Falling in Paris (Encounters #3)

by Fifi Flowers

  “Avril, slow down! Tell me who and what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I met a man while I was sprawled out on a curb…”

  “What?” she cut me off. “Are you okay? How did you fall?”

  Taking a couple deep breaths, I started from the beginning, telling her the story of how we met. What he looked like, how he helped me, then vanished. All she could say was, “You let a total stranger into your apartment, are you fucking mad? I don’t care how hot he is!”

  I continued on about our next run-in, choosing to ignore her comment. When I told her about the other hot guy helping me after, all she could ask was, “You have two men?”

  I snorted. “If only that was my problem. No, I want Émile. I wished it was him. Chloe, I have masturbated so much thinking about him, I broke my vibrator.” We both started laughing. “I thought it was just batteries, so I changed them out, but no luck. I’m stuck with my hand until I can pop out to a sex shop. I should have callouses by the morning, the way I feel.” We giggled more. I was feeling better.

  “Tell him how you feel, Avril. Or jump him, attack him, rip off your clothes, show him what you have to offer.”

  “Ugh! I have no idea how to get a hold of him. After the chapels, he walked me home, kissed both of my cheeks outside of my door, then turned and headed down the stairs, said he had a great time. That was it. I wanted to turn my face to connect our lips, but I chickened out. Then, I went inside, downed half a bottle of wine while I caressed myself over and over. I’m so fucking frustrated. I had to talk to someone, so I called you.”

  “Damn girl, you need to get a new toy—stat! And, it sounds like you might want to think about finding a different living, breathing, ready, willing, and able stud to ease your tension.”

  “But I want him, Chloe. I want him! There is something about him. I feel a connection with him, somehow.”

  “Guess you will have to roam the streets of Paris to find him. Have to go, doll. Singing tonight; I have to get to rehearsal. New costume fitting, if that’s what you want to call them,” she laughed and added, “see you in a few months. Miss you. Love you.”

  “Okay. Guess I will read my cobblestone romance book. I can’t wait to see you, love you, too. Kiss, kiss!”

  I loved having a sister to give me advice, cheer me up, tell me how it is, and set me straight. We had just found each other about a year ago and it was like we had been together all of our lives. We were so much alike in so many ways, except for singing. God, could she sing. I definitely didn’t get that gene; must have been from her father’s side. I couldn’t carry a tune, and neither could our mother, according to Chloe and Gran.

  My grandmother hadn’t heard from my mother in almost twenty-seven years. Then one day, out of the clear blue sky, a woman called informing her that her daughter, Claudette Erikksen, was in New England Medical Center on life support. Contacting me, I immediately flew home to accompany my grandmother to Boston. My gran, in the meantime, found out that her estranged daughter had married a very wealthy, older man, and had a baby a year and a half after having me. Not only was I to see my biological mother for the first time, but my sibling, as well.

  Arriving at the airport, we were met by a tall, curly-haired blonde woman with deep, dark brown eyes named Chloe Erikksen, my sister. We looked absolutely nothing alike. She looked like my mother; same color hair and eyes. She introduced herself before escorting us to a waiting town car.

  Driving from Logan International airport to my mother’s posh home on Marlborough Street, a block away from The Commons, Chloe informed us about the state of her mother’s health. Her mother had been lying in a vegetated state for a little over two years at a long term care facility. She was transferred to the hospital when her kidneys started to shut down. The hospital had contacted Chloe, who was living in Chicago, to inform her that Claudette had maybe two weeks left, and they would be transferring her to their hospice. They also suggested that she get things in order.

  After contacting her mother’s attorneys, she was given information about my grandmother. Chloe was told by her mother that she had no living family on her side, so she was shocked to learn that she actually did. She immediately called my grandmother to tell her about her daughter, and she hoped that she would come to Boston. She didn’t know what the situation was between them, but she wanted her to have the opportunity to say goodbye. I felt terrible for my grandmother; I didn’t understand why Claudette would just write off her own mother. Although, I don’t know why I was surprised, she never contacted me or acknowledged my existence. I was thankful for everything my gran had ever done for me, and had agreed to accompany her for support, but I had no feelings for the woman who abandoned me.

  Once at the house, Chloe showed us to a guest room with two oversized twin beds. We deposited our belongings and joined her in the parlor of the brownstone. It was weird to see photos of a stranger who was my mother; family photographs were scattered about, and a portrait of Chloe with her parents hung over a mantel. I could see the sorrow in my grandmother’s eyes and I was sad for her, but to me, Claudette was not real, she was not my mother. She was Chloe’s mother and my grandmother’s daughter. I would be there for both of them, but I could not bring myself to have feelings for Claudette as I listened to stories about her life since having me, and what put her in her current state.

  Apparently, Chloe’s father had died five years ago, and Claudette floated from one man to another; mostly wealthy, married men—that was not a surprise. Then, she hooked up with a younger man at a party. He charmed the pants right off of her and ended up spending a good portion of her late husband’s fortune. When she finally caught on, or I should say, when she caught him in the arms of another wealthy woman at a charity function, she confronted him and he made a big scene, publicly humiliating her in front of her social peers. She spent the next several weeks begging him to come back. She asked him to make a statement to the press that he was drunk, and that she was his one true love. He laughed in her face and told her exactly what he thought about her.

  She couldn’t handle being alone and living on limited funds. She contacted Chloe, asking her to sign over her small inheritance that she received from her father’s mother, and she refused. Drugs and alcohol became Claudette’s only friends, as she wrote in a letter to Chloe, and they finally put her into a coma. When Chloe arrived, there was nothing to be done. The doctors assured her that she would never come back; it was only a matter of time when her body would finally shut down. Two years later, she was finally nearing the end.

  The next day, we went to the hospice facility that housed Claudette, and waited for Chloe to sign all the necessary paperwork. She had to confirm that there would be no resuscitation, per Claudette’s request in her living will, that further outlined that she was to be cremated, and her ashes to be put in a spot she had selected. Then, she met with the doctors for an update. They were happy she had arrived, as her mother’s body was shutting down faster than they had anticipated. Once she finished, she took my grandmother and me to see Claudette. Amazing, she was still as beautiful as the portrait hanging in her home; she looked so peaceful. I watched as my grandmother and Chloe said their goodbyes. I had no reason to say goodbye, I had never been able to say hello. Besides, she didn’t know me.

  Later that evening, while having dinner at an intimate, family owned Italian restaurant in the North End, Chloe received a call that her mother had passed. She thanked them for calling, then she raised her glass of Chianti, and toasted to Claudette’s life. We clinked glasses with her. They had lost a mother and a daughter, but Gran had gained a granddaughter and Chloe had gained a grandmother, and I had gained a sister.

  I always felt better after chatting with Chloe, and the situation with Émile was really frustrating me. She was right. I either had to find someone else or come clean about my naughty feelings for him. Maybe I had him all wrong. Maybe he would rip my clothes off, and take me like I had dreamt.

  Chapter Seven />
  Émile

  It had been almost a week since I had last seen Avril, but I thought of her constantly. And, she was in my dreams almost every night. I couldn’t get her out of my head. She wasn’t right for me, or more so, I wasn’t right for her, I kept telling myself. We were different. Worlds apart. The only thing that connected us was our mutual love of books. Every day, it was getting harder and harder to be surrounded by books as they only made me think about her more.

  Books were my life; I had to stop the association. I needed to get back on track. She was only in Paris for a limited time. The more I stayed away from her while she remained in the city, the easier it would be to forget her. Once she was gone, I would no longer anticipate seeing her on a street corner, in a café, and books would eventually cease to remind me of her. The memory of Avril would eventually vanish, as she did. I needed to keep telling myself all of that until I believed it.

  Strolling back to my bookstore, after a great meeting with a local book collector, I mentally continued my silent pep talk. Then, I saw Avril exiting my shop, and all hope of pushing her from my brain was dashed. I noticed a bag from my store in her hand. What did she purchase? We probably had the best selection of non-secular books in all of Pigalle. Pigalle isn’t known for religion; it is known for sex shops, live sex shows, nightclubs, cabarets, Cancan at the Moulin Rouge, and prostitution. What was she doing in my part of the city? Pigalle was not exactly the area for Avril.

  I was about to approach her, when I saw her stop and look at signs in front of a Live Sex theatre. That stopped me dead in my tracks. I was curious about what she thought. I wished I was close enough to see the photographs which had captured her attention. I’ve seen the posters over the years, of course, but what had her turning her head this way and that? What was she studying?

  Then, just as more questions entered my mind, she began strolling, then turned and walked into a sex toy shop. I waited for her to reappear on the street. A half hour later, she emerged from the store with a new bag in her hand. Oh my! What did she purchase? My cock hardened at the thoughts roaming inside of my mind. Was it a toy only for her? Was it one I could use to pleasure her?

  Intrigued, I continued to follow her. Stunned once again, I watched her stop in front of more live sex show venues. My curiosity intensified and the next thing I knew, I had become a stalker. I couldn’t stop. I was truly fascinated… entranced as I watched her speak to a man who stepped out of the establishment. What was he saying to her? What was he offering her? Was he inviting her in? Shaking her head no, she walked away, and turned up the next street towards her neighborhood.

  I continued to follow at a distance. What was wrong with me? I should’ve stopped stalking her, but I didn’t want to—I had to see if there was another side of her. It appeared that there was as she wandered into a lingerie shop, and walked back out with another bag. Adjusting myself, I groaned as I thought of Avril in sexy, trashy leopard apparel, wondering what her next revelation would be.

  Her next stop was fairly innocent; it was our café. She settled into a chair outside of the rosy pink colored café with hunter green shutters, located on the corner of rue de l’Abreuvoir, the street where she took a tumble on the cobblestone sidewalk. After placing her order with a waiter, she took books out of the most familiar bag of the few that sat by her feet. Placing one book on her lap, she flipped through another one, when a glass of red wine was placed in front of her along with a small porcelain pitcher. A-ha! The lady did drink alcohol after all; another surprise.

  Watching her dark red painted lips part and her pink tongue dart out to lick the rim of the glass before tipping it to her mouth, I felt my pants grow even tighter. I couldn’t stand anymore of my voyeurism. I needed to talk to her. I had to know what she was reading. More religious books? I hoped not.

  “Bonjour, Avril.” What was that look on her face, shock? Perhaps, shocked—but happy—to see me. “May I join you?” Please let her say yes, I pleaded silently.

  Settling her book on the table, she gestured to the vacant seat while looking directly into my eyes. “Yes, please.” Those lavender eyes, I could never tire of seeing them.

  As I sat down, I motioned the waiter over, ordered a glass of wine, a bottle of sparkling water, and a few morsels for us to share. When he walked away, I lifted one of the books from the table, another religious book. “How many religious books can one read?”

  Avril interjected with a wicked grin, “For a client.”

  “A client?” I raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes. I’m a professional book collector, if you hadn’t already figured that out.” She smiled before continuing. “I’m actually staying in an apartment that belongs to one of my clients. She has a store back in the states. This buying trip is all for her shop and for one of her customers.” Again, another smile. “She collects non-secular books.”

  Waving the book, before settling it back on the table, I asked, “So, you are not planning on becoming a nun?”

  Avril laughed hard. “Definitely not.” Shaking my head, I smiled, and she questioned me, “Émile, did you take me out for a day of religion because of the non-secular books you saw in my possession, on my table, in my basket?”

  “Guilty, yes.” Taking a sip of my wine, I decided to confess. “I wanted to spend time with you and if that was what you liked, then I would do what I had to do.” Looking intently at her pretty face, I continued my confessions. “I followed you to this café.”

  She looked surprised. “You followed me today?”

  “Yes,” I answered and then changed the subject. “What is the book on your lap? Are you hiding something from me?”

  Laughing, redness spread across her face. “It’s for my book club.” She paused, looked down at the book, then back to me with sexy grin. “My naughty girlie book club.”

  I raised a curious eyebrow. “Ohh, may I see?” I stuck my hand out. Slowly, Avril lifted the book, set it on the table, and slid it to me. Biting my bottom lip, I skimmed a few pages. “Wow, this book is steamy hot. Almost every page I turned to was quite erotic. Is there an actual story or just non-stop sex?”

  Mirroring me, she bit her bottom lip and began to speak in a controlled, yet, excited voice. “This is our second book. We met a week ago to discuss another juicy one. I should be able to attend three meetings before I have to leave. And yes, there is a bit of a story, usually.”

  I didn’t want to hear that she would be leaving. I wanted to hear about anything, but not anything that meant not being able to see her. I was finally getting to know her. “Where and how did you find a book club in such a short time here?”

  “I know them from an online site dedicated to the love of reading, Reading is Fashionable; the group consists of mostly American women, some living in Paris. The group here meets once a month at a café or restaurant. Drinks. Food. Smut. A fabulous combination!” She laughed, “We were afraid they were going to throw us out, labeling us as loud, rude American women. Luckily, we had a couple of French women in our group, fast with their native tongue to save us from having the proprietor toss us out onto the cobblestone. I hope the next establishment welcomes our dirty girlie group.” Her pretty lavender eyes sparkled as she giggled.

  “Your group is welcome to have a meeting in my bookshop,” I said, looking intently for her reaction.

  “Your bookstore?” A warm glow spread across her beautiful face.

  “Oui. This is my family’s bookshop,” I said, lifting one of the bags sitting beside her feet. “You got these books from me.” Moving the books back into the bag so food could be placed upon the table, I noticed another non-religious book. “Hmmm… L’art de Perdre sa Virginité Style Parisien – The Art of Losing your Virginity Parisian Style. Virgin?”

  “Ohh, that is not for me.” She laughed. “It’s a joke for a girlfriend.”

  Then picking up the next book, I commented, “Interesting read, Comment être une Déesse Parisienne au Lit – How to be a Parisian Goddess i
n Bed.” A sexy grin peaked on her lovely, lush lips. “For you?” She nodded yes.

  “I bought it as a challenge—a fun way to expand my French vocabulary,” she said while biting on the tip of her thumb.

  Her gesture encouraged me. Flipping the book open, I began reading passages, and instantly I noticed a change in her breathing as her mouth gaped open. I swear I heard a tiny gasp that made me wonder if her panties were wet. “Do you understand?”

  “Some words,” was her breathy reply. Delighted by her reaction to my reading, I continued, but this time in English. I saw Avril blush and close her eyes. She appeared lost in my words, and didn’t even notice I was no longer reading until my hand touched her knee.

  Slowly opening her eyes to my intense gaze, with my hand still on her knee, I whispered, “Were you imagining my lips continuing up the inside of your knee? Up your thigh?” I hoped I hadn’t gone too far when Avril suddenly brushed my hand off of her knee as she crossed her legs. But I couldn’t help myself; I let more inappropriate words tumble from my mouth. “Do you need a little relief? Do you want me to stop the throbbing?” Our eyes locked. She did not move. She did not speak. I had to press on, “May I walk you home?”

  A breathless, “Yes,” was all I needed to hear from her, and I hurried to pay the bill. Gathering up Avril’s bags, I extended my arm to her, and she tucked in next to me. I loved her touch. I loved her smell. I couldn’t wait to taste her. To see all of her in the flesh. We strolled to her apartment in silence, climbed the stairs, and made our way into her apartment. I settled her bags on the dining table. I was about to take her into my arms when Avril’s phone played “La Vie en Rose.”

  “I have to take this,” she mouthed to me, then turned her back, and spoke into her cell phone. “Hello, Gran. No, Gran do not give out my phone number. I changed it on purpose. No. No, Daniel is nothing to me. I’m not coming back. Well, yes. Yes, I will be there to fill out all of the paperwork. I need to finalize things. Of course, to see you, Gran. I have no time for him. I’m going to stop in Chicago to see Chloe. Not sure after that. At least three. Not sure. I love you, too, Gran. Yes, only a few more weeks. Bye. Mwah to you, too.”