“Oui! It is just you who are odd! Such a man, and you let him walk away,” Yvette harangued as she tapped a finger to her own head, questioning my intelligence.
I defended myself. “I was confused. I kept expecting Trinity or Agent Smith to show up. It was definitely an alternate universe.” Not true. I was instantly and overwhelmingly attracted to him, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in quite some time.
Somehow, this segued into a lengthy bashing of the American triumvirate: politics, arrogance, and obesity. Having had enough, I trumped them. “We gave the world motion pictures and George Clooney! No one beats that. Keep your Jean de Florette!” I looked at my watch and decided to make my exit. “I’ll see you at Bethany Halvorsen’s show, right?”
“Absolutely,” they said in unison.
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when I contemplated Bethany’s show. Six days from now, it will all be over!
I tossed a handful of euros on the table, gave each a kiss on both cheeks, and escaped into the night.
Wandering along the Seine, I crossed a bridge and walked alongside the Tuileries, making my way northeast to the sanctuary of my mangled apartment.
Le Delly
The tenth arrondissement, Enclos-St-Laurent, was, my estate agent assured me, an up-and-coming neighborhood. Having lived there just shy of six weeks, I was slowly becoming enamored. Plenty of shops on Rue de Paradis and interesting towpaths to wander along the Quais de Valmy and Canal St-Martin provided abundant distraction.
It was along Canal St-Martin that I slowly made my way home. From time to time, I stopped to gaze in shop windows and let myself be distracted by people swirling about me. The great thing about meandering: it gave a girl time to ponder thoughts that needed to be thunk. Mikkel had been on my mind a lot lately. Guilt. I hadn’t registered the anniversary of his death for the first time in seven years. Instead, I had been on a beach in Bali. As I walked along, the Frenchman from the restaurant who, upon closer reflection, looked nothing like Keanu Reeves, popped into my head, causing me to feel worse. He had left me tongue-tied.
Usually soothed by the visual rhythm of trees, streetlights, and benches alongside the canal or the open-topped canal boats, festive with twinkly lights, I felt the need to go somewhere populated, somewhere I could be distracted. I had stopped in Le Delly a time or two with friends, and the bartenders were friendly. Can I go there alone? I’d never done it before, but I wanted the company of strangers.
I soon found myself sitting on a red barstool, snugged between the wall and the bar. The guy next to me was busily chatting up a woman, so I was safe. I ordered a Stinger and received a funny look from the bartender. I looked up the recipe on my phone and gave him the proportions of Cognac, Campari, and maple syrup. The conversation around me was happy and distracting. I eavesdropped on the conversation beside me, and it was clear the guy was pulling out all his best lines. The object of his desire was slowly leaning into him, batting her eyelashes. By the time I had consumed a couple of drinks, he had successfully slid his stool much closer to hers. I found myself grinning idiotically at their happiness.
“May I buy you another?”
A finger pointed at my empty glass. Christ, when had I finished it? I raised my gaze to the finger’s owner. Keanu. “Well, this is odd.” Smooth opening line! I was about to decline when he raised two fingers to the barkeeper.
“It is. For many reasons.”
“So what brings you here?” I flinched at the utter triteness of my question.
He grinned in response. “I’m new to the neighborhood. I heard this was a good place, so…”
“This is gonna sound strange, but I just moved here, too.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. Otherwise, one of us is stalking the other, and I’m not stalking you. Are you stalking me?”
The drinks arrived, interrupting him before he answered me.
“May I?” The couple beside me had disappeared, leaving their barstools free.
“Sure.”
I really didn’t want or need another drink, but it felt rude not to accept it. I took a small sip, but when I tried to put it on the coaster resting on the bar, it proved challenging. A clear sign I was getting drunk or was drunk already. “What do you think?” I waved my arm around the room, accidentally hitting the shoulder of the man sitting at the table near me. “Sorry,” I apologized.
“American?”
“What?” I searched the room, looking for what he was talking about.
“You’re American.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You spoke in English.”
Embarrassed by my unnecessary search, I blushed while I said, “That would do it!”
When he eyed me from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes, I laughed nervously. I hadn’t been so blatantly checked out in a long time. The alcohol helped me keep eye contact. I liked his dark brown eyes, which crinkled in the corners. I was instantly convinced he smiled often.
“My friend thought you look like Keanu Reeves.” Drunk!
“I am sorry to disappoint you. I am Sébastien Langevin, not the American actor. But I am flattered.”
Taking in not only his good looks but also his very expensive suit, I appreciated that, while he looked sophisticated, he easily fit this casual world. I heard him ask if I was disappointed he wasn’t either as I stared at him. “No. Not disappointed at all.” I drank a healthy gulp and tried to hide a burp behind my hand, but he noticed and grinned at me.
“Mademoiselle, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Kathleen Ehlers.”
“Enchanté.”
“So, Monsieur Langevin… I believe I am drunk.”
“It would seem so.”
“I need the toilet.”
He stood up suddenly, gallantly helping me get there. It occurred to me that he thought I was going to get sick. I reassured him that wasn’t the case and that he and his nice suit were safe. He thanked me for my candor, which made me immediately regret my honesty. “Sorry.”
He pushed the door open for me and gently nudged me in. “I’ll wait for you at the bar.”
“You will?”
***
The lapel of his cashmere coat felt so soft under my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
He stroked my hair back from my face. “Mademoiselle, do not apologize. At least you didn’t get sick.”
I smiled at his effort to make me feel better. On the walk to my apartment, I had told him about Mikkel and my feelings of guilt. I knew I should move away from him and go inside, but my head was spinning, and I was embarrassed at having barfed my emotional baggage all over his designer shoes.
“Remember, a shot of olive oil, two aspirin, and two large glasses of water.”
“Sounds like an awful cocktail.”
He chuckled at my juvenile attempt at humor. The vibration through his coat sounded nice.
“All right. I’ll let go. The world has stopped spinning.” I took a step back. “Thanks for making sure I got home safely… and for listening. I hope I wasn’t too obnoxious.”
He tucked some loose hair behind my ear. “Not at all, Kathleen. I hope to see you again.”
Knowing when to take an exit, I pushed open the door to my building and waved. “It’s a small neighborhood. I hope so, too.”
1:30 PM, Sunday, September 20
Du Pain et Des Idées
WHEN I MANAGED to peel my eyes open, I prayed my head would explode, nullifying the agony that ricocheted from eyeballs to toenails. Christ! How much did I have to drink? Keeping my eyes squinted against the piercing rays of sunlight, I searched my nightstand and found the clock. 1:30.
What the hell? A bottle of olive oil was there, too, beside a large glass of water. The time it took for my eyes to shift between the oil and water was the amount of time it took for me to remember sharing my secrets with Sébastien. Oh my god! I’d never told anyone. Why?
I was lost in thou
ght, trying to answer “why,” when the doorbell rang. Now what? I threw back the goose down duvet, and cold air hit my skin. When the buzzer rang again, I’d managed to plant my feet on the floor and survived. When the buzzer rang again, I had made it upright. “All right, all right, I’m coming,” I called to the unknown person three stories below. “Yes?” I groused, after finally finding the intercom button.
“It’s Sébastien.”
I slumped away from the intercom, letting go of the button. “What the hell is he doing here?” Pushing the button, I sought an answer. “Yes?”
A deep chuckle rang throughout my apartment. “You don’t remember asking me to come over, do you?”
My parched mouth, my gritty eyes, and my rollicking stomach were taking up too much of my attention for me to search my memory. “Sorry. No. Come on up. I’ll leave the door open. Third floor. Enter at your own risk!”
I released the button and set about shuffling down the hallway to the bathroom. Halfway there, I realized I had forgotten to open the door. I shuffled back and pushed open the oversized front door. It, too, was in desperate need of refinishing. I made my way to the bedroom to grab my robe and crack open the window.
In the bathroom, while simultaneously scrubbing my teeth and gagging, I heard his deep voice call out, “Kathleen?”
“In the bathroom, I’ll be out in a minute. Sorry I’m late.” Late for what? I ran through as much as I could remember from the night before while I splashed cold water on my face—trying to revive myself—and brushed my hair, before throwing on my robe. I didn’t normally greet men like this, but whatever.
Timidly, I opened the door and walked around the corner to find him leaning against the window frame, looking out to the street below. Seeing my apartment through someone else’s eyes, in this state, was uncomfortable. Fortunately, dealing with my hangover distracted me from that. I cleared my throat to let him know I was there. Turning around, he threw a sympathetic look my way. “How are you feeling?”
“Awful. Thank you for helping me get home last night.”
He walked toward me slowly. “My first chance at rescuing a damsel in distress in quite some time.” He took my hands and inspected me closely. “Have you had any water?”
I went to shake my head, but that set me off balance, and I found myself grateful he was there to keep me upright. He looked around my chaotic apartment and searched for a place for me to sit.
I pointed to an odd-shaped heap under a paint-splattered drop cloth. “Dining room chairs.” He unearthed one and set me on it before going to get me water. It was only after I had drained two glasses that he relented.
“I don’t mean to sound rude, especially given how kind you’ve been to me in the last twenty-four hours, but why are you here?”
“You asked me to help sort out your apartment.” When my mouth shot open to apologize, he waved me off. “Don’t worry, I was fairly convinced you wouldn’t remember, but since I didn’t have your phone number, I didn’t want to risk not showing up, in case you did remember.”
I nodded. “Thanks. Sorry! I’m generally not this much of a mess.” I pressed my palm to my forehead, willing the pounding to disappear.
“You need some time to recover. I’ll go and come back to help later,” he offered.
Shaking my head, I looked up at him and, amidst the nausea, found myself realizing he was so much more handsome than I remembered. His dark brown hair was brushed back off his forehead, gentle waves threatening to flop forward at any moment. Every inch of his face, from his smooth, broad forehead to his square jawline, begged to be kissed. I found myself wondering what it would feel like to trail my fingertips over the planes of his face, the thick line of eyelashes, his dense stubble. I was so lost in staring at him that it took him clearing his throat for me to realize what I was doing. I felt myself blush, and heat began rolling off my body. “Sorry!” I eeked. In my embarrassment, I struggled to my feet. I needed reprieve. And to get dressed.
He spoke to my retreating back. “I could go and get something to eat and bring it back.”
Though my stomach revolted, I knew food would help. I thanked him. “That would be nice. Anything would be fine.”
***
When he returned with a bag and two coffees, I was dressed and feeling a little better. “Where did you get these?” He pulled a delectable assortment of pastries out of the bag. All the boulangerie’s I knew were closed on Sunday.
“I bought them yesterday, from Du Pain et Des Idées, a boulangerie not too far from here. Have you been?” I shook my head while eyeing a raspberry-filled mouna.
With coffee and pastries in hand, we dragged chairs in front of the living room windows. At first, I felt awkward, but he seemed relaxed, so I perched my feet on the windowsill, letting the late summer sun wrap me up in its warm rays. He scooted his chair closer to mine, so we shared a puddle of sunlight but didn’t say a word. We just sat eating in companionable silence.
Feeling revived, I looked around my apartment. “As you can see, there’s a lot to be done. Are you sure you want to help?”
He surveyed the scaffolding erected between the kitchen and living room, paint cans of varying color stacked neatly next to it, the partially removed wallpaper in the hall that led to the bedrooms, and the piles of drop cloths and tools.
Instead of answering, he asked, “This is what you do for fun? One too many men stepped on your feet while dancing?”
“Something like that.” I smiled at the image. “Would you like a tour? Frankly, most rooms are a mess.”
“I would, and you can tell me your plans.”
“Well, that’s part of the problem. My creative well has dried up. I want to try something new. What, though? I have no idea.”
He followed me as I led the way to my bedroom, the furthest point from the front door and the most reasonable place to start. It was unconsciously done, and the moment we stood inside the intimate domain that smelled of sleep, I wondered what he might be thinking.
The room was the palest lavender. I hesitatingly explained, “The color reminds me of unopened flower buds in the lavender fields outside Aix-en-Provence.”
I watched him take in the space. To me, it was an utterly feminine room—my rumpled bedding, my delicately embroidered white nightgown and blue bathrobe hanging on a silver hook behind the door. He looked so masculine standing inside it.
He cleared his throat and walked to the silver-framed photographs scattered across the top of my chest of drawers. He squatted down and ran his hand over the surface. “Shells?”
“Yes! I bought it in a shop just a few streets over. I loved the texture.”
Rising, he picked up a framed photograph of me and my mother, taken the day I graduated from Oxford. “You look just like her, except your mouth. Your father’s?”
“I suppose.”
I walked out of the room, hoping he’d follow, and pushed open the door to the second bedroom. My closet. My pride and joy. A room carefully organized with racks of clothes, shoes, and accessories.
He was stunned at first and then declared, “Every woman’s dream.”
As he peeked in the room, I thought, He certainly is.
When his eyes landed on my lingering stare, I felt my cheeks flush as I quickly averted my focus. That’s twice he’s caught me staring. You’re not twelve, Kathleen. “I think I can move furniture around, if you’re still willing.”
“Absolutely. Where else could I possibly wish to be?”
There was an intensity in his eyes that caused me to blush a third time. I wouldn’t say that I prided myself on being aloof, but that is more my normal state of being, so having my feathers ruffled three times in such a short time was an odd experience for me. He was definitely affecting my libido, which again was not something normal for me. I wanted to walk up to him and wrap myself around him, experience the sensation of molding my body to his. I wanted to walk up to him and kiss him. Instead, I took a deep breath and led the way to the wreckage
that was my living room.
***
While I swept the floors, he began removing the drop cloths from the furniture. We created a seating area first. For fun, I threw a paint-splattered drop cloth on the floor in the middle of the living room, and then we placed a large rustic wooden coffee table on top of it. On either side, we placed my two white leather couches with glass cubes for end tables.
Stepping back, we surveyed the space. He asked, “Where do you find these pieces? Very creative idea. I like it.”
I admitted my passion for repurposing furniture. “Well, the cubes came from an old nightclub that was being gutted in Montmartre. The coffee table I bought when I was in Provence. Someone was having an estate sale. I like treasure hunting. My couches, I bought those at France Canapé Marais, with my first paycheck.”
“Eclectic! It is very much you. Fantastique!” He squeezed my shoulder and gave me warm smile.
“I think those blobs over there are lamps. Would you mind pulling out a few while I try to hide this mess?” I pointed at a stack of paint cans.
“Of course.”
I began building a buffet area with some wood planks and saw horses. I tucked the paint cans underneath and threw another clean drop cloth over the top.
“Are you expecting guests?”
I nodded. “Old friends from college will be in town next week. A chance to catch up.”
“Perhaps you will invite the hired help another time?” His interest in returning made my heart flip.
Grinning, I answered, “Absolutely.” I began tugging tarps off the dining room table.
He rushed over. “Let me help.”
A lump in my throat suddenly appeared. I felt emotionally overwhelmed by the fact that I wanted him here, that I wanted to, carefully, open myself to something beyond work and relationships. I swallowed hard, pushing the lump down.
Together, we lifted the wrought iron table base and centered it under the hideously ugly ceiling lamp. He looked at the circular tabletop I’d built out of refinished floor boards and raised an eyebrow. “Clever.”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 4