Jezebel

by K Larsen

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  “What exactly would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Celeste laughed at his quick and precise answer. He was so . . . cocky, and assured. It set her on edge a bit, but also piqued her interest in him. Surely he wasn’t like this all the time?

  Smiling and working hard to swallow her laughter, “Hmm,” she hummed as she tapped a finger against her temple.

  “Okay, okay. How about, where are you from? What was your childhood like?” he asked.

  Celeste frowned at his questions. As a young girl she was always sick, or at least, that’s what she could recall. From the age of five until she turned ten, she was in and out of hospitals. Test, after test, after test. Nothing was ever confirmed to be wrong. Everything within her appeared to be in proper, working order. Still, the headaches, stomachaches, and bouts of nausea persisted. Her parents had held her hand through it all. Her mother’s warm hugs had eased her fears and comforted her. Her father’s happy, crinkled-at-the-edges eyes had assured her that everything would be all right. And it mostly was. Homeschooled through the fifth grade, Celeste had been nervous her first day of middle school.

  “My childhood was . . . boring, actually. I was sick a lot, so I didn’t get the traditional childhood. There weren’t many skinned knees or outdoor games. I was homeschooled until sixth grade.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she answered.

  “Sick how?” He questioned.

  Celeste sighed. It wasn’t often she opened up and told people about her health. They always seemed to look at her differently somehow afterward and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go there with Gabriel.

  “Cyclic vomiting syndrome. Or CVS,” she told him. “The cause of CVS is unknown.”

  It was a rare disorder that offered recurrent episodes of severe nausea and vomiting that could last for a few hours to several days. That was how her childhood was spent. The kicker was those episodes were followed by a period of time free of any symptoms, giving the illusion that she was better. She never was. And the nausea and vomiting were severe enough to be incapacitating when they hit. She was pale, lacked energy, had abdominal pain and headaches much of her childhood. As she grew older, she outgrew the frequent episodes, but every so often one crept up on her and struck again.

  “Are you cured?” he asked, head cocked sideways.

  “No,” she stifled a snort and tried to relax a little. “As an adult, the episodes occur less frequently, but sometimes last longer. It’s not contagious or anything, so you don’t have to worry.” Her joke fell flat. Gabriel’s face fell.

  “Celeste . . .” He reached across the table for her hand. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what a loaded question I was asking when I brought up your childhood.”

  She shook her head. “It’s all right. It’s just not the most cheery subject.”

  “How’d you end up in France? You’re American, aren’t you?” he asked as he released her hand and leaned back in his chair.

  “Yes. My father was starting up FogPharm and there was interest in their work by French officials. Basically, as I understand it, they made him an offer he couldn’t refuse to open up shop here instead of in the U.S.” Celeste tilted her head and smiled. “What about you, Gabriel?”

  “Ahh, tu connais la musique,” You know the routine, he said. “I grew up here in France, in a little town north of here. My parents broke their backs working to get me into college. I’m smart. I made the most of it and turns out, I’m pretty gifted in biochemistry to boot. Now I’m just part of métro, boulot, dodo.” The rat race. Celeste scoffed at his term. Hardly. The man across from her was sought after. Pursued for his potential. He was being overly modest about his life. Celeste laughed at his description and took another sip of her coffee.

  “Somehow, I doubt you’ll ever be part of the rat race.” She smiled. “Siblings?”

  “I had a brother. He died when I was five.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” She felt guilty for bringing it up. Celeste was terrible at first dates. She always felt awkward and unsure of herself.

  “It’s alright. I was small and it was so long ago.” Gabriel sighed and rested his forearms on the table. She reached out and patted his hand in comfort. They finished their pastries in a comfortable silence.

  “On y va ?” Shall we go? She gave him a blithe smile.

  Gabriel stood and reached for her hand. With the coffee fueling her and Gabriel’s touch warming her, she felt she could conquer anything.

  She smiled up at him. “Oui.” She squeezed his hand. With a tug and a quick step forward, they exited the café.

  “C’est parti.” Here we go.

  She loved listening to him speak French. It was hot. If she were bolder, she’d tell him as much . . . but she wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

  “Yes, here we go,” she echoed as she fell in step with him.

  “Celeste,” he said, “loosen up, this isn’t a job interview.” His smile was broad and content. She inhaled a deep breath and slowly let it out. How was it that he could read her so well?

  “I’m not really that great at this,” she admitted.

  “At what? Walking?” he asked, smirking. She felt her eyebrows knit together in confusion for a moment before realization hit her; he was making a joke.

  Laughter bubbled up and left her mouth in a great burst of noise. “I’m terrible at walking.”

  “Maybe I should carry you, you know, so it’s less awkward for you.” He chuckled.

  Her eyes grew wide at his response and she shook her head. His laugh was deep and masculine. It did funny things to her belly.

  In a quick motion, he bent, scooped her up—one hand under her knees and one wrapped around her back. She squealed at the suddenness of it, causing him to laugh harder. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Their faces were inches apart. His breath hit her collarbone, sending shivers through her as their laughter faded away and silence swept in.

  To say that he was handsome was skirting close to an understatement. Their breathing fell in sync, the way the incoming tide kisses the shoreline, the waves lifting and falling until they become a familiar rhythm.

  “Celeste.” Her name sounded like a wish each and every time it left his lips. She wanted to capture the moment in a jar and keep it locked away, so fifty years from now, she could take it out and turn it over in her hands, re-live the lust-struck heat that currently steeped her body.

  Lips: barely touching.

  Fingers: tracing soft skin.

  Eyes: flickering with hot desire.

  She couldn’t pull away if she tried. She was captivated.

  His breath, hot along her collarbone, made her feel as though she was slowly melting into a pool of sweet caramel. He leaned in just slightly. She inhaled. Their lips met. Moved together. She floated away into the pink hued sky. His tongue burned like the sun colliding with the earth as he pushed deeper. Her fingers gripped his neck tightly, desperate to hold on to the moment. He withdrew slowly and placed a tender kiss at her collarbone before setting her feet to the ground. She felt incoherent.

  What was that? How could a man claim her with just three kisses? She felt owned. Wrapped up and presented to him as a gift. It was reckless, unlike her in so many ways. Yet, she couldn’t—and if she were being honest with herself—didn’t want to fight it.

  They resumed their walk. “I love that you blush,” he said eyes rooted on her face. Celeste felt her cheeks heat more at his words. “What were you thinking about just now?”

  She thought for a moment, wanting to tell him anything but the truth, only before she could form a respectable answer words tumbled from her mouth. “I want to have a completely adventurous, passionate, wild life.”

  Gabriel stood stock still and took her in. Every second that passed as he stood there not saying a word made Celeste want to crawl inside a deep dark hole to hi
de from embarrassment. She’d only ever discussed her longings with Matteo and Mara.

  “I think we can arrange that. Don’t you?” he finally said. She angled her head up to see his face. “You’re really something, you know that?”

  “I am?” she questioned.

  Gabriel gazed down at her. “You are,” he stated. “I want to get inside your head, figure everything out, know every little bit that makes you tick. You’re so intriguing, yet you don’t see it, so beautiful, yet you choose not to acknowledge it. Why is that?”

  Celeste’s jaw dropped. She recovered quickly, but she was sure her shock was evident on her face. Her normally cool composure shot to hell. She shrugged. She had no words to give him as she thought about his statement. She didn’t feel intriguing. She also didn’t feel that her beauty was something to acknowledge or not. It had never occurred to her that perhaps she came off as meek. Gabriel’s words resonated with her. She found herself wanting him to forever feel the need to dissect her, to keep his interest.

  Parc des Buttes Chaumont has been referred to as the most romantic public park in all of Paris. A calm mood settled over Celeste as they explored the romantic touches of the park. Waterfalls, a grotto, a lake, and a folly—the Temple of Sybil—on top of a cliff with views of Montmartre in the distance. They talked. Really talked. She learned of his schooling, his job prospects, and hobbies. It turned out he was an excellent whistler. The tune he carried amazed her. She’d never heard anyone whistle with such precision, clarity and musicality. The conversation flowed. It was open and honest and fun. And she found that he listened . . . really listened, when she spoke. She knew she probably bored him when she went on and on about her passion for plants and flowers, yet he smiled, asked questions and always at least feigned interest. They stopped at a street cart and ordered food after more than two hours exploring the park.

  She watched as he sunk to his knees in the grass and unwrapped their food. She was starving, the breakfast they ate long ago digested with all their walking. She sat down next to him and folded her legs underneath her.

  “What’s that one?” he asked, pointing to a flowering plant ahead of them.

  Celeste smiled. He was, at the very least, trying and it made her chest tighten with happiness. She drew in a breath and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “That’s a bleeding heart. It’s a perennial. Named as such because the blooms hang like a drop from the red petals and its shape suggests the bleeding heart image. Gardeners often tell stories and legends about its meaning, actually.”

  “Legends? About a plant?” he asked wearing a skeptical expression.

  “Yes! Flowers, well a lot of them anyway, have different symbolic meanings.”

  “Go on,” he urged before sinking his teeth into his sandwich.

  “Well that one”—she nodded toward the bleeding heart flower “—is sometimes called a Spurned Suitor. Gardeners will hold up a bloom and tell a story as they peel away parts of the flower.” Raising a finger, she signaled him to wait and then jumped up, jogged to the flower and pulled off a blossom before bringing it back and sitting next to him again. “The removal of the red petals shows the presentation of pink bunnies to a princess by a prince who is courting her.”

  “Very scientific,” he said and grinned.

  “Ah, but she is unimpressed, the princess, so he removes two white petals as flashy jewelry.” Gabriel’s eyes pinned her to her spot. He nodded, waiting for her to continue. “She is still unimpressed.” Celeste removed more of the petals. “So the prince reveals a heart-shaped center with a line. The line is the dagger with which he stabs himself in his despair and the princess declares that her heart shall bleed forever.”

  Gabriel watched her as she set the destroyed flower down. Celeste picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It made her salivate. She hadn’t realized exactly how hungry she was. Of course, it was delectable.

  “That is seriously the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.” The deep timbre to his voice sent an eruption of shivers down her spine.

  Cutting her eyes to him, she noted his serious demeanor. Covering her mouth, she laughed. “Yes, I guess it is. But just because something has a hidden meaning, doesn’t guarantee it will be a good one.”

  “You’re awfully smart, Ms. Fogarty. There are no guarantees in life, that’s for sure.” He nodded. “What about those there? The tulips.” He pointed to a grouping of red tulips.

  “Red tulips are mostly associated with true love, and purple symbolizes royalty,” she answered. Celeste could get lost in gardens and flowers and plants. She loved the calmness that came with digging in the dirt, planting, and watching seeds grow and transform into something beautiful.

  Gabriel’s head swiveled around taking in all the enchanting scenery around them. “Hmm, I never thought so much about flowers before.” He smiled. And damn it was beautiful.

  Celeste giggled as they continued to eat their lunch. “I think flowers are redeeming.”

  “How so?” he questioned.

  “Every flower grows through dirt first. Beauty comes from filth. It makes you think.”

  “You make me think.” He cocked his head.

  He licked his lips as he thought. She stole her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring at his mouth. “About what?”

  “Everything. Your passion, especially within your element, is astounding. Your eyes crinkle in this sexy little way when you smirk. Your lips turn up just slightly when you’re nervous. I could listen to you talk all day, Celeste.” He brushed a flyaway strand of hair from her face. “I could watch your reactions for a lifetime.”

  Celeste felt the heat warm her chest and cheeks. “That’s quite the compliment. Thank you, Gabriel.” She looked at the blades of grass swaying gently with the breeze.

  “Don’t ever thank me,” he stated.

  “But . . .”

  “I don’t deserve thanks for telling the truth. Just hear it. Listen to my words and be honest with me in return.”

  Celeste thought about this before nodding. “Okay.” She liked Gabriel more and more as the day wore on. He, too, was passionate, quick-witted and fun to be around. More than that, her body reacted to him physically. She hoped that after today he’d call again.

  When they’d finished eating, Gabriel laid back on the grass, staring at the bright sky above. She followed suit. He pulled Celeste into the crook of his arm. Their sides touched from shoulder to ankle. After a moment, she relaxed into him. He rolled slightly toward her and cupped her jaw.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?” The pad of his thumb grazed her cheek. “Inside and out.”

  He kissed her then. His lips warm on hers. Her hand spread across his cheek. She wanted to freeze the moment in time—the feeling of him pressed against her. The scent of him. He made her weak in the knees, he made it hard to breathe, and he made her heart strike at a furious rate.

  His large hand cupped her jaw softly. The blue sky was clear and bright. His tongue, delectable like a mouthwatering piece of chocolate, claimed her mouth and neck. The late spring breeze and the scent of the flowers washed over them. Caught up in her overloaded senses the thought that there was never a moment more perfect than this one flitted through her mind.

  Chapter 5

  Annabelle

  “My pride, my light, my energy. My sight to see my way.”

  ~ L’ame Immortelle—Betrayal

  Annabelle watched Jezebel closely in silence. She’d stopped speaking moments ago but was lost in her mind somewhere. She coughed to get her attention.

  “Oh!” Jezebel squeaked placing a hand over her heart.

  “Hi.” Annabelle laughed.

  Jezebel cleared her throat. “Where was I?”

  “Their fourth kiss. You know, Celeste is a little slutty. Four kisses in like two days with an almost stranger?” she jabbed playfully.

  Jezebel laughed hard at her remark. “Maybe you’re right sport, or maybe she was just a love-struck fool. Love at first sight and al
l.”

  Annabelle huffed. “I don’t believe in that.”

  “Well tell me then, what drew you to your boyfriend?” Her question startled her. She’d never really given much thought to why she and Damon were together.

  She shrugged. “He was there. Available and nice to me.”

  “That my dear is the saddest answer I’ve ever heard. EVER.” Jezebel stated emphatically.

  Annabelle twisted in her chair. Who cared? They weren’t getting married. “We aren’t serious really. I mean, I like him and all but I’m eighteen, we’re not going to get married.”

  “How do you know?” Jezebel pressed, wide-eyed.

  “Because . . .”

  “Because,” Jezebel cut in, “you wouldn’t say yes if he asked. And why wouldn’t you? Because you don’t love him.”

  “No.” she stated firmly. “I do love him. He’s a good guy.”

  Jezebel looked skeptical, searching Annabelle’s eyes, her expression, for anything she could grab onto. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Why are you picking a fight with me? I was just starting to like you,” Annabelle huffed.

  Jezebel raised her eyebrows and waited. It made Annabelle anxious, the way this woman seemed to pull information from her. Impatience flickered on her face.

  “I don’t know okay! I don’t know if I love him. I don’t know what love is.” she blurted sounding more hysterical than she intended. Jezebel’s face twitched and Annabelle sensed the woman found her temper amusing.

  But Jezebel frowned at her. “Love is easy. You will know it when you have it.”

  “Why do people say that? It’s a lame excuse for: no one’s really sure what love is supposed to be or feel like.” Annabelle looked away and wrinkled her nose. Love was an elusive bastard. If family love couldn’t sustain over time how were two strangers supposed to?

  “I didn’t realize you needed someone to spell it out for you. Let me.” Jezebel let her head sag against the back of the chair for a moment deep in thought. Annabelle watched and waited. She started humming a cheery tune; she was interested in what Jezebel would say but she didn’t want a boilerplate definition of love.