by Alix Nichols
This is it—the end.
“I’ll visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.
“No you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.
He didn’t argue.
Over the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.
And now look at her! How could she feel so content only two weeks after breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.
Lena looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share her high spirits with him.
When he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.
“So, how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.
“Fantastic. But then again, how could it be otherwise?”
“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese tourists?” he asked.
“I thought they were rather rich.”
“Poor as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”
Lena laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if you need help.”
Oh please, not again. Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All the good doctor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.
Anton took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”
“Dad, I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”
“Of course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you had the flu.”
All of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.
“I don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he said.
“I don’t need—” she started.
“I’m going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”
Anton didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that if she didn’t nip this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.
“Dad, I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
“Hmm.”
Lena chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”
Anton didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to Marta and Ivan’s.”
Thankfully, her mention of the family friends reminded Anton to give Lena their regards, after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.
“Ready to order, mademoiselle?”
She looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark, intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips. Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said hips.
She ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.
“No wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the black-aproned Adonis asked.
“It’s none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.
His question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for his snobbery.
She composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”
“So much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.” He smiled.
Was he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.
She had to figure out what to write to her mom.
~~~
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From “Under My Skin”
(Bistro La Bohème Series)
Feisty bartender Jeanne and geek-turned-hottie Mat cross paths at an engagement party, a baptism and a wedding... and miserably fail to keep their eyes and hands off each other.
But Mat is an ambitious politician running for mayor of his hometown and involved with an exquisite woman. He knows exactly where he wants to be five years from now.
Falling for Jeanne all over again is definitely NOT part of his plan.
~~~
A TALL WELL-DRESSED man entered the bistro, dripping rain and hotness. He stopped by the door and surveyed the room.
Must be looking for Rob.
Jeanne tried to peel her gaze off him and focus on the conversation around her. Easier said than done. Aside from his general attractiveness, the stranger was full of contrasts that mesmerized her.
He had long legs and narrow hips, yet his upper body was deliciously brawny. The poor fellow must have a hard time finding suits that fit. Speaking of suits, his was a sleek number cut from the finest, smoothest wool to grace La Bohème on her watch. The trendy jacket overlaid the lines of his V-shaped torso as if it were tailor-made. Which it probably was. On top of all that, his friendly, clean-shaven face sported a masculine nose and a firm jawline.
Just as the mysterious hunk turned to survey her side of the room, Rob approached him and gave him a big hug.
“I’m so glad you made it! It wouldn’t have been a proper engagement party without my best man.”
“It’s a matter of having one’s priorities straight,” the hunk said. “I told the boss I was leaving at five thirty, whether we were finished or not.”
His crooked smile sent a couple of Jeanne’s internal organs into a happy little somersault.
“That’s the spirit, man.” Rob grinned.
The stranger winked. “Having Mom as my boss does have its perks. Where’s Lena, by the way?”
“Fetching her folks. They should be here in half an hour.” Rob patted him on the shoulder. “Now, why don’t you give me your wet jacket and get yourself a drink. The party doesn’t officially begin until eight thirty, so you can chill and talk to the people you know.”
The hunk removed his jacket, uncovering an expensive-looking shirt—and a better view of his broad chest.
Jeanne swallowed. Was this guy real?
Rob took the wet garment from him and walked away. And then something weird happened. The hottie remained by the door instead of walking toward the guests or the bar. He looked around the room as if searching for someone—his gaze lingering on the females until it met Jeanne’s. He beamed and strode toward her, his eyes trained on her and full of warmth.
Does he know me? Do I know him?
It was downright impossible she would forget a stud of this caliber, even if she had met him during her wild teens.
“Hi, Jeanne. Don’t you remember me?” He was close enough for her to discern the hint of five-o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw.
“I’m sorry . . . Are you sure we’ve met?”
“Every day for almost two years.”
Righto.
She tilted her head to the side and sneered. “Next you’ll tell me I used to go out with you.”
“Unfortunately, you didn’t.” The dreamboat sounded genuinely sorry. “But it wasn’t for my lack of trying. I spent most of my money eating at this bistro just so I could see you.”
She gave him a puzzled look. Who was he?
“OK, you really don’t remember me.” He bowed ceremoniously. “Mathieu Gérard, also known as Mat. I’m a friend of Rob’s. We studied together here in Paris a few years back.”
“Mat?” There was no way this guy was Mat. “You can’t be him. Mat was . . . he was . . .”
“Nothing like me?” he prompted, the corners of his mouth twitching.
To put it mildly.
“Thin,” she finally said. “Anorexic thin. And his hair was like an explosion in a spaghetti factory, and he had these bulging eyes—”
“Ah, so you do remember me.” He smiled that crooked smile again. “I’m reassured because I often wondered if you’d even registered my existence.”
There was a sudden commotion at the entrance, and Jeanne turned in the direction of the noise, happy for the distraction so she wouldn’t have to react to Mat’s remark.
The bride and her family had arrived. The ambient music Jeanne had compiled for the occasion was no match to the decibels produced by Lena’s little half sisters. It was amazing how much noise a toddler and a baby could make.
“If you’ll excuse me,”—Jeanne stood—“I’ll go greet Lena and her tribe.”
“Of course,” Mat said. “I’ll do the same.”
After endless hellos, hugs, kisses, “pleased-to-meet-yous” and “how-are-yous,” everyone settled into small groups, chatting and sipping their predinner aperitifs.
“Jeanne took care of everything,” Lena told her dad. “I’m so lucky to have a professional restaurateur for a best friend!”
“This place is cozy,” Lena’s father said. “But I would’ve preferred to celebrate such an occasion at a more . . . upscale restaurant. If you and Rob had let me handle things, of course.”
“There’s no way Rob and I are celebrating our engagement anywhere else. This is where everything began, Dad.”
“Ah, oui?” Anton gave his daughter and her fiancé an amused look.
The exchange was interrupted by the chef, who peeked out of the kitchen and signaled he was ready to send in the first course.
His special menu turned out to be everything one could hope for.
Three hours later, the guests had finished their meals, downed an impressive amount of wine, and begun to order their petit café. Lena’s youngest sister was fast asleep and the older girl was nodding off in her chair.
“I apologize for what I said earlier this evening. The food is so good, I would’ve licked the plate if I were less inhibited,” Anton declared.
Whether because of the drinks, the amount of food or simply the fatigue, Jeanne began to feel sleepy and a little lightheaded, too.
“Who’s the DJ?” Lena’s stepmom, Anna, asked.
Jeanne raised her hand. “Me. Are you tired of this music?”
“It’s a great playlist. Perfect for the aperitifs and dinner.” Anna winked before adding, “And getting the girls to sleep. But now we need something we can dance to. I don’t know about France, but in Russia, a party isn’t a party without people dancing until they drop.”
“I thought it was more like drinking until they drop,” Jeanne said with a sly smile.
“That too,” the older woman agreed, unfazed. “So, do you mind if I play my dance list?”
“Be my guest.”
Lena’s dad carried the sleeping girls to the staff room where two portable cots had been set up. In the meantime, his wife changed the music and enlisted helpers to move some tables and chairs around for an improvised dance floor.
“I’m curious to hear Russian pop,” one of Rob’s friends said.
“It’s not only Russian and not only pop,” Anna countered. “I’ve got a nice mix of everything, including a couple of slow songs so we can catch our breath.”
At the first notes of the first slow song, Mat walked over to Jeanne, who was downing a big glass of water by the bar after a string of exhausting Latin dances.
“Shall we dance?” He offered his hand.
“Sure,” she said nonchalantly.
Yahoo! her body sang.
She put her hand in his, and he led her to the middle of the room. Lena and Rob were already on the dance floor, and so were Anton and Anna. Both couples held each other close, and Jeanne wondered if Mat would do the same.
When he went for the classical ballroom position, she exhaled in relief—or was it disappointment? They began to move to the music, sliding their feet on the floor tiles. He maintained a polite distance, and their bodies touched only in the prescribed places—his hand on her mid back, her hand on his shoulder, and his other hand holding hers. All very comme il faut. Except for the way Mat looked at her lips . . . and then at her chin, her neck, her bare shoulders, and her cleavage. And then at her lips again.
Had Jeanne been shy, she would have blushed and lowered her gaze, but as it was, she stared right back, feasting on his handsome features and savoring the effect she had on him. His light gray eyes darkened, burning into hers. His lips parted slightly, and his chest heaved as if he’d been running.
And all at once, the pressure of his hand against her back and the soft grasp of his other hand felt intimate—a motionless caress that raised hairs on her body. In some spectacular trick of Jeanne’s mind, everyone except Mat vanished, leaving them alone, weightless, outside time and space. When she caught a whiff of his musky male scent that his cologne could no longer contain, her hand shot up from his shoulder and cupped the back of his head. She took a tiny step closer.
Then she moistened her lips and whispered, “Kiss me.”
* * *
The music stopped, breaking the spell. As they held each other for a few more seconds, Mat looked at her with a mixture of regret and relief. Jeanne could definitely understand the regret, but why the relief? Hadn’t he been the one who ogled her during the dance?
She pulled her hand from his. “All good things must come to an end, I guess.”
He gave her a funny look. “I need a drink. What about you?”
“I’ve had too many already . . . Oh well, one more won’t make a difference. Your table or mine?”
He threw a quick look at both. “Definitely mine. We still have a bottle of that terrific Château-Grillet.”
“So, what do you do for a living these days?” she asked, filling their glasses.
“I work for my mother’s PR company, and I’m the Green candidate for mayor of Baleville.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“My home town in Normandy,” he explained.
“Green, huh?” Jeanne raised her glass. “Here’s to your success. Is it looking good?”
He touched his glass to hers. “Fifty-fifty. I need to work hard over the next months to convince the good citi
zens of Baleville that my youth is an asset rather than a handicap.”
“You have a good team?”
He smiled. “I’m not running for president, remember? The regional Greens are helping as much as they can, but I’m basically on my own.”
“What, not even a private chauffeur for the future mayor?” She tut-tutted. “Where is this country going?”
“Well, my biggest helper—and mentor—is my girlfriend. She’s an environmental litigation lawyer, a great strategist, and a perfectionist to boot.”
Ah. Now she understood why he’d been relieved when the music stopped.
He continued. “Cécile is my Pygmalion.”
“No less?”
“I’m not exaggerating. She’s molding me into a winner. She corrects my speeches, picks my suits . . . I couldn’t do this without her.”
“Why isn’t she here?” Jeanne asked.
“She had to prepare for a court case she’s pleading on Monday.”
Jeanne took a big gulp of wine and closed her eyes to savor it. “Oh yeah, it is good. I’m glad I insisted on Château-Grillet over Rob’s choice.”
“Rob is from Jura, remember?” Mat swept his hand in a need-I-say-more gesture.
“Why, the region has a couple of excellent—”
“Cheeses,” he cut in. “They may know a thing or two about cheese over there, but not much about wine.”
“Whereas in Normandy, I’m told, wine education begins in the nursery.” Jeanne gave him a wink. “Jokes aside, you’re discerning for a green politician.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment, coming from a professional waitress.”
“I’m no longer a waitress,” she said.
“What are you then?”
“A barista by day and bartender by night. Oh, and bit of a sommelier, too.”
“Wow—a one-woman band. Sounds like you’re working double shifts.”
“On most days.” She emptied her glass. “I’m hoping to take this place over when Pierre retires.”
“More?” He asked, and after her nod, refilled both their glasses. “I remember him. An easygoing chap with a beer belly, right?”
She nodded.
“What about the headwaiter?” he asked.