So I did.
And then I remember, the bar, the women who kept flashing him interested looks, and one woman in particular who made her way over to us. Lucie was her name, and she was all crimson lips, batting lashes, and spilling cleavage. Her accent revealed she was most likely born-and-raised in Paris, but she made a point to have the conversation in English while ignoring my presence altogether.
Lucie flipped her hair, smiled seductively, and kept touching his shoulder, his arm—pretty much whatever fucking part she could get her hands on.
“You were amazing,” she said.
“Seeing you up on stage, had me really missing old times,” she said.
“Old times” is whore code for “I’m down to fuck again,” I thought.
I had the overwhelming urge to tell her to “shut the fuck up.”
Luckily, I kept my mouth shut, but her claws had already done their damage. I felt nauseous over the fact she knew Dylan in a way that I didn’t.
Needless to say, I was not a fan. I kind of hated her, and hate is not a word I like to use. I’m guessing it was her overt display of familiarity that put my guard up, spurring words like friendly and no funny business to come out of my mouth. I have no idea why that girl got under my skin. I have no claim to him. Hell, I barely know him.
“What’s your last name?” I blurt out.
He sets his fork down, eyes perking up at the abrupt topic change. “Bissette.”
“Bissette.” I test it on my tongue. “I feel like we’re doing this all backwards. I probably should have known your last name before agreeing to spend the day with you.”
His hand covers mine, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I’m glad you agreed to spend the day with me. Damn near ecstatic, to be honest, even if Lindsay kind of pushed you into it.” His smile is a little self-deprecating.
“She didn’t push me into anything I didn’t already want to do.”
“Good.” His grin reveals that one perfect dimple indented in his right cheek. “How about this? I’ll tell you a few things about myself, and then you reciprocate?”
“Okay.”
I make a mental note to avoid disclosing too much. This thing between Dylan and me, whatever it is, shouldn’t be complicated. He lives in Paris. I live in L.A, and I’m only here for a few more weeks. I have an entire life—and a part to play—back home. I have a feeling that’s why drunk Brooke was tossing out the whole “let’s just be good buddies” card. Well, that, and the intimidating fact that he can get any woman he wants. Lucie’s fluency in whore code proved that point.
Dylan releases my hand, leaning back in his seat. “All right, what can I tell you?” He singsongs, running a thumb and forefinger along his chin. “I promise I’m not secretly a psychopath. I have no criminal record or seedy past. I’m just a normal, twenty-seven-year-old guy who has a boatload of tattoos . . . I love collecting vinyl records . . . I think Gummi Bears are a viable option for breakfast . . . And I refuse to give in, to the whole Facebook, Twitter, social media hype . . . I miss the notes my mum used to leave on my bananas when she’d pack my lunch for school . . . And I had aspirations of running off to the circus as a kid . . .”
“The circus?”
Nodding his head, he explains, “I’m really good at juggling.”
“You’re full of surprises,” I say with a laugh.
“You don’t know the half of it, love.” He smiles. It’s sexy and adorable and downright irresistible. “I was born and raised in London for most of my life. My brother and I started a band together with our mates, Alex and Zach, when we were at uni together. I moved to Paris about a year ago to help my family out with our wine bar and pub. The pub, which you know as Au Fait, is my dad’s second love. And the wine bar, the best wine bar in Paris I might add, was inherited from my mother’s family. Bissette is a name that’s known for wine vineyards. We cultivate the best Chardonnay that’ll ever touch your pretty lips.”
“Better than this?” I hold up my wine glass, feigning disbelief.
“If we’re going to be good friends, Brooke, you need to learn to trust my wine judgment.”
I shrug. “All right, I’ll take your word for it.”
“My father wants Jesse and me to take over the family businesses, but my baby brother is super focused on the band, trying to get things moving—booking shows and getting record labels to give us a shot.”
“You don’t want that?” I ask, sensing more to the story.
His long fingers run through his hair. “I don’t know what I want. For me, it’s always been music first, and everything else second. I just love to play. I like that things are on our terms right now. I’m worried if a label gets involved, they might screw up something that’s working just fine the way it is.”
“I’m sure there’s a way to find a balance—signing with a label while maintaining your creative freedom.”
“Some of the contracts we’ve been offered are appalling. The last label that offered us a shot had high hopes they could morph us into what they wanted us to be, not what we are.”
I’m dying to ask which label, but bite my tongue. “Well, if it’s any reassurance, you’re really talented. Even rocking with a house band, I can tell you’re going places with that voice. Just hold out until someone comes along and appreciates your music. Someone who won’t want to change it, but give you the tools to cultivate it, and reach the places you’ve been dreaming about.”
His soft smile reaches his eyes. “Thank you.”
I wave him off with my hand. “No thanks necessary, I’m just being honest.”
“So, how’d I do? Did I tell you everything you need to know?”
“Fantastic.” I grin. “And I agree, Gummi Bears are a perfect breakfast food.”
“I knew I wasn’t the only one!” he exclaims.
His overzealous excitement spurs a few giggles from my lips.
Dylan has the most fantastic personality. He’s the type of guy who would do anything to make me laugh. I can picture him pulling a goofy face or doing the moonwalk in public just to hear me giggle.
Millie often said, “Beauty captures the eye, but personality captures the heart.”
If I were the sort of girl who believed in happily-ever-after and love-at-first, I’d be thinking about that quote right now. But I’m not that kind of girl . . . right?
And I love how his passion for music mirrors my own. What are the odds I’d meet some like him under such ridiculous circumstances? Millie would have called it a meet-cute. The woman was a hopeless romantic, and if she were still here, she’d be ecstatic over our amateur paparazzi moment.
I’m starting to wonder if my grandmother is pulling strings with the Big Man upstairs, and planting me into the most absurd situations. It would be just like her, working her magic in the afterlife, making sure I can check off every single item on the Paris Bucket List, including number twenty, fall in love.
“Okay, your turn. I’m ready to hear all about Brooke.”
I clear my throat. “Well, I’m twenty-six. Last name is Sawyer. My full name is beyond ridiculous, and I refuse to tell you that right now. My parents were free-spirited hippies who not only lacked parenting skills, but also sucked at naming their kids. Born and raised in California. My younger sister Ember and I lived with our grandmother, Millie, since I was nine years old. She raised us and is the reason I’m here. Millie passed away recently.” I pause for a second, shocked by the feelings bubbling up from my throat. Inhaling a shaky breath, I blink back the tears hazing my vision.
“I’m so sorry.” He rests his hand on top of mine. Instead of giving the expected reaction of a pat on the shoulder or sad eyes, Dylan does the one thing I need most. He touches my hand, offers heartfelt words, and gives me time to process my emotions. He doesn’t push me in the opposite direction or quickly cut-off my saddening mood, he just gives me time.
Sooner or later, I regain control. “I miss her dearly. Millie was one of a kind. I’m still in shock she sent me to Paris on a bucket
list mission the day after her funeral. I know it sounds crazy, but if you knew my grandmother, you’d understand that this is the kind of thing she would do. She loved this city, and I’m finding it easy to understand why.” I look out towards the café across the street, smiling at the energy that buzzes within the establishment.
“My sister and I opened a small clothing boutique in California.” That statement is partially true, and the deciding factor in how I’m going to handle things with Dylan. I have no idea if we’re going to spend more time together or if I’ll even be able to let myself spend more time with him, but just in case we do, I’m putting my compartmentalization skills to use. My life back home—including Jamie—stays there. My life in Paris stays here.
I’m even leaving my actual career out of it. It’s selfish, I know, especially after everything Dylan’s told me about his band, but I don’t see how revealing that I’m a record producer for Wallace and Wright Records could end well. Especially, since Jamie’s dad owns the label.
“Anything else to add?”
“Hmmm . . .” I tap my chin. “I love music, have always loved music. It’s a passion that runs bone deep. I can play the guitar and piano. I sing a little bit when I’m feeling inclined, but I’m sure you figured out last night that singing in front of crowds isn’t really my thing.” An apologetic smile creases my lips.
“You were amazing last night,” he says.
“Thank you.” I look down at my hands, refusing to blush. My eyes meet his again. “And I don’t have any tattoos. I’m not against them, just haven’t found anything I want badly enough to brand on my body. No history of being a stalker or psychopath. And I’m really fucking great at Super Mario Cart.”
His eyebrows rise, intrigued. “Super Mario Cart?”
I nod, slowly, shoulders back with poise. “I’m the best.”
“I plan on testing that confidence of yours, Little Wing. I’m really fucking great at Mario Cart too.”
“Challenge accepted, and seriously, what in the hell is with the Little Wing nickname?”
He laughs, beaming at me. “Before I explain, I need to show you something first.”
Dylan grabs our waiter’s attention. “Excusez-moi, l’addition s’il vous plait.”
My nose crinkles. “What does the bill have to do with it?”
Tapping my nose, he says, “Christ, that’s bloody adorable.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.”
“I’m not, Little Wing.” He winks. “I need the bill so we can leave, which will get you closer to an explanation.”
The waiter drops off the check.
“Honestly, I’m shocked you haven’t figured it out,” he teases while signing the credit card receipt.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dylan glances up and then laughs at my frustrated glare. He hands the receipt to the waiter, grabs my hand, and pulls me out of my seat. “Let’s go. It’s time to show you the best record store in Paris.”
La Dame Blanche is an impressive little shop, encasing more vintage records than I’ve ever seen. This place is a mecca, a vinyl collector’s heaven. Dust covers the bins, and the place smells like an old basement—musty and damp—but only shows that it’s worthy of our time. A good record store is easily judged by its smell. A vinyl store shouldn’t smell like Mr. Clean just got done with it. The stronger the moth ball and mildew stench the better. Only the best stores have that uncanny scent, of treasures forgotten by too many for far too long.
The minute we walked in the door, we were welcomed by the owner; an older man named Pierre. After scanning the main store for a good fifteen minutes, Pierre came up to Dylan and asked, “Backroom?”
“I thought you’d never ask, Pierre,” Dylan responded with a grin, and then wrapped an arm around my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “The back room is where he keeps the good shit. Prepare to have your mind blown.”
We followed Pierre out of the store, through an alley, and up to an unmarked door. It looked like any other building on the street, but the minute we stepped inside, endless rows of bins filled with vinyl records occupied my vision.
“Is this heaven?” I asked, voice dreamy and eyes full of stars.
He laughed. “It’s pretty damn close.”
And that’s where we are now, scanning through the disorganized mess of eclectic records. I’m finding albums that would make even the most knowledgeable collector drool.
I can’t deny the experience is bittersweet. I love this time with Dylan, laughing and chatting about music, but it also has me missing Millie. When I found Edith Piaf’s greatest hits album, my chest tightened thinking about the numerous times I played Je Ne Regrette Rien and La Vie En Rose for her. And those emotions intensified when I came across Déjà vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, which has her favorite love song—Our House. Both have been set aside, in my purchase pile.
I can still remember being thirteen years old, and Millie playing Our House at full volume, trying to nip my Jim Morrison fascination in the bud.
She had lived in Laurel Canyon for most of her life. Her bungalow—which Ember and I now own—sits on a quaint stretch of land off Mulholland Drive. Despite being inside one of L.A.’s most popular neighborhoods, Millie’s home always held this whimsical, self-contained aura. I never knew it was possible to fall in love with a house until I laid eyes on the bungalow’s blue shingles, white-lined windows, and red front door. I love that house, every detail about it, and the millions of happy memories it holds, all of which have my grandmother front-and-center.
I’m not sure Ember and I will ever be able to sell it.
The rich history that rests in those hills inspired my passion for music. As a teenager, I spent countless hours at the Canyon Store, sitting on its porch, a notebook and pen in my lap, staring across the street at the place that inspired Jim Morrison to write Love Street. I wanted to be an inspired version of myself. Never a replication, I just wanted a little bit of his brilliance to seep into my pores. I called it imitosis—combining the spiritual form of mitosis and imitation.
Millie would often laugh about my odd imitosis-channeling habit.
“Go sit in front of Joni Mitchell’s house. Any house that can inspire the best love song ever written is worth spending some time in front of,” she’d say, often putting the vinyl album of Our House on her old Studebaker just to prove her point.
We had arguments for days over Crosby, Stills, & Nash’s folk-rock versus The Doors’ poetic mix of rock-blues. It usually ended with me saying, “You don’t hate The Doors, Millie, you just dislike Jim Morrison and his history of weirdness.”
When I got older, I realized that Morrison’s drug habit hit a little too close to home for her, and my dad, Millie’s only child, was the one to blame for that. Comparing Laurel Canyon’s influence on my father’s life and my life is irony at its finest. Those hills pushed my father towards a life filled with risky behaviors that were ill-suited for children, whereas it cultivated my love for music and turned it into something beautiful. Music became an unstoppable passion, motivating me to go to college and eventually start a career as a record producer in L.A.
“Suck It and See,” Dylan says, grabbing my attention.
I look up from my current bin to see him glancing at my t-shirt.
A smile kisses his lips as green eyes meet mine. “Fantastic shirt. Great album.”
“Lindsay bought this for me a few years back, after seeing their show in New York. It was an ‘I’m sorry I went without you’ kind of gift.”
Long fingers tug at the end of my shirt. “If you weren’t so damn tiny, I’d steal it from you. Christ, I might steal it anyway.”
I laugh, picturing him trying to pull it over his masculine frame. “Britney Spears did make midriff baring tops all the rage back in the day, but I’m not sure this shirt could wrap around all those muscles you’re rocking.”
That didn’t sound very friendly, did it?
“Muscles, eh?�
� Dylan flashes a cocky grin. “Please, don’t stop on my account. I’m all ears, love. Tell me more about my muscles, specifically your take on them.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat on my cheeks. “I’m not humoring you with a response. You know you’re built like a brick shit house. Hell, I’m pretty sure you had groupies last night, and you weren’t even playing with your band.”
“I know that I like that shirt, but it has more to do with who’s wearing it than what band it represents. And I also know that those long ass legs of yours could drive a man towards insanity.”
I gently smack my hand across his lips. “You’re such a pervy bastard.”
He lips turn upward against my palm.
I release my hand, eyeing him with feigned annoyance. I’m not annoyed, far from it actually. My fingers resume their browsing, while I add, “And I agree about the album. Suck It and See is really good. Honestly, I’ve yet to hear an Arctic Monkeys album that I didn’t like.”
“Jesse is convinced our sound is kind of similar to their newest album, AM.”
My jaw drops. “Wow. I love what the Arctic Monkeys did with their sound on AM. It’s so different, yet still so them.”
He nods. “Bloody brilliant album.”
If the urge to find out more about his band wasn’t strong before, it sure as hell is now. Have you ever had a scratch inside your ear that you couldn’t reach? It just itches and itches and itches, and no matter what you do you can’t reach it. That’s exactly how I feel right now. I want to ignore the urge to ask him more questions about his band, but good Lord, it’s tough.
Dylan walks to another row, pulling a bin out of a glass cabinet. Curious, I watch him for a few seconds, but eventually, resume my search for vinyl treasures.
After a few minutes, he turns towards me, holding up an album. “Do you know this one?”
I stare at the psychedelic cover of Jimi Hendrix’s Axis: Bold as Love record. “Are you serious? Of course, I know that one!” I exclaim, striding over to him with quick paces. I grab it from his hands, running my fingers along the deliciously worn in cover. He chuckles when I hold it up to my nose and inhale deeply.
Forget (Changing Colors Book 1) Page 10