didn’t scorch the earth. I stared at him. “You can’t stay there.”

  He looked around as if trying to figure out what could be wrong with the place. “Why not?”

  “Because this is my place,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes, and this”—he paused to gesture to his balcony—“is mine.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Shouldn’t we get to work?” he asked. “I brought us some fortification.”

  I was too stymied to reply. He rose and handed me the cheese plate and the bottle of wine. Then with the grace of a cat, he leaped from his balcony to mine with two glasses in his hands.

  “I’ll just go get my laptop,” he said, putting the glasses on the table. He disappeared into my apartment, coming back out with his computer. He put the laptop in his chair and picked up the glasses. I put the cheese plate on the table and took the glass he held out to me. Suddenly, wine seemed like a fine idea.

  I poured myself a glass and handed him the bottle. Jason topped off his own and picked up his laptop so he could sit down. We resumed the same seats we’d had earlier, but the sun was warmer and it felt good on my face.

  “Cheers,” he said and held up his glass.

  “Cheers.” Reluctantly, I touched my glass to his and took a sip. The wine was crisp, light, and fruity, a perfect complement to the cheese board, which contained a melty Brie, a soft Morbier, and a semifirm Laguiole.

  Jason put his glass down and fired up his laptop. To my surprise, he didn’t pester me anymore about my plans for the evening. Instead, he opened up my proposal and then started to go over the campaign I’d worked on for months page by page. His questions were smart and insightful, and I was impressed that he’d actually read the document. I’d thought he’d skim it at best.

  After an hour and a half, he closed his computer. “All right, I think I’m about ready for anything Severin might throw at us at the dinner. We can go over it some more tomorrow if need be.”

  “Do you think he’s going to grill us?” I asked. I was prepared for that but had assumed it was more of a getting-to-know-you meeting than a business one.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Raised on a failing Idaho potato farm, he really is a self-made guy. According to all of the stories about him, I have to conclude that Severin is an . . . unusual man.”

  “That was polite.” I snorted. “I mean, I’ve never met him personally, but I’ve heard the tales about the crazy stuff he’s interested in and his erratic behavior.”

  “I heard he has a car submarine,” he said.

  “Really? I read that he owns an original manuscript of Leonardo da Vinci’s.”

  “He also bought a small Hawaiian island.”

  “Which has an outdoor golden toilet at its highest point,” I added.

  Jason choked on his wine. A few drops dribbled down his shirtfront, and he wiped them away and said, “You made that up.”

  I raised my right hand as if making a vow. “That’s what I heard.”

  He shook his head. “Can you imagine having that much money? How much cancer research you could do? How many people you could help? The treatments you could fund? Hell, you could probably cure it.”

  I studied him. He had caught me off guard. I’d never really thought about why Jason worked for the ACC. I’d assumed he’d just fallen into it after the success of his viral chicken-wing fundraising shenanigans.

  “What?” he asked. “Did I miss a spot?” He glanced down, smoothing the front of his shirt with his hand as he did so.

  “No,” I said. “I just didn’t appreciate how committed you are to raising money for the ACC. It’s impressive.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Martin, are you paying me a compliment?”

  “No, definitely not,” I
said. “I was merely making an observation.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. The sounds of Paris drifted up over the balcony rail. The hum of motor scooters, the occasional laugh from the café below, the wail of emergency vehicle sirens, a car horn honking, and the rise and fall of voices in conversation on the street below. It all seemed to fade away as we looked at each other.

  His eyes were blue today, reflecting the T-shirt he wore. It looked soft and well worn, and it draped over his muscle-hardened shoulders and arms, making me appreciate him as a man in a way I hadn’t before. Knightley was fit. Huh.

  He was the first to break eye contact. “Well, I’d better let you get ready for your big date?” He raised one eyebrow, looking for confirmation.

  To my utter mortification, I blushed. Why? Why would I do such a thing? It was galling. So what if I was nervous about tonight with Jean Claude? There was no reason to be embarrassed. It was a night out with an old friend, no big deal, even if said friend was one of the hottest men I’d ever seen in my life. No big deal, really.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “Yes, I have a date, and I imagine I can use all the prep time I can get.”

  His gaze moved over me, cataloging my features, and I now wished I had bothered to style my hair or slap on some makeup.

  “Nah.” Jason turned his head and looked out at the city when he said, “You look perfect to me just as you are.”

  With that, he rose and went into my apartment and retrieved his carry-on. This time he exited out my front door to go to his place. With an abrupt wave from him, the door closed and he was gone.

  I stared after him, wondering what that had been about. Had Knightley actually been sweet to me? I understood that we had a lot riding on the Severin campaign, and I knew he was probably grateful for my help, but still, that had been a really kind thing to say, and I didn’t know how to reconcile it with the guy who had once announced “Not my circus, not my freak” in regards to working with me during a staff meeting.

  Maybe the wine and cheese and Paris were mellowing the man or me. I decided not to analyze it too closely. I’d just be grateful we were a united front for dinner with Severin tomorrow instead of our default setting of bickering like siblings.

  With that decided, I grabbed my purse and headed down to the café. Zoe had said she would walk me to the salon. With a glance in the mirror, I had to acknowledge there was work to be done here.

  * * *

  • • • •

  WHEN ZOE SAID she knew the perfect beautician, she wasn’t exaggerating. Which was how I found myself being plucked, primped, powdered, and polished down to a molecular level at a salon where the stylist, Estelle, did not make small talk but rather fixed me with an impersonal and terrifying stare, with which she assessed what was required to make this American lump—at least, that was what I assumed she considered me—into a cosmopolitan woman worthy of their fair city.

  Estelle took charge of my transformation, not asking about my preferences or style or personality but rather focusing on working with what I had to offer, which clearly did not impress her overmuch.

  “Your eyes are too close together,” she said. “Your upper lip is not even.”

  I blinked at my reflection in the mirror. No one had ever mentioned these defects to me before. My head was covered in foil, as Estelle had tsked repeatedly at my natural color. Now she was holding my face by the chin and turning my head from side to side, considering how she could make this random collection of features alluring. The expression on her face, one of intense concentration, made it clear she considered it a daunting task. So my self-esteem was rocking.

  “You have excellent skin,” Estelle said. Her English was very precise. “We begin.”

  Time ceased to have any meaning. I was ushered from one chair to the next. Creams, potions, and gels were applied and removed. I spent more time turned away from the mirror or with my eyes closed than I did watching the progress of my transformation. When Estelle finally finished blowing out my hair and retouching my makeup, I felt as if I were a snake who’d been forced to shed its skin. Everything tingled, and I was aware of parts of my face and body I’d never noticed before. I sincerely hoped I wasn’t about to drop the equivalent of a down payment on a new car on having someone make me look like a tart. That wasn’t what I was going for here.

  Estelle stepped back and examined me from different angles. She reached up and tousled my newly highlighted and trimmed hair, and then she nodded.

  “Oui, oui, you will do,” she announced. She spun my chair so that I faced the mirror. My jaw dropped.

  “I . . . oh . . . well . . . wow,” I stammered. I straight-up did not recognize the woman staring back at me.

  For the first time all day, Estelle smiled. It was a small smile—just the corners of her lips moved, in an upward trajectory of about a centimeter—but it was a smile. Her voice was pleased when she said, “Ravissant, oui?”

  Ravishing. Yes, I was. I broke out in a full-on grin and said, “Merci beaucoup.”

  Instead of tarting me up, Estelle had somehow found a layer of pretty as yet untapped by me and my usual minimalist beauty routine. She hadn’t slathered the makeup on; rather, she’d been very selective about what she used and where. She’d made my pleasant features pop. Brown eyeliner in the outer corners of my eyes was drawn out a bit and tilted up, making my eyes seem not so close together. Because I had a lot of real estate for eyelids, a muted purple had been used to enhance the green in my eyes and soften the brown. A pencil had been used to even out my lips, which Estelle had colored a soft rose.

  My hair had been trimmed and subtle color added. I was fascinated as the light caught the new strands of gold and copper, which enhanced the pale brown. The most shocking change was the blunt-cut bangs that now framed my face, making me look less hair-parted-in-the-middle studious and more winsome-girl-who-should-be-playing-a-ukulele-and-singing-in-the-park adventurous. I loved it.

  In a flurry of gratitude and optimism, I bought all the products Estelle had used to make me over, and when my credit card didn’t catch on fire, I took it as a sign that the universe approved of my rash decision to suddenly become a girly girl.

  When I thanked Estelle again for the transformation, the woman surprised me by kissing both of my cheeks and saying, “Do not worry, chère—now he will be yours.”

  I left the salon, wondering how the stylist had known that this had to do with a man. Then I shook my head. Duh. Of course it had to do with a man. Why else did a woman spend a month’s rent at a salon? I laughed at myself as I schlepped my bags back to the apartment. I had never spent this much on trying to get the attention of any dude ever. If Jean Claude didn’t notice the effort and fall at my feet, head over heels in love, then at least I could say I’d given it my best shot.

  * * *

  • • • •

  I SUPPOSE I could have played it cool and stayed up in my apartment, letting Jean Claude wait for me as I made a dramatic late entrance, but that wasn’t me. He had said sept heures, or seven o’clock, and just like when I met Colin at the pub, I couldn’t let my desire to be nonchalant override my punctual tendencies.

  At two minutes to seven, I left the apartment and headed downstairs. I carried a wrap and a clutch, but I didn’t put the wrap on. Instead, I let the cool night air drift down my exposed spine with chilly fingers, making me shiver in the most delicious way. My hair and makeup were perfection, and I was relieved there was no breeze to mess up Estelle’s efforts.

  My dress hugged my curves, with the slit up the side ending right at midthigh. I hadn’t brought much jewelry with me, so I wore my favorite silver-and-abalone earrings with a matching cuff bracelet. I was quite certain that Estelle would have approved—okay, probably not, because Estelle didn’t seem like the type to approve of anything, but I believed she wouldn’t have thrown up in disgust, so that was somethi
ng.

  When I stepped out of the door to the apartments, I could feel the Paris night pulse all around me. A thrum of excitement, like the low purr of an engine, revved in my belly, and I had the feeling that tonight was the first night in a whole new life for me.

  A wolf whistle brought my attention around to the café.

  Jason was sitting at one of the tables. He was holding a book—a spy novel—and sipping a glass of wine. His gaze swept over me from head to foot. He mouthed the word wow, and I grinned at him. That was exactly the shot of confidence I needed.

  “Martin, you look—”

  “Je te trouve belle, mon chou.”

  I spun around to find Jean Claude approaching me with his hands held out to his sides as if he was trying to take me in and simply couldn’t. It was very flattering. When he reached me, he kissed both of my cheeks and stared into my eyes as if he couldn’t look away.

  “Ma belle, to see you in one of my own creations.” He pressed his hands over his heart as if he was overcome.

  I glanced down. My beautiful gown was a design of Jean Claude’s. I was incredibly touched that he had gifted it to me.

  “It is beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Mon chou, what a night we are going to have.”

  “How nice. And where exactly is that night going to be, and when will it be ending?”

  I turned to look over my right shoulder to find Jason standing behind me with his arms crossed over his chest, his finger holding his place in his book.

  “Go away,” I said. “Shoo.”

  “Is this man bothering you, mon chou?” Jean Claude asked.

  “No, he’s fine,” I said. I didn’t want to start an unnecessary scuffle. “Jean Claude Bisset, this is a coworker of mine, Jason Knightley. He’s here because our business meeting in Italy was moved to here tomorrow.”

  Jean Claude’s wary expression cleared, and he held out his hand to Jason. “Ah, a coworker. It is a pleasure to meet you.”