“That kid on the third floor played the guitar again . . . almost until dawn.” José shook his head in despair.
“Is he any good?”
José blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Not that it matters, of course,” she said quickly. “He shouldn’t disturb his neighbors’ sleep.”
José gave a tentative nod.
She handed him his coffee and smiled to reassure him she was on his side.
His face relaxed. “I see you hired a new server,” he said, taking a sip and nodding in Amar’s direction.
“Nothing escapes your notice, José.”
“Looks a little too . . . young.” He grimaced as he said young.
“It’ll pass. And it isn’t contagious,” Jeanne said.
José sighed and drank the rest of his coffee in thoughtful silence.
During the staff lunchtime three hours later, Jeanne caught Amar red-handed: He was about to shove a plate into the microwave.
“Freeze!” she yelled.
He dutifully froze, holding the plate midair while gripping the microwave door with his other hand.
“Now slowly close the microwave, put the plate down, and turn to face me,” she ordered.
He turned around.
She shook her head. “Thank God it was me and not Claude who caught you trying to nuke that meat.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? First, if Claude gives you a cold dish for lunch, it’s supposed to be eaten cold.”
“And second?” Amar tilted his head.
“No one ever uses the microwave. It’s a firing offense.”
“Then why do you keep one here?”
“How shall I explain it . . .” Jeanne pinched her chin. “You see, every bistro must have a microwave oven. Yet, every good bistro makes a point of never using it.”
“Of course, it’s totally obvious,” Amar said, deadpan.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Jeanne nodded, somehow managing not to smile. “So, I’ll forget what I just saw, and we’ll pretend it never happened, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned away to greet Amanda who’d just come in. Her office was around the corner, and she was a regular during lunch at La Bohème, eating it at the counter to chat with Jeanne. She once told Jeanne she would have come more often if it hadn’t been for fear of running into Lena or Rob. Being the latter’s ex, she didn’t particularly relish the prospect.
“Do you think you could close the place off after nine on Friday?” Amanda asked.
“Depends on the number of people you’re bringing. What’s the occasion?” Jeanne asked.
Amanda beamed. “My big promotion. I’m now officially number two in the department.”
“We’ll close if you can get twenty-five people. Thirty would be better.”
“I’m inviting all the colleagues I’ve worked with directly, which should be about twenty,” Amanda said. “And all my friends.” She paused before adding, “Which should bring us to twenty-five . . . I hope.”
“Are you inviting Rob?”
“No way,” Amanda said.
Jeanne gave her a sympathetic look.
Amanda sighed. “I’m not . . . angry anymore. I just don’t want to see him, that’s all.” Then her face brightened. “But I’m inviting Mat and Rob’s business partner, Patrick. They’re my friends regardless of their connection with Rob.”
Jeanne didn’t register much after the word “Mat.”
I’m going to see him Friday night . . . unless he declines Amanda’s invitation.
For some reason she didn’t think he would. But what if he brought his girlfriend? Jeanne frowned. She didn’t want to see Mat with his girlfriend.
She briefly considered asking Didier to give her a hand during Amanda’s promotion bash but decided against it. There was no need to stoke the tension between the two men.
It would be best for everyone if Mat simply didn’t show up.
“Is something wrong? You look preoccupied,” Amanda said.
“Aside from the universe conspiring against me?” Jeanne shrugged and shook her head. “No, everything’s fine.”
“How enigmatic.” Amanda narrowed her eyes. “But, unfortunately, I’ve got to get back to the office. We’ll discuss this later.”
She paid and climbed down from the barstool. “So Friday, right?”
“Right,” Jeanne said. “Wine and cheese?”
“You read my mind.”
That night Jeanne left earlier than usual. One could pull only so many doubles in a row without a break. Besides, she needed a free evening to reconnect with the people she loved. She hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with her parents in a while. Her only communication with her brother over the past months had been a few laconic text messages. And when was the last time she went out with friends? She’d been too focused on work, which was a smart thing to do financially and to keep her mind off Mat.
But the downside was piling into a heap too large to ignore.
As she stepped into the lobby, she spotted the concierge polishing the enormous mirror on one of the walls.
Jeanne approached her and held her hand out. “Hi, I’m Jeanne. My apartment is right there on the ground floor.”
The concierge gave her a small smile and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Daniela.”
She reminded Jeanne of Lena. Daniela was small, dark-haired, and doe-eyed with something unmistakably East European in her features. She looked to be in her midtwenties. She could have been pretty, Jeanne thought. But as it was, Daniela wore her hair in the most unflattering style Jeanne had ever seen, hunched her shoulders, and hid her body in shapeless drab clothes.
“I work at La Bohème up the street,” Jeanne said.
“Oh, I went there a few days ago for a coffee. Nice place.”
Her accent was definitely East European.
“Where are you from?” Jeanne asked.
“Romania.”
“Daniela, would it be OK if I asked you to take in parcels for me every once in a while?”
“Of course. It’s part of my job.”
“Great, thank you!”
It was time to wrap up the conversation and let the woman get on with her work. But Jeanne had one more question. “Are you alone in the loge?”
Daniela shook her head. “I have a little boy, Liviu. He’s eight.”
Jeanne nodded.
“But he’s a quiet boy. He doesn’t make noise.”
“I know.” Jeanne tugged on her necklace. “Listen, we’re next door neighbors now, right? So, if you need anything . . . or need help, just knock on my door or come over to the bistro. OK?”
“You heard the fight a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you?” Daniela asked, biting her lip.
“It was hard not to.”
“I’m so sorry about that—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Jeanne cut in. “I just want you to know you can reach out to me if . . . that guy bothers you again.”
“He’s my boyfriend. He’s a nice guy when he’s sober. He’s good to Liviu, too. He’s just going through a rough patch after losing his job.”
Jeanne touched Daniela’s arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Welcome to our building, Daniela.”
After she walked into her apartment and collapsed on the couch, Jeanne wondered what it was with women like Daniela—and herself—that pushed them toward the wrong men. Daniela’s was violent. As for her picks, they were either philandering or already taken. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to fall for a nice guy for once? A nice available guy.
Someone like Didier.
***
The wine and cheese idea had been a stroke of genius, Jeanne thought without false modesty. First, it allowed them to test all the new cheeses they’d ordered from Normandy and quickly gauge which ones were more popular than others. Second, it didn’t require the service or even the presence of the chef tonight. Claude had been feeling under th
e weather all week, so Pierre told him to go home early and watch a comedy. The proprietor, whose joie de vivre was indomitable, persisted in hoping depression could be cured by a night off and a comedy. However, he had learned his lesson from Claude’s previous bouts and made arrangements in case the chef was a no-show tomorrow.
Mat had come alone.
“Girlfriend too busy again?” Jeanne had asked after they greeted each other.
“Yeah,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
She gave a few instructions to Amar, who was helping her tonight, and turned back to Mat. “The cheeses over there are the ones we ordered in Baleville.”
“It fills me with immense pride that our products are good enough for refined Parisian palates.”
Jeanne smirked and turned her attention to other guests. She spent the next three hours slicing cheese, pouring wine, and taking orders. Mat spent his time talking to Amanda and Patrick. Amanda cruised from one small group to another, joking and laughing and looking the happiest Jeanne had seen her in a long time.
A little before midnight, Jeanne realized that Amanda was the last person left in the bistro, not counting herself and Amar.
So, Mat left without saying good-bye.
Her heart tingled with disappointment, but it was better this way. For everyone.
Amar began to clean up while she went over to Amanda to exchange a cheek kiss. Amanda threw her arms around Jeanne in a bear hug. “Thank you for this lovely evening, Jeanne! Everything was perfect.”
Jeanne patted her on the back. “It was a pleasure and . . . I think you’ve had too much wine tonight.”
“Why do you say that? Do I look drunk?” Amanda released Jeanne and whipped out a pocket mirror from her purse. “Do I sound drunk?”
Jeanne chuckled. “Neither. It was the hug that gave you away. You don’t do hugs.”
“Oh.” Amanda grinned, relieved.
“Let me call you a cab. You shouldn’t take the métro in this state and at this hour.”
Ten minutes later, Amanda was gone and so was Amar. It was time to close up and haul herself home. Jeanne loaded the remaining glasses into the dishwasher and removed her apron. She was about to put on her parka, when someone pushed the back door open and stepped in from the bistro’s courtyard.
It was Mat—coatless and shivering.
Spotting Jeanne, Mat sighed with relief and congratulated himself on his perfect timing. Had he waited a few seconds longer, she would’ve left, locking him in.
“What the . . . ,” Jeanne said, stopping in her tracks.
OK. He owed her an explanation. “It got too stuffy in here, so I went out for some air.”
“And fell asleep?” She gave him an I’m-so-not-buying-it look.
“I smoked a cigarette,” he said, blushing like a schoolboy. “A first in six months . . . And I lost track of time.” Another shiver ran through his body.
Jeanne hung her jacket back on the hook. “Come on. Sit by the heater while I make you tea.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, leaning his back against the blissfully warm heater.
She gave him a shoulder glance. “I won’t have a customer catching pneumonia after an evening in my charge.”
A few minutes later, she placed two steaming mugs on the table in front of him and sat down. She was unbearably attractive even in the masculine shirt and wide pants of her bistro uniform. He forced himself to look away.
“If you leave in the next half hour, you can still catch the last métro,” she said. “I suppose you’re staying at Rob and Lena’s?”
He shook his head. The heater against his back and the tea in his stomach were beginning to warm his blood and relax his muscles. He suspected Jeanne’s slightly throaty voice had something to do with it, too. She always sounded as if she’d just rolled out of bed.
The sexiest voice a woman could have.
He lifted his eyes. What was the point in not looking if hearing her speak produced exactly the same effect?
“I’m staying with my dad. He lives in Paris.”
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know your parents were divorced.”
“It’s been ages. But they are on OK terms, making life easier for all of us.”
“You’ve got siblings?”
“Nope.” He put his empty mug down. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
“A brother. He’s in Nîmes, running the bakery with Mom and Dad.”
They remained silent for a moment.
Mat knew he had to thank Jeanne for the tea, collect his coat, and walk out. It was after midnight. She must be tired and wishing he’d just leave so she could finally go home. He racked his brain for a reason to linger.
There was none.
He stood abruptly. “Thank you for the tea.”
“You’re welcome.”
He took a step sideways to get out of the narrow space between the heater and the table, and ended up a mere two inches from Jeanne, who’d risen from her seat in the meantime. They both froze and stared at each other. He swallowed, as his gaze traveled from her mind-blowing lips down to her heaving breasts, and then back up to her warm brown eyes.
He took a deep breath, catching the smell of coffee in her hair. His pulse throbbed in his head.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said. “You may slap me or kick me in the balls afterward, but I must kiss you.”
He cradled her head with both his hands to execute his threat. His lips touched hers reverently, lightly, barely grazing them. She let out a soft sigh. He inhaled her head-turning scent and once again brushed his burning lips over hers. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, trying to guess how she would taste. Honey? Chocolate? Mint? But he didn’t want to deepen the kiss just yet. He had dreamed of doing this for so damn long. He was going to take it as slowly as he possibly could.
Her lips were soft and warm beneath his as he kissed her with an adoring tenderness he didn’t know he possessed. He shifted closer, his hands caressing her shoulders and her back, pressing her to him. The desire that stirred in him was nothing like he had experienced before. It roared like a wild beast and clawed his insides. It demanded to be set free, urging him to abandon all control and invade her mouth, her body, her very soul.
But he wasn’t giving in to it. Not yet. He kissed the corner of her mouth, tugged on her lower lip, and nipped it lightly.
She moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Oh Mat,” she whispered against his mouth.
He pulled away just enough to take in her heavy lids, her flushed cheeks, and her heaving chest. She was peering at his mouth, her head tilted up, an unspoken plea in her eyes. She wanted him. Jeanne—the woman he’d craved so desperately, so hopelessly—now desired him, too. He feasted his eyes on her as his shoulders pushed back and his chest expanded.
Does she have any idea what it means to me to see her like this?
Could she guess what it did to him to watch her aroused by his gentlest kiss? To know she desired him, to see her all but begging him to kiss her again?
He traced the outline of her jaw and cupped her nape, delving his fingers into her silky hair. His other hand circled her waist. He held her firmly, preparing to brand her with an entirely different kind of kiss. He was done teasing. The kiss he wanted now would be hot, hard, and messy.
And infinitely intimate.
His phone rang, startling him. It was Cécile’s ringtone, which was unusual. When one of them traveled for work, they respected French etiquette and never called each other after ten o’clock. Something must be wrong.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and turned his back to Jeanne. “Are you OK?” he asked Cécile, his voice sounding like a stranger’s.
“I’m fine. Sorry about calling, I was just . . . I had this bad feeling, like something happened. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” he echoed her words.
“Are you at your dad’s already?”
“Not yet. I’m about to leave.”
<
br /> “Will you please take a cab?” she pleaded. “You must be a little drunk, what with all those wines you’ve been sampling.”
“I will. I promise,” he said.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and swirled around. Jeanne was no longer beside him. She stood outside by the entrance, zipping up her parka. She had already pulled the rolling grilles halfway down. He grabbed his coat and rushed out. She lowered the grilles completely, locked them, and bolted away before he could say anything.
***
Chapter Four
January
It was a gorgeous midwintry morning, the air bristling with an exotic crispness brought by the northern winds all the way from Greenland. Snow had fallen all night, dressing Paris in a pretty white coat, all prim and virginal, as if the world didn’t know better. Christmas decorations still dangled from the wires strung across the streets, a little sad by daylight but a welcome illumination as soon as night would fall.
Jeanne turned away from the window and rubbed her temples. An aspirin was in order if she was going to make it through the morning shift without dozing off in the middle of José’s account of his latest rendezvous. She filled a glass with water and swallowed a pill. It should kick in before the first customers arrived.
It had been a rough night. At two in the morning loud voices coming from Daniela’s loge woke her up. While she fumbled for the light switch and tried to peel her lids open, Daniela’s angry shouting turned into screams of pain. Jeanne pulled a fleece on top of her pajamas and ran out. She knocked on Daniela’s door, louder and louder until the voices inside quieted, and Daniela opened the door.
“What’s going on?” Jeanne asked.
“Nico—that is, my boyfriend showed up drunk. I’m sorry,” Daniela said.
She had a blackened eye and a huge bruise on her arm.
An irate male voice came from inside the loge. ”Who are you talking to?” Then a burly red-eyed man shoved Daniela aside and stood in the doorway. “Who are you?”
“I’m Daniela’s next-door neighbor. And who are you?” Jeanne asked.
“I’m Daniela’s man. You have a problem with that?”
Jeanne inhaled. The guy was scary but she refused to show her fear. “I have a problem with you hitting her.”
Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) Page 4