Kissed in Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  Julien stepped back, separating our heated bodies, then wiped his brow with his forearm revealing a wrinkle of frustration. “No, I am the one who should be sorry.”

  He turned on his heel, but stopped and rushed back up to me. “No, I take it back. I am not sorry. I know I have made mistakes in the past. For many years I lived my life as a dishonest person. But this is the one thing in my life I am not sorry for. I’m not sorry for kissing you in the hotel when I first saw you, for spending all of these days with you, for dancing with you and for kissing you tonight. There is nothing to be sorry for when what I feel is real. When you make me feel things I have never felt for any other woman.”

  I stood with my lips parted, unable to speak, unable to move. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. Not even Paul.

  “So just answer the question,” he said. “Do you love him?’

  I wanted to tell him that yes, I loved my fiancé. And that kissing Julien earlier tonight and letting myself get carried away again just now was all just a big mistake. A fling we would both forget about as soon as I stepped foot on the train the next morning and left France for good.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  “I’m going home tomorrow. I don’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” he said.

  “What? You want me to cancel my wedding? To break up with the man I’ve been with for eight years for someone I’ve only known for a couple of days? For someone who has spent the majority of his life lying and stealing from people to make a living?” I regretted the words as soon as they’d left my lips. Julien wasn’t that person anymore, and I knew that. But it didn’t matter. I was engaged, and I was going home. I couldn’t consider whatever it was Julien wanted to me do.

  I forced myself to keep the coldness in my eyes, even though inside I was crumbling.

  “I love Paul,” I said, my voice shaking. “And I’m marrying him this weekend.”

  Julien flinched, his eyes searching mine.

  But when I held firm and didn’t take back what I’d just said, Julien’s brown gaze turned bitter, the corners of his mouth falling.

  “Fine,” he said. He turned his back to me, leaving me alone amongst the vines, my hands trembling, blood coursing through my veins.

  And as I watched his broad shoulders disappear from under the moonlight, I realized that Julien was right.

  I did have a choice.

  I just hoped I was making the right one.

  Twenty-two

  I woke alone in Julien’s bed the next morning. I’d lain awake for what felt like hours the night before, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the things Julien had said to me, about my mother, about Paul. Hoping that when I arrived home, I would forget about everything that had happened at the vineyard, be able to salvage my engagement, and move on with the life I’d always planned for.

  But as I climbed out of bed, my head throbbing from all the wine—and from all the drama—the day before, my stomach dropped as soon as I noticed that Julien’s side of the bed still hadn’t been touched.

  I headed toward the shower, determined to wash off Julien’s intoxicating scent, which still lingered on my skin, a reminder of his touch . . . and of how I’d enjoyed it. And as I stood underneath the stream of steaming hot water, I closed my eyes and told myself that I was making the right choice. That Paul was the man I loved. That marrying him and keeping my life plan intact was the right thing to do. I just had to get through one last car ride with Julien, and then I would be free of everything that had happened over the past few days.

  And relief would surely come after I said goodbye to Julien for good.

  After toweling off, changing into the clothes Julien had bought for me, and using his thin black comb to work through my long, wavy hair, I opened the bathroom door to find Julien sitting shirtless on his bed, slamming his cell phone shut and mumbling furiously under his breath.

  When we met eyes, he clamped his mouth shut, a heavy silence settling between us in the small bedroom. The passionate spark in his eyes had disappeared. All that remained was anger.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, immediately realizing what a stupid question that was. Of course things weren’t okay. He probably wished I would walk the thirty miles to the train station so he didn’t have to look at me for another second.

  He stood and threw the phone onto the desk so hard I was surprised it didn’t break. “Yes, everything is fine.”

  In silence, I packed up the shopping bag of items I’d collected over the past few days—new clothes, lingerie, letters and the photograph of my mother. But when Julien slammed his closet door shut and muttered something under his breath, I stopped. “What’s going on? Did something just happen?”

  “It is nothing.” He threw a dark gray T-shirt over his head and grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the desk.

  “Well it’s obviously something. What’s going on?”

  “It is nothing for you to worry about. Just get ready so we can leave for the train station.” His voice was so cold and hard, I almost didn’t recognize it.

  “Does it have to do with me leaving today? With the passport or anything?”

  “No,” he snapped, his eyes full of rage. “Your passport is fine. Everything for you is fine. Guillaume called. Claude’s been arrested.”

  My initial urge was to jump up and down—that heartless thief was finally going to get what he deserved. But when Julien’s jaw tightened and I noticed the way his eyes weren’t only filled with anger, but also with worry and sadness, I remembered the painting.

  I sat down on the bed, letting the clothes fall into a heap at my feet. If I hadn’t called the police with Claude’s license plate number, this wouldn’t have happened. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “Don’t apologize,” he snapped, pacing back and forth in front of the window, wringing his hands together. “You have nothing to do with this.”

  “Did Guillaume say anything about the painting? Are they looking for it?”

  He stopped pacing and glared at me. “Like I said, you have nothing to do with this anymore. It is my problem to deal with. I will be waiting outside whenever you are ready.”

  Julien’s harsh tone made me flinch. And as I sat alone on his bed, watching him storm out of the bedroom, my heart sank. If Julien didn’t find that painting, his family was going to be ruined. And I’d always know I played a part in that.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, I’d hurt Julien. While three days ago, his feelings wouldn’t have mattered to me in the least, now, after everything we’d been through together, and especially after yesterday, I did care. I cared more than I wanted to admit to myself, or to him.

  But there was nothing I could do anymore. He was right—it wasn’t any of my business. I’d chosen Paul, so what right did I have to probe into his family’s problems? I’d done enough damage.

  I finished packing up my bag, then walked outside where Julien was sitting on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette.

  “I’m ready,” I said, wishing he wouldn’t turn around. Wishing I didn’t have to face him again.

  He smashed his cigarette into an ashtray and stood without saying a word.

  The only sounds accompanying our awkward walk to the car were the crunching of our shoes on the gravel, the birds singing their merry little tune, and the whooshing of the leaves overhead as the wind picked up.

  With my hand on the car door, I took one last look at the vineyard. But before I allowed myself to feel all of the mixed emotions that threatened to engulf me as I left this gorgeous place, this place my own mother had loved, this place where I had officially cheated on my fiancé, I squeezed my eyes closed and reminded myself that it didn’t matter what I was feeling or what had happened here because it was time to go home and face the music. And things would feel right again when I arrived in DC and worked things out with Paul. I knew they would.


  My stomach tightened as I climbed into the car with Julien, and as he started up the engine without looking at me, without saying a word, I rolled down the window and turned my head completely away from him. I didn’t want to think about the way it made me feel to be sitting so close to him, not talking, not bickering, not seeing his dimple press into his scruffy cheek each time he smiled.

  When I thought about the fact that this silent, uncomfortable car ride would be the last time I would ever see Julien, the last chance I’d ever have to speak to him, a knot the size of a golf ball formed in my throat. I didn’t want to end it like this. But there was nothing left to say.

  A half an hour later, Julien swerved the car into a parking spot on a crowded street in Lyon. He pointed out the window. “There is the station. You are okay to go in on your own?”

  I nodded, feeling my heart sink. “Thank you for finding a way to get me home.” I searched his brown eyes for the warmth I’d found in them the night before.

  But that warmth, that spark, that passion—it had all disappeared.

  I rested my hand on the door handle and told myself to just get up and walk away. It was time to go home. Julien was finished with me, and rightfully so. I’d rejected him. And he had more important problems to deal with.

  Plus he’d lied to me. Claude hadn’t infiltrated the police. And Julien wasn’t a government agent. He was an ex-con. A man who used to be exactly like Claude.

  It was time for me to go home to my stable, anti-drama fiancé.

  So I tore my eyes from Julien’s, opened the door and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, wishing I didn’t feel like my heart was tearing in half. Because, after all, I was the one who was choosing to leave.

  I stood at the car door, motionless, my feet like lead on concrete. “Goodbye, Julien,” I said softly.

  “Bye, Chloe,” he said, the tone of his voice just gentle enough to make me want to tell him how much I knew I was going to miss him.

  But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t say anything.

  Instead, I closed the car door, turned around and walked away from him, trying to convince myself that once I got home, once I saw Paul, I would know I’d made the right decision.

  ***

  Later, as the train pulled away from the station, I watched a couple on the platform kissing each other goodbye until they became just specks through the window. Just like one of Julien’s paintings.

  When they finally disappeared from my sight, my stomach turned and my heart ached. I wanted to run to the front of the train and tell them to stop and go back.

  As much as I knew I should want to go home right now, I couldn’t deny the overwhelming feeling in my gut telling me that I didn’t want to leave Julien. I didn’t want my time in France to be over.

  But whatever had begun with Julien back at the vineyard was over now.

  And as the train rumbled down the tracks, speeding away from Julien so rapidly, so abruptly that I could hardly breathe, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the next big thing—going home.

  My breath failed me at the thought of seeing Paul, of trying to work things out with him after everything that had happened . . . after I’d let myself have feelings for and even kiss another man. Oh, God, just remembering Julien’s lips, his hands, his . . . Okay, I had to stop.

  Focus, Chloe. Focus.

  I needed a game-plan. I needed to figure things out before my plane landed in DC, otherwise the chaos would surely spiral and end in complete disaster.

  The problem was, I was so utterly confused—about Paul, about Julien, about my mother, about everything—that I didn’t even know where to start.

  So, I just didn’t. I didn’t start. Instead I spent the entire two hour train ride staring out the window, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, its rays beaming down on the lush, rolling French countryside. I didn’t think about the fact that I didn’t like where this train was taking me, that I felt sick at the thought of facing Paul, that I felt more worried about how Julien would get the painting back than how I was planning on handling things when I got home.

  Instead I forced myself to think of nothing. Because I knew that in twelve hours, when Paul put the events of the past four days under a microscope and dissected them to the point of exhaustion—the way he always did with his cases at the firm—the peace and the calm that I’d found at Julien’s vineyard, and in this French countryside just beyond my window, would be lost.

  I just hoped it wouldn’t be lost forever.

  Twenty-three

  When the Washington monument came into view from my cramped seat on the plane, I felt as if I’d been transported into another world over the course of the past twelve hours.

  Everything had gone just as Julien had promised—there’d been a man in a black suit waiting for me at the train station in Paris. He’d handed me an envelope containing a passport, which had gotten me straight through customs without so much as a second look.

  But now, all of that felt light years away. And as we flew over the place I’d called home for my entire life, the scary feeling that I was now in foreign territory planted itself in my psyche and refused to leave.

  I can do this, I repeated to myself as I exited the baggage claim area and searched the crowd for a face I recognized. It will all be okay. I will feel better the minute I’m back with my family, and back with Paul.

  “Chloe!”

  I flipped around to see where Sophie’s voice had come from, and there she was with her long, golden brown hair stretching all the way down her back, but her usual, breezy California smile was missing. Standing on either side of her were my two youngest sisters—Lily, the twenty-three-year-old blond, blue-eyed beauty; and Magali, the only one who’d inherited my father’s olive complexion and dark hair. And at seventeen years old, she still looked like a baby to me.

  They waved at me in unison, their faces panicky and distraught.

  Here we go.

  “Oh my God, Chloe,” Lily started before I’d even had a chance to say hello. “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s not true, is it?” Magali piped up. “That you were involved in some kind of . . .” she leaned forward and whispered loudly in my ear, so loud that everyone around us could surely hear. “Some kind of scam? With a pair of French thieves?”

  “And that they stole all of your things? And that your bank account is screwed?” Lily added, her crystal blue eyes widening in horror.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this when we talked?” Sophie demanded, her voice a pitch higher than normal. “Paul is losing his shit, and Dad is going out of his mind. And I’ve been worried sick! I told Paul you were probably kidnapped because you, of all people, would never get wrapped up in something so out of control, so crazy.”

  “Okay, okay!” I shouted over them to no avail as we headed toward the parking garage. “One question at a time.”

  But they didn’t miss a beat. They trailed alongside me, bickering over each other and shooting questions at me like rapid fire, unable to comprehend that Chloe, their big sister, who’d basically acted as their mother—their responsible, understanding, grown-up mother—could ever have been involved in exactly what I’d been involved in.

  I stopped abruptly and turned to face them. “Shut up!” I cried, registering the immediate shock on their faces. “Just shut up. You’re all driving me crazy. How about instead of drilling me and acting like a bunch of maniacs, you be the calm ones for once! How about asking me if I’m okay?”

  “Well, are you? Okay, I mean?” Lily asked as she spun one of her long blond locks around her finger, the way she’d always done as a little girl when she was in trouble.

  “Yes, I’m as okay as I can be after . . . never mind. Let’s just get to the car.”

  Sophie pointed straight ahead at a black BMW.

  I turned to her. “Paul let you take his car?”

  Her eyes darted to the ground as she charged ahead. “Well, he wasn’t exactly in the best mood today, and
he was locked up in his office when I needed to leave to pick you and Lily up at the airport, so I just took the keys.”

  “Why didn’t you take my car instead?”

  She shrugged as she unlocked the doors.

  “Hand me the keys.” I thrust my open palm at her.

  “Why? What’s wrong with me driving?”

  “Paul’s already not going to be happy that you took his car without asking, so it’s best if I drive it.”

  “At the moment, he’s happier with me than he is with you, so you might as well let me drive.”

  “Sophie,” I growled as I climbed into the driver’s seat and threw my shopping bag at her feet in the passenger’s side.

  Sophie lifted the bag up onto her lap and peered inside. “Is this all you have with you?”

  “So it’s true then? They did steal your stuff?” Magali asked, her choppy dark hair swishing against my seat as she popped her head in between me and Sophie.

  I sighed as I checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out of the parking lot. “Yes, it’s true. And it’s not they. It was just one man who stole my things.”

  “Oh my God. What is this?” Sophie screeched.

  I glanced to the side, only to find Sophie dangling my raspberry bra and panty set in front of my face.

  “Put that back!” I yelled.

  “Is this even yours?” she asked. “You never wear stuff like this.”

  “How do you know?”

  Giggles erupted from the back seat.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked as I sped away from the airport.

  “Chloe, seriously. You wear something this sexy? Not in a million years,” Sophie said.

  When I didn’t respond, she kept digging through the bag.

  “Sophie, what are you, like ten years old? Stop looking through my things,” I said, clenching the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

  “How did you buy this if that thief stole your wallet?” she asked, her voice just a pitch too high for me to stand.