Paris Lights

by C. J. Duggan

  ‘You liked it?’ he asked, actually asked, which made me smile; maybe he did need reassurance after all.

  ‘It was my second favourite discovery of today.’

  He frowned, troubled by what could have been better than his food. Then he shifted warily, perhaps worried that I had meant something else, something that wasn’t exactly appropriate to mention in front of company. He glanced at Jean-Pierre and the dishwashing woman.

  I smiled widely, loving the vulnerability in him, basking in the glory of making him uneasy for once. I couldn’t help myself: I stepped forward without taking my eyes from his as I lowered my voice just to make him lean in a little.

  ‘Those awnings made my day,’ I said.

  Louis laughed. He actually laughed. It was loud enough to get the attention of the staff in the restaurant. It was such a foreign sound.

  He nodded his head. ‘It was a good idea of mine, wasn’t it?’ he conceded.

  I smiled. ‘Ha! You can thank me later.’

  Louis’s brows rose into his hairline and it suddenly occurred to me how suggestive that must have sounded. ‘In macarons,’ I added, pushing my way into the restaurant with a big goofy grin and a little extra swagger in my hips.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The jig was up. My stint in the witness protection program in Paris was completely blown. I had known it the minute I received a panicked, all-capital email from my mother. Not that the capital letters were an indication of anything other than her not knowing how to turn the caps-lock button off – she was forever writing in shouty block letters – but who knows, maybe this time she meant it?

  I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE TO LIAM. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? HE SAYS YOU HAVE BEEN IN PARIS ALL THIS TIME? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME? PLEASE GIVE ME A CALL. I DON’T CARE WHAT TIME IT IS, LET ME KNOW YOU ARE OKAY. ARE YOU COMING HOME?

  Every single email from my mum signed off with ‘Are you coming home?’ Crisis or not, it was always her hope that one day the answer would be yes – and it would some day, just not today. Trust Liam to run to my family, now that he could officially play the whole ‘she dumped me’ card. I had no doubt he hadn’t gone into full detail about how I came to be in Paris, after all, he would play the victim for a little while longer. I decided to let him have his time; while they were fawning over him, they were more likely to leave me alone. I had hoped that a cheerful postcard from Paris would suffice, but as it turned out I was going to have to be a bit more diplomatic a lot sooner.

  Hey Mum,

  Please don’t worry, everything is fine. I am staying on in Paris because I have been given a tremendous opportunity too good to refuse. I didn’t want to go into too much detail early on in case it didn’t work out, but I am really enjoying my time here.

  I felt a strong urge to beg for funds like I was a teenager heading to a Blue Light Disco, but my twenty-five-year-old ego thought better of it. I really had to go talk to Cecile about my employment here; free board thus far had been awesome, but I hadn’t been keeping stock of the minibar items I had been devouring. I mean, I was only human.

  I signed off the email, hit send and closed my laptop, flinging myself back onto the bed, wondering what to do. With every noise I imagined I heard in the hall I craned my neck to listen more intently, but it was always nothing. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what I might say to Louis if we just happened to bump into one another in the hall or the lift. It always ended up as a hot-and-heavy fantasy where there wasn’t exactly that much talking. A new tension built inside me.

  I cannot have these thoughts about Louis – I simply cannot! I grabbed at my pillow, shoving it over my face so as to muffle my screams of frustration.

  It had been just so much easier when I was hating him, when he wasn’t showing evidence of being a human being; when he didn’t look at me the way he did now: a look that said that he was thinking about dirty things too. That was of no help whatsoever, neither was hearing the distant workings of the lift.

  I pushed myself onto my elbows to listen more intently, and sure enough, I heard footsteps coming down the hall. My heart began to race as I jumped off the bed and padded barefoot to my door, plastering my ear to the cool, glossy surface to better make out the sounds from outside. Sure enough, the shadow appeared under my door again, a definite giveaway that not only was someone lingering outside in the hall, but they were doing it close to my door.

  Oh my God, he is standing right there.

  And just as I tried to keep my breaths even and silent, a loud thud sounded on the door, vibrating at my temple, causing me to jump back in fright.

  Oh God, I wasn’t prepared for this, dressed in my shorts and a baggy T; my hair was a mess, pinned up in a bun, and my face was makeup free. I was definitely not prepared for this.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I yelled, trying to keep my voice from sounding panicked as I quickly ran into the bathroom, yanking my hair painfully out of my bun and brushing the knots out. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

  I had no time for much else except the light dab of some lip gloss and a spray and pirouette of Chanel Coco. I shoved my messy clothes and shoes into the cupboard and made my way back to the door.

  ‘Coming,’ I sing-songed, allowing myself a small moment of calm before unlocking and opening the door so quickly my hair whooshed backward.

  ‘Bonjour!’ I announced with a big smile, only for it to slide right off my face. Absolutely no one was there. I frowned as I ducked my head into the long, empty hall. Surely I hadn’t imagined it – I’d felt the vibration of the knock against my head, and there is no way I had imagined that. And then before I could really begin to worry about my sanity my toe brushed against something and my eyes lowered to a small mint-green bag on the carpet. ‘What the …’

  I tentatively bent to pick up the elegant paper bag only to see exactly what it was. I grinned from ear to ear as I read the name across the bag. Laduree, only the most-loved and best-known seller of macarons in Paris.

  I felt butterflies stir in my belly as I took a small card from the bag.

  Let this be your favourite thing of today (until you try mine).

  L

  I took out the small floral box and squealed with delight when I opened it. Inside was a gorgeous rainbow treasure, and even as I eyed the delicious morsels of beauty, taking the raspberry macaron and biting into the light, slightly chewy yumminess, I couldn’t help but think how wrong Louis was. Because my favourite part of the last twenty-four hours wasn’t the awnings or the food, or the amazingly thoughtful macarons at my door.

  It was actually none of those things, because hands down, my most favourite experience had been kissing him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  My hands covered my face, shielding my eyes from the screen. It was the easiest way to confess my sins, and aside from hearing my sister’s audible gasp, I really didn’t need to visualise Sammi’s horrified expression. Still, I peeked through my fingers and sure enough, there she was on my laptop screen, her mouth agape, her head slowly shaking.

  I lowered my hands, grabbing the pillow and hugging it to my chest like a small child as I winced. ‘I know, I know.’

  It took a little while for Sammi to gain her composure, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear. ‘You know, when I said apologise, I actually meant say it, not dry hump him in a hotel hallway.’

  I shoved the pillow over my face. ‘I know!’ I screamed, before dropping the pillow in my lap. ‘It was just, you know, the rain, and the moonlight, the music, the dancing,’ I explained. I hadn’t stood a chance.

  Sammi pouted. ‘Yeah, curse Paris and all that romantic, moody lighting and magical ambience.’ Her words dripped with sarcasm; even I had to admit this was pretty much a first-world problem.

  ‘I was vulnerable,’ I added, trying to build my case.

  ‘And confused.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And a little fragile.’

  I nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And horny.�
�

  ‘Ye—What?!’

  ‘Really, really horny.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Hey, you’re only human – when Louis DelaHubba-Hubba rings the dinner bell, you come a-running.’

  ‘Why do I tell you anything?’

  ‘Because you want someone to tell you it’s okay … and you really want permission to do it again.’ Sammi grinned.

  ‘I don’t need your permission.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck because … permission granted.’ Sammi saluted like I was a brave soldier about to go into battle. ‘You know, I think it would be really cool to have a world-famous chef as a brother-in-law. Think of all the family events he could cater – no more Mum’s devilled eggs.’

  We both shuddered at the memory of a classic Mum barbecue.

  ‘He’s a celebrity chef, Sammi, not a cater waiter.’

  ‘A chef: yes; a celebrity: not so much. But, hey, you might be just what his ratings need!’

  ‘Ratings?’

  ‘God, how are you not up on this? Yeah, so, the word on the street – and by “street” I mean Who – is that Renovation or Detonation might be detonated. Kaput. No more. Apparently the ratings are dead in the water because Louis is too much of an enigma, or something. Doesn’t engage with his fans, doesn’t connect. Although, it sounds like he connected with you alright. Connected right on the—’

  ‘Sammi!’

  ‘Seriously, though, Claire, just live a little. You’re in Paris. Walk in the rain, dance in the moonlight, kiss a sexy Frenchman; just promise me, promise me, you will leave there with no regrets.’

  Against my better instinct my mouth twisted in amusement.

  Sammi placed her hand on her heart. ‘Now repeat after me.’

  I rolled my eyes and mirrored her actions.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I, Claire Shorten.’

  I laughed. ‘I, Claire Shorten.’

  ‘Will live each day as if it’s my last.’

  ‘Will live each day as if it’s my last.’

  ‘With not one tear shed, or one thought given to douchebag ex-boyfriends.’

  ‘With not one tear shed, or one thought given to douchebag ex-boyfriends.’

  ‘And I will enthusiastically accept all sexual advances from any men called Louis.’

  I shook my head, giggling like I had when we were teenagers sharing a bedroom. ‘You are mad!’

  ‘Mad, and never wrong.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I scoffed.

  ‘Hey, I never liked Liam.’

  I sighed. ‘Yeah, well, that’s true.’

  ‘I mean, he had a cat, and pot plants … weird.’ Sammi shuddered.

  ‘Okay, Judgy McJudger from Judgement town, I’m going before the sun sets,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, oui, oui, show me what you’re wearing.’ Sammi clapped with excitement.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, picking up my laptop and placing it on the desk, then shimmying backward across the room and giving a twirl.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Ooh la la, I love that skirt.’

  I smoothed over the layered pastel pink fabric, before straightening the bow at my waist. ‘It’s rather fabulous.’ I smiled, admiring the flow of the material that stopped just above my knees.

  ‘You totally look like a local.’

  ‘Right?’ I swayed side to side, revelling in the swishing sound of the material.

  ‘So, before you go, it would be remiss of me not to ask, because you know what Mum’s like.’

  I sat on the end of the bed, slipping on my ballet flats, knowing exactly where she was going with this.

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  I laughed at the predictability of the question. ‘Tell her soon,’ I said. ‘First, I have to make sure I don’t leave here with any regrets.’ I gave Sammi a pointed look.

  ‘Yes!’ Sammi lifted her arms triumphantly. ‘Vive la France.’

  I breathed out a laugh. ‘Goodbye, Sammi,’ I said, pushing the laptop shut. ‘Bloody lunatic.’

  Maybe it was the sisterly pep talk, but I was feeling extra good as I double checked my hair in the reflected interior of the lift, pushing it over my shoulder. Reaching for my turquoise clutch, I searched for my lippy, checking it was the right shade. There were two things I could not face a day in Paris without: my 426 Roussy Chanel lipstick – or my 112 Temeraire Chanel lippy for night. A girl had to be prepared, I thought, gliding the silky pink stick along my bottom lip and pressing my lips together. Now I was ready, pushing the lid onto the tube just before the lift jolted violently to a stop. I glared up at the numbers, annoyed that someone was about to get on at level four, delaying me from my purpose.

  I stepped aside, allowing room in the small space for the extra traveller. The door opened, assaulting me with light and the sound of drills, voices and chaos, but worse than all the loud drama was the fact I was confronted with the sight of Louis instructing a tradesman in French. He turned to step forward, and as his gaze landed on me, he placed his hand on the door to prevent it from shutting.

  He liked what he saw, I could see it in the sparkle of his eyes as they landed on the pink bow at my waist. I stuck out my chin in a silent challenge, readying myself for him to say something suggestive about unwrapping his present, or a compliment of some kind, but instead he said, ‘You look like a strawberry macaron.’

  ‘What is it with you and macarons?’ I said, jabbing the button to make the doors close.

  He quickly stepped inside, laughing at my willingness to crush him. ‘I take it you got the delivery, then?’

  ‘I did, thank you,’ I said, keeping my eyes on the floor numbers above the door, trying for the whole ice queen thing, not sure I was pulling it off.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

  ‘To get changed,’ I deadpanned.

  Louis breathed out a laugh. ‘Always so serious.’ He had his hands in his pockets, his head tilted to the side, looking over my attire again. ‘Did you ever think that macarons are sweet, and beautiful?’

  I looked at him. Was he calling me beautiful?

  ‘You mean I don’t look fat?’

  Louis shook his head, as if he seriously didn’t know what to do with me, then he bent to speak into my ear. ‘What I meant is, you look good enough to taste.’

  I swallowed, the feel of him so close to me, the heat from his body, the smell of him, I suddenly wanted to press the stop button on the lift so he could do exactly that. Damn him and his bloody sexy accent; I swear he could recite a shopping list to me and it would be a turn-on.

  I cleared my throat, stepping to the side in the very limited space. ‘Yes, well, I’m sure once is enough,’ I said, hoping he’d rise to the bait, knowing there was no conviction in my words.

  And before he could answer, the lift doors opened and I was out, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air to still my nerves.

  Cecile looked up from her desk, her eyes brightening when she saw me. ‘Oh, Claire, you look lovely!’ she said.

  I was about to respond when Louis joined me. ‘Careful, Cecile, some people don’t know how to take a compliment,’ he warned.

  ‘That’s rich coming from someone who can’t accept an apology,’ I said incredulously.

  Louis turned to face me. ‘Why, Claire, are you offering me an apology?’

  I shook my head. ‘Like I said, once is enough for everything.’

  Louis’s eyes darkened, a wolfish smirk appearing on his face. ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything,’ I said, despite the fact my heart spiked its betrayal.

  I could feel Cecile’s eyes shifting between us, like she was watching some kind of raging tennis tournament.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ he asked, all hint of humour gone; the business-minded Louis was asking.

  ‘Well, I was going to see if Gaspard and Francois needed me to help them with anything in the kitchen,’ I lied. I had no intention of telling him I was off sightseeing, no doubt the workaholic in
him would not approve of such luxury.

  Louis rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Well, good luck with that,’ he said, spinning on his heel and heading for the hotel entrance.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked Cecile.

  She smiled weakly, pointing over my shoulder with the pen she held; I turned to follow her eye line.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

  Louis had completely shut down the kitchen – a large black tarp cordoned off the restaurant. I stood there, my head tilted thoughtfully, ever so tempted to pull back the tarp and sneak a peek; renovations had never been more exciting.

  ‘Good luck keeping Gaspard away from this,’ I murmured.

  Cecile came to stand beside me. ‘Well, that’s where Louis has thought of everything.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He has sent the kitchen staff to Noire for the week.’

  ‘Noire?’

  ‘Oui, to give them a chance to perfect their menu.’

  ‘And what am I, chopped liver?’

  She frowned as if she wasn’t sure what I meant, but then she spoke and I knew she understood.

  ‘I asked Louis if you wanted to go, but he said not to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said, folding my arms, looking past her to where Louis stood out the front speaking to Gaston.

  ‘To be honest, I thought you would have been relieved not to have to deal with Louis any more.’

  It was a fair assumption; I had been less than thrilled about being thrown into the deep end as a kind of hostage negotiator, but ever since the bonding luncheon it was clear they didn’t need me, and I didn’t so much feel relief but a certain sense of sadness. I knew I wasn’t a typical member of staff. I did the dishes, served coffee and juice through lunch, and delivered meals, but I felt like a complete phony, and as much as Cecile and Gaston and the kitchen crew made me feel like one of them, I knew Louis saw straight through me. That was, no doubt, why he wouldn’t waste his money on fitting me with a uniform.