Christmas in Paris: a collection of 3 sweetly naughty Christmas romance books 2017

by Alix Nichols

  “I am.”

  “Mine had to be rescheduled earlier this year. My supervisor broke his leg.”

  “How long did you have to wait?”

  “Two months.”

  I drop my head into my hands. “Oh no.”

  “You may be luckier,” he says before adding, “even though I hope you won’t be. Selfishly, I hope you’ll stay in Paris as long as possible.”

  I look up at him, surprised.

  He holds my gaze as if to say, yes it is like you think.

  What the what?

  We met two weeks ago through Professor Guyot. Xavier is a sociologist. I’m a historian. Our mentor is both, and he involved us in his new seminar on “Research Methods in Sociological History.” The seminar is for PhD students and postdocs only, so participating in it is a great learning opportunity. And great fun. Our group is small enough to fit around the long table in the café across the street where we end up after each session to finish our debates around a drink.

  I had no idea Xavier had taken a more than academic interest in me.

  “I have a baby,” I blurt my new anti-pickup line of choice.

  He looks at my ringless hands. “Are you still with the father?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then there’s no issue. Babies don’t bother me at all.” He smiles. “In fact, I love them.”

  Right.

  Thankfully, the door to the lecture hall opens and Professor Guyot steps out.

  “Hello, Mia, sorry I made you wait.” He nods to Xavier before turning back to me. “Every single student had a burning question to ask after today’s lecture.”

  Xavier and I say good-bye, and I follow Professor Guyot down the hallway.

  “Can you walk with me to the Raspail Annex?” he asks. “I don’t want to be late for the faculty meeting.”

  “No problem.”

  Please let it be good news!

  My current arrangement is so precarious I won’t be able to keep it up much longer. I’m renting an Airbnb studio in the twelfth. It’s cheaper than a hotel room, but it’s still double my rent back in Martinique. I was lucky to get a place for Lily at the nursery just two blocks down the street. Like this, I can take care of all the administrative stuff and attend seminars. But the cost of the studio and nursery is burning through my meager savings like a swarm of locusts through a field of corn.

  Staying in Paris beyond October is out of the question.

  “I have two pieces of good news for you and one bad,” Professor Guyot says as we leave the building. “Which one do you want to hear first?”

  “Why don’t you sandwich the bad news between the two good ones?” I suggest.

  He nods. “OK, good news number one. I arranged for you to co-moderate one of my grad-level workshops. You’ll get a small contract for the rest of September and all of October.”

  My eyes widen. “Really?”

  “It isn’t much,” he says, smirking, “but it’ll see you and your baby through until your defense.”

  “Do we have a date for it?” I ask.

  “We do—and that’s the bad news.”

  He stops at a traffic light, turns, and gives me an apologetic look. “The only time Mathilde, myself, and the rest of your committee are all available again is the third week of November.”

  “That’s in two months.”

  The light turns green, and we start walking again.

  “I know,” he says. “And that brings me to the second bit of good news. The history department will have a maître de conférences opening next month.”

  “But…” I mumble as we turn onto the Boulevard Raspail. “I won’t have my doctorate until November. Assuming everything goes well.”

  “It will, I’m sure.”

  We reach the Annex and climb the steps to the entrance.

  “You did a fantastic job with your dissertation,” he says as we halt in front of the revolving door. “Everyone on the committee loves it. Even Mathilde loves it—and you know how hard it is to impress her.”

  It’s near impossible to impress Mathilde.

  I was obliged to ask her to be on my committee because she’s a top expert in my field. But I was fully prepared to have her rip up her copy of my thesis during the public defense and announce it’s the only fate this kind of BS deserves.

  She’s done it to other candidates before me.

  Professor Guyot smiles. “I talked to the administration, and they’re willing to sit on the vacancy announcement until mid-November.”

  “This is…” I search for words. “It’s too good to be true.”

  He shakes his head. “No it isn’t. You still have to apply and do well at the interview, which I have no doubt you will.”

  “Thank you so much, Professor—”

  “Please. Off you go.” He glances at his watch. “I’m already five minutes late.”

  “I… I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me!”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” He sighs. “After the faculty meeting, I’m seeing another doctoral student of mine, and that conversation is going to be a lot less gratifying than this one.”

  He flashes his card to the security man and marches inside.

  I run down the stairs, eager to get back to Lily, cozy up with her at home, and call Eva with the good news.

  Could my life finally be getting on track?

  Chapter 23

  “Mia? Hey, Mia!” someone calls just before I descend the stairs to the métro station.

  I turn around.

  Sandro looks me over and then throws his arms around me. “Ça alors! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you write you were coming to France?”

  “I… I was going to,” I mumble.

  And I really was. During my stint at DCA, Barbara, Delphine, and Sandro had become more than colleagues. When a year ago I announced my imminent departure, they insisted on a going-away dinner at Delphine’s and made me promise to stay in touch.

  Toward the end of the evening, Delphine cornered me as I was exiting the bathroom. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I heard you barf in there.”

  “I’m bulimic,” I lied.

  “Mais bien sûr.” She tilted her head to the left. “And I was born yesterday.”

  I held my chin up, refusing to say more.

  Thankfully, she didn’t insist—she just shook her head and stepped aside to let me return to the dining table.

  In her first two or three emails after I left Paris, she reminded me she wasn’t buying my story, but then dropped the subject.

  Sandro and Barbara never questioned my irresistible job offer tale.

  I look at my watch and then at Sandro. The day nursery closes in forty-five minutes.

  “Are you in a hurry?” he asks.

  I smile apologetically.

  “No problem,” he says. “Are you free to join your former colleagues for lunch on Friday? Barb, Delphine, and I are having a special one to celebrate my promotion.”

  I high-five him. “Go Sandro! I’m so happy for you!”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “What’s the venue?” I ask, hoping it isn’t the the canteen.

  Not that Raphael eats there often, but I’m not taking any chances.

  “We’re venturing to La Coupole,” Sandro says.

  Phew.

  La Coupole is spicy, but it’s far from DCA.

  I give him a big smile. “I’ll be happy to join in the celebration.”

  We say good-bye, and I rush down the stairs.

  When Lily and I get home and I call Eva, she’s over the moon about my news.

  “That means you’re staying in Paris,” she shouts. “And I’ll be able to see my little niece every weekend if I want!”

  I hold the phone away from my ear while she hollers in French, English, and German. “Youppi! Woohoo! Wunderbar!”

  That’s international civil servants for you. After three years at the European S
pace Agency, Eva feels compelled to repeat her French interjections in the other two working languages of her organization.

  “Is Raphael still in the dark about her?” she asks all of a sudden.

  I clear my throat. “He has no clue about her existence, and it’s better this way.”

  “If you think so.”

  “I know so.”

  “I take it you haven’t told him you’re in Paris, either?”

  “No. And I’ll kill you if you do.”

  “Are you going to try and cook for me again?” she asks. “The dinner you made when I visited you in Fort-de-France almost killed me.”

  “No, I’ll tickle you this time. I’ll start with your neck, then move to your armpits and finish with your feet.”

  “Mercy,” Eva squeaks. “Not the feet! I’ll do anything you want me to, just don’t tickle my feet.”

  “I want your silence.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.” Her voice is back to normal. “But you’ll have to tell Màma and Pàpa about Lily sometime soon, real soon.”

  “I know.”

  “How about you take her to Alsace next weekend?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “OK,” she says. “I understand. But the longer you wait, the harder it’ll be for them to forgive you for hiding her.”

  “What makes you think they’ll forgive me for having her in the first place?”

  Eva scoffs. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m being realistic. You know what Màma thinks about having sex and making babies outside of wedlock.”

  “She’ll change her mind the moment she sees Lily.”

  “I don’t think so.” I let out a sigh. “And what about Pàpa?”

  “What about him?”

  “You know what he thinks about… women like me.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  Shit.

  Of course she doesn’t. How would she? She had slept like a baby through both chapters of the Suzelle the Sinner Affair.

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “No, tell me. I insist.”

  “Lily just woke up,” I lie. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “OK.” There’s a brief silence before Eva speaks again, “Anyway, I’m really happy you’re staying in Paris. Martinique may be lovely, but it’s so damn far away.”

  We hang up, and I tiptoe to the kitchen. As I start peeling potatoes for our dinner, I take care to make as little noise as possible so I don’t wake up Lily, who’s napping in the main room behind a folding screen.

  My herzele is a light sleeper just like me.

  Which is probably the only feature she and I have in common at this point. She hasn’t inherited my auburn hair or green eyes. Neither does she have Raphael’s darker coloring. Lily is a blue-eyed, curly-haired blonde with a skin like porcelain.

  I bet she’s going to turn heads, which may be the only thing she and her dad will have in common.

  How many heads has Raphael turned since I left? Is he still a committed bad boy or did he meet someone special? Does he think of me sometimes?

  Damn!

  I can’t believe I’m doing this again. Were all those self-help books and auto-suggestion drills for nothing? Moving On was the title of the first one I bought. Wipe Him Out of Your Memory was the second. How to Get Over Your Ex in Three Months (with a Money Back Guarantee) was the third and most expensive one I read.

  It’s been fourteen months, for Christ’s sake.

  Maybe I should ask for a refund.

  Except I won’t get it because even though I did everything the books recommended, I failed to implement the number one strategy all three insisted on. Dating someone new. I’d been planning to, and there had been opportunities, but I always had an excuse to put it off.

  At the beginning, I told myself I’d just gotten there and was busy settling in. Then my belly started to show, and it completely killed the mood. Once Lily was born, I put everything else on hold and spent three months being her appendage.

  When she became a little more autonomous, I had to finish my dissertation and make arrangements for the defense.

  And then I travelled to Paris.

  Wait—I could date here.

  I slap my forehead. It’s a brilliant idea!

  A new man in my life is what I need to free me from the “Raphael Syndrome” once and for all. And that new man could be Xavier. Why not give him a chance? We have so much in common that it would be hard to find a more suitable man.

  It’s decided, then.

  For the sake of my sanity and, by extension, for Lily’s sake, the dating strategy deserves a try.

  No, it deserves my best shot. I nod with determination as if to seal the deal and start dicing the zucchini.

  And then someone knocks on the door.

  Chapter 24

  I freeze.

  Breathe, Mia.

  It could be a neighbor. Or the postman. Or the landlady who realized she had something urgent to tell me, just after her phone battery died.

  The school administration has this address, too.

  Except no administration goes knocking on people’s doors at seven in the evening. It doesn’t go knocking at any time of the day, for that matter. It summons you instead, preferably at eight a.m., just for the pleasure of making you wait outside a locked door.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  If only this stupid door had a peephole and this stupid building, an intercom!

  “It’s Raphael,” a familiar voice comes from the other side.

  My knees wobble.

  Several physiological processes kick off in my body, making me lightheaded, queasy, burning hot, chilled to the bone, scared, and thrilled beyond words—all at the same time.

  “Mia?” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. Will you let me in?”

  I bite my nails. “You should’ve called.”

  “Oh, I would’ve, but you changed your number,” he says. “And you didn’t give me the new one, remember?”

  The familiar note of humor in his tone makes me smile. For some strange reason, it makes me want to cry, too.

  “Listen,” Raphael says. “I have no bones to pick with you. I’m sure you had your reasons for preferring the beaches of a tropical island to the drizzle of Paris. I’d live on an island, too, if I didn’t have a company to run.”

  I smile, remembering the rocky island pictures on the walls in his loft.

  Then I realize he knows I wasn’t in Quebec.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Just for a chat… as a friend. For old times’ sake.”

  This is the perfect opportunity to say, Sorry, Raphael, but I’ve really moved on, and wish him all the best.

  “How did you find me?” I ask instead, opening the door.

  Momentary madness is the only explanation for it.

  Over the past fourteen months, I’d gotten so used to putting the words “far away” and “long ago” next to “Raphael” that I tricked myself into believing he lived in a parallel universe. Raphael d’Arcy became a hunky humanlike life-form I’d met in a time-space loophole. But then the loophole got fixed, and I returned to reality with Lily as proof that the whole thing hadn’t been just a dream.

  And now here he is—the hunky life-form.

  My ex-boss and ex-lover.

  My baby’s dad.

  The man I ran from.

  The man I would die for.

  I take in his tall, lean, hard-bodied frame. He looks exactly like he did a year ago and yet a little different. I’m not sure what that difference is. Is he taller? That’s an impossibility. Brawnier? I don’t think so. Scruffier? Nah. Must be just in my head.

  “Wow,” he says, stepping in. “You’ve changed.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Your hair is shorter,” he says. “Way shorter.”

  He reaches over and rakes his fingers through my pixie cut.

  “It’s convenient to wea
r it short,” I say, drawing back.

  He pulls his hand away and surveys me some more.

  “Anything else?” I ask with as much sarcasm as I can manage.

  “Your eyes are greener than I remembered.” He strokes his chin, looking me up and down. “It’s little things… I can’t even put a finger on anything specific right off the bat.”

  I shrug. “Keep me posted if you do.”

  He nods.

  For a few seconds we just stand by the door and stare at each other.

  It dawns on me that this moment right now is my second—and probably last—chance to say, “Listen, it was good to see you, but I really need to run, so bye and take good care of yourself.”

  Only who am I kidding?

  All the willpower and resolve I possess are barely enough to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck, closing my eyes, and tipping my head up for a kiss.

  I spin around and head for the kitchen.

  He follows me.

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “Through your school.”

  I turn around and give him a quizzical look.

  “I’ve been following your progress over the past year,” he says. “Just out of curiosity and because it’s so easy with the Internet. You published three articles, which I read.”

  My brows go up.

  “Quiz me if you don’t believe me,” he offers.

  “Maybe later.” I narrow my eyes. “But the Internet doesn’t know my current address.”

  “Your school does, though. I was looking you up last night—you know, just to see if you’d published something new for me to read, and I saw you were moderating a workshop in Paris.”

  “Co-moderating.”

  “Right.” He nods. “With your supervisor. Anyway, once I knew you were in Paris, finding your home address was a matter of ruse and money.”

  “You didn’t try to find me while I was in Ma—Canada,” I say.

  “Actually, I did,” he says. “And that’s how I knew you were in Martinique. I almost flew there in February, but then I reminded myself you’d dumped me.”

  Dumped him?!

  “You weren’t my boyfriend to dump,” I say.

  He looks taken aback, but then his expression softens. “You’re right, of course. ‘Dump’ wouldn’t apply to our case. What about this: You notified me via a text message that our exclusive arrangement was terminated with immediate effect due to your delocalization?”