Even if it’s momentary, I’m thankful for the reprieve.
Dear Me? Dear Nobody? Dear, I don’t know who the hell I’m talking to . . .
Cheers to the first entry in my journal.
Millie hoped this would be a cathartic release for me, but I’m skeptical.
I’m in Paris and four days have passed in a blur. I miss home. I miss Millie. I miss my sister and nephew. Skyping with Ember and Teddy every morning has helped ease my anxiety and homesickness. They’re either just getting home or still closing up at my sister’s boutique in Venice Beach. And I love how Teddy has been dominating our chats with knock-knock jokes. Chatting with Jamie and Lindsay through texts or brief phone chats has also helped.
I’m happy to report that when I think about Millie, tears prick my eyes only half of the time. I keep imagining what her life was like when she lived here. God, I bet she was a force to be reckoned with back then. No wonder Christophe fell in love with her.
Being in Paris, all by myself, isn’t such a lonely experience. It’s refreshing in a way. Every day is a new adventure filled with delicious tastes, lively sounds, and vibrant culture.
I’ve been traveling most destinations by foot, only using the métro to get from one district to the next. Everywhere I look is a new possibility to explore, a new experience to be had. It’s indescribable, the way this city has charmed me. I’m thoroughly seduced by her. The music, the decadent food, the blooming flowers, and the crooked streets lined with exquisite architecture . . . I want to live and breathe it all.
Audrey Hepburn was right—“Paris is always a good idea.”
I guess it’s time to discover another side of this gorgeous city.
Millie, if you’re reading this, I miss you like crazy, and I’m starting to understand why you loved this city so much.
More later,
-B
Irritated, I toss my journal on the nightstand.
Millie would be disappointed in me. My first entry and all I do is recap my time in Paris. A journal is supposed to be used for your inner thoughts, your true feelings, but I’m a total coward. There is nothing cathartic about writing down the Top Ten Highlights of your day.
Note to journal users: Try to be stronger than me.
Instead of berating myself, I promise to do better next time, focusing my brainpower on something else, something way more fun, like Paris.
Baby steps, Brooke. It’s all about the baby steps.
I find a cozy spot on the terrace connected to my suite. It’s been my routine to start each day with a cup of espresso, a sugary pastry, and looking through Millie’s bucket list. There is no order in my approach. I simply pick whichever item tickles my fancy. Today, I plan to accomplish lucky number thirteen.
12. Visit Gerard Mulot on Rue de Seine. Order one salted caramel macaroon to eat there and take a box of various flavors back to the hotel. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed and you’ll thank me later for the to-go box.
13. Go to Au Fait in Canal Saint-Martin. It’s an English-inspired pub that has the best Bloody Mary you’ll ever taste. Once you get there, drink at least two, and then ask for Alexandre. He has something for you.
14. Shop at Chanel on Rue Cambon and don’t leave without a bottle of perfume.
I smile after reading numbers twelve and fourteen. The macaroons were the single best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And shopping at the original Chanel store, the so-called mothership, was downright insane. I’ve never considered myself a fashionista, but the mirrored staircase and iconic pictures inside the boutique would make any girl giddy. Since my style revolves around bohemian chic, I didn’t plan on buying anything besides perfume. But I stayed spontaneous, ignoring price tags and my nagging habit of choosing vintage over high-end.
I browsed, tried on, and let my nose sample every perfume. The sweet and floral tones of Chanel’s Chance won me over, along with a few other things. I spent far too much, and Lindsay nearly died when I sent her a picture of the pretty, white Chanel bags sitting on my hotel bed. Apparently, there’s a difference when it comes to bags, and Paris is the only city with the coveted white bag adorned with 31 Rue Cambon in black lettering.
Nerves flutter inside of my stomach as I finish getting ready. I have no idea what a man named Alexandre in a bar called Au Fait would have for me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is such a Millie thing to do. The woman never did anything by the book. Sending me on a bucket-list mission to Paris mere days after her funeral is proof of that.
My reflection in the mirror smiles back at me. I blink out of my daze and put the finishing touches on my makeup—mascara, a hint of blush, and lip gloss. A laugh echoes inside the spacious bathroom as I catch sight of the black ink still etched on my palm. Dylan. The mysterious and funny guy I met my first day here. I’ve scrubbed my hand until it’s red and raw without success. He apparently prefers permanent ink. His masculine script is pretty much tattooed onto my palm.
The urge to dial his number is tempting, but I think that man is more trouble than I can handle. Trouble with a capital T. He’s too beautiful, too charming, and way out of my league.
And what in the hell would I do with a man like that? I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. I’m not really a relationship kind of girl either. I’m a “Jamie is my safe place” kind of girl. I think I need to stick with that mindset and forget that Dylan even exists.
My thoughts roam to Jamie, and I shoot him a quick text.
‘I’m thinking about you and hoping you’re feeling okay today.’
‘I’m good, baby girl. Busy with meetings, but good.’
Honestly, I’m not sure he’d even tell me if he was having a bad day.
‘Promise me you’re taking care of yourself while I’m off gallivanting in Europe.’
‘I promise. All is well in Cali :)How’s Paris? Meet anyone new? Do anything fun?’
‘Paris is amazing. No new people, but definitely lots of amazing food and gorgeous sights.’
‘Send me pictures?’
‘Like you even have to ask . . . ’
‘Chat later? I miss you like crazy, sweetheart, but I’m glad you’re having fun. Love you.’
‘Definitely. And I miss you more. Love you so much x’
I think this is the first time I’ve ever lied to Jamie about anything. Why am I lying to him about something as simple as meeting an attractive guy? It’s not like anything happened, it’s not like it will go anywhere. I have zero plans of calling the number imprinted on my hand.
But guilt eats away at my gut.
I start to dial his number but stop, thinking about the consequences. Jamie has too much on his plate as it is; hearing about some random guy I met in Paris is the last thing he needs.
Sighing heavily, I scrunch product into my hair, letting the strands fall loose and curly down my back. Normally, I straighten it because I hate the way it reminds me of my mother, but today I’m feeling lazy. Plus, this is the longest my locks have been in years, and it’d take hours to tame the wavy mess. Between Millie being sick and my busy work schedule at the label, months have passed since my hair has seen a salon.
My grandmother’s necklace is the last addition to my look. I glance in the mirror, and despite my hate for selfies, I snap a quick pic and send it to my sister. The dress is from her boutique, Wild Spirit.
Ember’s text is immediate.
‘I knew that dress would look amazing on you! And I’m kind of freaked out by how much you look like mom right now.’
She’s right. My curly hair paired with the bohemian dress and slouchy leather boots is eerily similar to the way my mother used to dress when Ember and I were kids. I’m a modern-day throwback to Woodstock.
‘I know. I’m a little creeped out myself.’
‘Don’t sweat it. You look gorgeous. You’re the classy version of our mother. Beautiful, healthy, and drug-free. LOL.’
I laugh, which probably seems like an inappropriate reaction, but in order to
survive the kind of childhood Ember and I had, finding humor was and still is a necessity.
‘Drug-free AND zero male suitors in my bed. I’m like the anti-Cassidy Sawyer . . . ’
‘Chastity Sawyer.’
‘Haha! Exactly. God, I love you.’
I think of a question that’s been bugging me, and send another text.
‘Be honest. Are you mad I’m here and you’re not? I feel bad leaving you and Teddy just days after . . . ’
‘Millie tried to get me to go, too, but I refused. I promised her I’d visit Paris once Teddy was a little older and I felt better about leaving him. Plus, I think you needed to experience it by yourself for the first time, without the accompaniment of a precocious 4 yr old. And I love you, more. Kiss Paris for me ;)’
Once I reach the 10th Arrondissement, my feet explore Canal Saint-Martin for a good hour. I notice more Parisians than tourists along its arched bridges and concrete banks. Perfect weather has brought a decent amount of foot traffic, but despite the crowd, the area still appears charming and calm. Chic streets are speckled with cafés, high-fashion boutiques, and scholarly bookshops. I find myself loving the trendy and creative vibe flowing throughout. It might be my favorite part of Paris.
My phone vibrates against my hip. I pull it out of my messenger bag and see another text from Lindsay. Get a tattoo. Apparently, she’s bored in Milan’s airport while waiting for her flight back to New York. She’s been sending me messages all afternoon. Each one highlighting the infamous bucket list she created for me back in college. Nearly everything on that stupid list is beyond outrageous.
‘Nope. There is nothing I love enough to brand on my body.’
‘There has to be something you can think of!’
I walked inside of Au Fait as I read the text, laughing quietly to myself. Only a few patrons fill the rustic joint. Dark, wood paneling, British flags, and sports memorabilia accentuate the very pub-like feel. And rows and rows of liquor bottles sit behind the sprawling bar. There’s a small, makeshift stage and beside it sits a wall made entirely of a chalkboard—crazy sayings and drawings cover it from ceiling to floor.
My ass finds a spot at the bar, and while the bartender has his back to me, I respond to Lindsay’s text.
‘NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. So get the idea out of your head.’
‘You’re a whore.’
I laugh a little too loud.
The bartender is looking at me, and I’m faced with another handsome man within Paris’s city limits. His eyes are alight with curiosity and for some odd reason the sense of déjà vu smacks me in the face. “I’ll only serve you once you show I.D. and tell me what you’re laughing about.” His English brogue fills my ears.
Does every hot guy in Paris have an English accent?
I tilt my head in amusement. “I.D.? Isn’t the legal drinking age sixteen in Paris?”
He slings a towel over his shoulder and rests his elbows on the bar. “That’s for beer and wine, love. It’s eighteen for liquor.”
“You think I look younger than eighteen?” I almost snort in laughter—almost—thank God, I hold it back. My first day in Paris used up enough awkwardness to last a year. “And who says I want liquor?”
“I’m just trying to play it safe, love,” he answers, shoulders shrugging and smirk flashing. “I can’t have seventeen-year-old tourists coming in here and risking our liquor license.”
He’s so full of shit. I roll my eyes, grabbing my California license from my wallet. My hand slides it across the bar in a smug fashion.
“Brooke Sawyer, twenty-six.” He glances at me then back at the license. “An organ donor from California, who weighs . . .” he pauses and peeks up at my reaction. The audacity of this guy has my brow rising.
“A man who announces a woman’s weight to a group of strangers is known as an asshole where I come from.” I give him a pointed look. “You might be more familiar with the term arsehole. And I bet the queen would be quite upset with your lack of manners.”
He laughs heartily, handing my I.D. back to me. “You’ve got sass. I like it. Consider your first drink on the house. And seriously, I was just teasing you. I hope I didn’t offend you with the whole I.D. bit.” I can’t help but grin at his adorably guilty smile.
“If that’s your half-ass form of an apology, I’ll accept. Consider yourself forgiven.”
“Thank you,” he says dramatically, holding his hand to his heart.
His eyes hold a frisky edge. The kind of eyes that show this guy isn’t all business, and I’d guess flirtation just comes naturally to his playful personality. He’s probably a few years younger than me, and his body is one that proves he does something to keep his lean frame nice and fit. A few tattoos line his arms, wrists, and even fingers, and the shock of dark hair peeking out from a grey beanie only adds to his appeal.
Seriously, what’s with all the good-looking English men in Paris?
“What’ll it be, love?”
That’s the second “Love” I’ve got tossed in my direction. I’m guessing that’s the English equivalent of sweetheart or honey. “I’ve been sent here to try one of your famous Bloody Marys.”
“You got it.” He busies himself behind the bar, skillful hands mixing my drink.
I read Lindsay’s latest text.
‘Open mic night.’
‘No way. That’s ridiculous. And not happening.’
‘What about karaoke? I know the coolest karaoke bar in Paris.’
‘NO.’
Lindsay is relentless about everything. That trait was much needed, to help launch her modeling career, but as you can see, it often makes her a pain in my ass.
‘What part of Paris is that bar in? Au Fait, right?’
‘Canal Saint-Martin. It might be my favorite part of Paris.’
‘Very cool area. Chat later? I’m getting ready to board.’
‘Definitely. Have a safe flight. Love you, whore.’
‘Love you too, hooker.’
One sip of an Au Fait Bloody Mary, and I’m hooked. Now I know why Millie said it’s the best Bloody Mary I’ll ever taste. I literally moan into my straw.
“That good?” The bartender asks, his playful eyes smile at me.
“Am I that obvious?”
Nodding, he points a finger towards my drink. “The moaning into your drink kind of gave it away.”
“Damn, I thought I hid it,” I say through a laugh.
He leans closer, and whispers, “You need to try to hide those moans a little better, love. Every bloke in this pub is turned in your direction, wondering what has the pretty American girl so excited.”
I blush, it’s unavoidable.
“I’m Jesse, by the way.” He offers his hand.
I shake it. “Nice to meet you, Jesse. I’m Brooke, but you already knew that.” Since this isn’t Alexandre, I need to get some damn balls to ask Jesse where I can find the man who has something for me.
“Brooke, the organ donor from California, who’s five foot three and weighs . . .”
My finger stabs him in the chest. “Don’t be an arse.”
He holds both hands up in reaction. “I was going to say, weighs merely a pound or two more than Tinkerbell.”
I shake my head as my lungs huff out a laugh. “Sure, I bet that’s exactly what you were going to say.”
“Please tell me you’re not another woman who worries about her weight. You’ve got nothing to worry about by the way. I could fit you in my pocket and still have room.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I question with a raised eyebrow. Playful flirting to exchange a few laughs is one thing, but flirting with the intent on getting in my panties is the complete opposite of what I want from my new friend/bartender Jesse. I’m not sure I want him flirting with me in that kind of way, which is odd, I know, but undeniable.
The bar towel is flung over his shoulder. “Nah, just being honest. Anyway, you’re not my type.” His eyes assess my face. “I mean, you’re beauti
ful, but you’re too sweet, too nice. I like my women a lot meaner.” He winks.
Relief is a strange feeling to have, from that response. Why on Earth would I be relieved that I’m not his type?
And meaner? It’s not like I’ve been rolling out the red carpet of “let’s be friends” gestures. Only one type of girl would fit the bill for him. “You remind me of my best friend.” He does. Jesse is exactly Lindsay’s type of guy—gorgeous, and a smart mouth that would give her a challenge. “And for your information, I don’t worry my pretty little head about my weight. I just wanted to make sure you had some manners.”
He laughs. “My mother would have my arse if she thought I was acting like a wanker.”
“Good to know.”
While Jesse helps an older gentleman at the end of the bar, I strive to get the courage to ask him about Alexandre. It’s an odd situation. What if this man has something for me that I don’t want to know or see? Would Millie really do that to me? No way . . . right?
“Hey, hooker.” A voice whispers into my ear, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn around and find a smiling Lindsay standing in front of me. I scream, and it’s way too loud for the afternoon bar crowd, but I can’t hold it in.
“What the hell?” I yank her into a hug, squeezing her tight and jumping up and down in hysterics.
She pulls away from my embrace, still grinning from ear to ear. “I know you said you didn’t need me here, but I needed to be here. You’re not mad are you?” Her smile starts to fall.
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at her in annoyance. “I’d say my reaction spoke for itself.”
She laughs. “I think your screaming woke up the drunk guy in the corner.”
“Sit your ass down and drink a Bloody Mary with me,” I demand, gesturing towards the empty barstool next to mine.
Jesse saunters down towards us, his eyes appreciating the model looks of my best friend. I had a feeling these two would be the perfect kind of match. I’m not sure it’s the kind of match that includes professions of love and vow exchanges, but it would definitely light the sheets on fire. And I can’t blame him for blatantly staring at her. Lindsay is beautiful, all long legs, midnight blue eyes, and gorgeous red lips. Any red-blooded male would be tossing their best friend out of the way—and under a bus for that matter—to get to her. They would, and they do, quite often in fact.
Forget (Changing Colors Book 1) Page 4