The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series)

by Alix Nichols

  The Devil’s Own Chloe

  (Bistro La Bohème Series)

  Alix Nichols

  Other books in the series:

  You’re the One

  Winter’s Gift

  What If It’s Love?

  Falling for Emma

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  Find You in Paris

  Copyright © 2016 Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing provided by Write Divas (http://writedivas.com/)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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  Details can be found at the end of the book.

  Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.

  —George Addair

  One

  It’s Saturday night, known to the mated population of Paris as Hump Night. The singles call it Hunt Night. Single women—except the confirmed bachelorettes who’ve embraced celibacy—refer to it as Manhunt Night.

  I’m a dyed-in-the-wool bachelorette who engages in regular hunting and occasional fishing.

  Even gathering is not beneath me.

  My kind is so rare, especially among the pre-nasty-divorce crowd, that some consider us an anomaly while others refuse to believe in our existence.

  But we definitely exist.

  At least I, Chloe Germain, do.

  For now.

  What a shame humanlike robots are nowhere near industrial production yet! I envy those who’ll be born at the end of the century, when stunning PAs (Personal Androids) will make it unnecessary for people like me to be intimate with strangers.

  Note to the universe: In the event you reincarnate me in female form a hundred years from now, please look at the “Dreamboat” file on my computer. I’ve spent many an evening in front of it designing my bespoke three-dimensional PA, man parts and all.

  And what glorious, tip-top man parts they are!

  Oh well.

  Maybe I’ll turn out to be one of those lucky individuals whose libido dries up by their mid-thirties. Just another decade to go, and my weekends could be free from hunting and all the associated awkwardness.

  I’d love that.

  But I’m not holding out hope.

  Right now, I amble down the crowded Boulevard de Sébastopol, trying to sashay my hips with surgical precision so the movement gets noticed and appreciated but doesn’t get misinterpreted. My goal is to produce a sway that conveys, “Here comes an emancipated woman looking for some fun tonight,” and not, “I’m a slut—do me.”

  Problem is the vast majority of men fail to see the difference between the two.

  As is often the case, I give up the runway walk after a few minutes, blaming my uncooperative hips. Instead, I undo another button on my shirt and clutch my purse with my pepper spray a little tighter.

  I haven’t needed the spray yet, but you never know.

  As I approach Café Lolo, I spot a man smoking a cigarette at a table on the sidewalk terrace. He’s by himself, and his dispassionate demeanor tells me he isn’t expecting anyone. I halt just a couple of steps from him as if debating what to do. After three seconds of fake hesitation, I sit at the closest table and take a better look at the Candidate.

  His espresso cup is full, which means he won’t be leaving just yet. That’s a good sign. An even better sign is that the man is skinny and aloof. He has a bad boy leather jacket and a don’t-mess-with-me haircut. Oh, and did I mention the dark stubble peppering the bottom half of his gaunt face?

  So my type.

  “Got a light?” I ask, leaning in.

  He looks me up and down and pulls out a lighter.

  As I sit back with my cigarette between my lips, I consider which pickup line to use next.

  “You come here often?” he asks.

  Thank you. “Not really. You?”

  “Yeah, I live nearby.”

  “Oh, so you’re a local.” My lips stretch into a friendly smile. “What’s the best feature of this neighborhood?”

  “You plan to move here?”

  I shake my head. “Just being curious.”

  “What you consider good may be bad from my perspective.” He cocks his head. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that question.”

  It’s tempting to ask if he’d like to get to know me better tonight, but I stop myself. Women who are too forward scare men off. I don’t mind driving away the caring and marrying types. But I’ll bet anything the Candidate isn’t one of them.

  “Good point,” I say. “Let me be more specific. Are there any good music bars in this area?”

  “You’re two steps from Bastille,” he says. “Take a wild guess.”

  Does he sound peeved, or am I reading him wrong? As a matter of fact, I find myself unable to read him at all. Maybe he isn’t a good candidate, after all. Maybe I should leave right now, before I’ve ordered anything, and try my luck elsewhere.

  “I’m sorry,” he says as I put out my cigarette. “That came out ruder than I meant it.”

  I give him a probing look.

  “Let me try again.” He gives me an unpracticed smile. “Of course there are good music bars around here. And, by the way, my name is Fabien.”

  “I’m Chloe.”

  Fabien sets a few coins on the table. “I could take you to a Irish pub around the corner if you like Celtic music.”

  I tilt my head to one side. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s OK,” he says, impassive.

  He is perfect.

  “All right, then. Let’s check it out.”

  In the pub, we half listen to a rocksy Breton band playing folksy Breton songs. I make lackadaisical comments from time to time. Fabien gives an occasional nod. Our main activity is consuming large amounts of beer.

  “What’s your line of work, Chloe?” he asks when the band finishes their encore song and the bar begins to empty.

  “Home renovations. Yours?”

  “Business.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t insist.

  It’s not as if I care.

  One of the waiters places a check on our table, and another one begins to flip chairs onto tables.

  “I guess it’s time to go home.” I grab the bill. “Let me treat you.”

  He snatches it from my hand. “No way. It’s on me.”

  I object, he insists, and the ritualized back-and-forth ends with him shoving the check in his pocket and handing the server a fifty.

  When the server brings the change, Fabien leaves him a generous tip.

  So far so good.

  “Do you live with your parents?” he asks as we step out into the night.

  Every time I get this coded proposition, it reminds me of my first year in Paris as a naive small-town freshman at the École de Versailles. I spent a good half of that year debating if Parisian men routinely inquired about my living arrangements out of politeness or a genuine interest in my person.

  “A hotel room would be better,” I say.

  Fabien says nothing, just stares at me.

  I stare back, trying to guess his next move. Will he seal the deal or back out?

  “Follow me,” he finally says.

  Yes!

  Congratulations, Chloe, on yet another successful manhunt.

>   We get down to business pretty much the moment we step into the room, and it’s just as I expected. Fabien performs well. I manage to peak with a little help from my fingers, which is totally fine by me.

  Two hours later, we’re dressed again and ready to part ways.

  “Salut,” I say as soon as we’re outside the hotel entrance.

  He looks taken aback, and I’m pleased.

  Men are always the ones to decamp after casual sex while their female partner is holding her breath for a “Can I see you again?” So, yes, doing this feels good. It feels like a small but much-needed contribution to restoring the balance of yin and yang in the universe. Not that I believe in that New Age-y crap for a second.

  “Um… yeah, take care,” Fabien says. He doesn’t budge, though.

  I turn on my heel and march to the nearest métro station before he can suggest we do this again sometime soon. Or worse, ask me out for a drink.

  I don’t do drinks, dinners, movies, dates, or relationships.

  My life is a love-free zone.

  Anything that resembles feelings or might be fertile soil for affection triggers a glaring neon sign in my head that screams, “Run!” The sign isn’t for my benefit. It’s to protect the innocents who don’t know what’s coming for them. Innocents who have no idea what I’m capable of.

  If souls can be reborn, I’m the newest reincarnation of the mythical King Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Only my gift is less profitable and more macabre.

  I turn everyone who loves me into dead meat.

  * * *

  Two

  I arrive at the house we’re rehabbing at eight in the morning, as usual. Hugo is already there, crouched in front of the custom shower enclosure he installed yesterday and inspecting the joints. He rises and greets me with a cheek kiss.

  “Well sealed?” I ask.

  “Looks like it, but I’ll confirm tonight. I want to caulk again and run more water after the silicone sets up.”

  I smile. “You’re the most thorough builder I’ve ever worked with.”

  His cheeks color slightly. “Maybe it’s because I’m still relatively new at this. Rookie zeal.”

  I’ve always thought it was a female thing to deflect a compliment, but, clearly, men do it, too—some men, at any rate.

  Despite his words, Hugo looks mighty pleased.

  I arch an eyebrow. “Or maybe it’s because you’re a crackerjack. And a perfectionist, to boot.”

  A big smile illuminates his friendly face. He picks up a half-full bag of powered grout from the countertop and fidgets with it.

  I wonder for a moment what his intention is—seeing as he’s already grouted the walls and the floor—and then realize it’s just to give his hands something to do.

  I take a step back and survey the shimmery wall tiles.

  Good choice, Chloe.

  I knew they’d give this bathroom the festive feel my client likes.

  Dropping my head back, I inspect the ceiling and the light fixtures.

  Neat.

  I turn to Hugo. “Your handiwork or René’s?”

  “Mine.” He’s still fidgeting with the grout bag.

  I nod. “At this rate, mon ami, you’ll get your contractor license in no time.”

  “About that.” Hugo looks up at me.

  At that exact moment, the grout bag in his hands makes a soft pop, and its contents seep out onto the floor.

  “Damn!” Hugo sets the bag on the countertop, picks up a hand broom, and begins to sweep.

  I squat down next to him, holding the dustpan. “Hey, remember that incredible matchstick village you made in seventh grade?”

  “Yes, why?”

  I’m not sure why I’m bringing this up, so I just plow on, ignoring his question. “It was beautiful. Such attention to detail… It may have triggered my passion for architecture.”

  The crease between Hugo’s eyebrows smooths, and the corners of his lips turn up into a winsome smile. If I were into men with sunny dispositions, I would have fallen for that smile back in high school. But I’m into an altogether different kind of man.

  “Well, what do you know,” he says. “Your passion for architecture may have triggered my career change. We’re a perfect match.”

  Before I open my mouth to agree, Hugo clears his throat and adds hastily, “Professionally speaking.” His voice sounds funny, and he’s avoiding my eyes.

  Huh?

  Could this be about that vague attraction we felt in our teens but never acted on for the sake of our friendship? Or was he reminded that said friendship hadn’t prevented me from skipping town seven years ago?

  Anyway, I prefer not to ask.

  “You were saying about your contractor license,” I prompt.

  “Remember I told you I’d finished the course, and they put me on the waiting list for the exam?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I got a call last night—someone forfeited their spot, so I can take the exam earlier than expected.”

  “Cool!”

  He hesitates. “It’s tomorrow.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, I’ll just tell them it’s too short notice. There’ll be another opportunity soon enough.” He takes the dustpan from me and empties it into the debris bag. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Yes it is! You’ve been ready for months now, and God knows when they’ll organize the next exam.”

  “But tomorrow is acceptance of work…” His expression is pained. “What if you need me?”

  I pat his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. René will be here tomorrow morning, but I doubt it will be necessary since we’ll be done this afternoon.”

  To be honest, it’s a bummer Hugo won’t be here tomorrow, but I refuse to hold him back just so I can sleep easy tonight. He’s worked so hard and accomplished so much in one year as a workman that he deserves a shot at getting his contractor certification. Besides, his getting a license dovetails with my big plans for our small business.

  “OK… if you’re sure,” he says, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

  I nod—and realize that my hand is still clutching Hugo’s well-muscled upper arm. I let go, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. Regardless of our history, we work together now, which means I need to watch my body language. Or, to spell it out, stop groping my business partner’s upper body at every lame opportunity.

  Trouble is, Hugo is gropesome as hell. Just like that huge teddy bear Claire gave me one Christmas. I ignored it in public (what self-respecting thirteen-year-old wouldn’t snub a stuffed animal?), but I cuddled it every night. When I moved out at eighteen and told Claire she could give the bear away, it took me several months to learn to fall asleep without its squashy presence.

  Hugo’s like that bear.

  He’s a black belt in judo, and has the body for it—tall and brawny—yet he’s remarkably unthreatening. If anything, he’s reassuring. Must be his brown eyes that hold enough kindness to make the Dalai Lama look like a villain in an old spaghetti western. Or perhaps it’s his tousled mop of rust-colored hair. It could also be his mild manners and soft, caressing voice. Even his bulging muscles are cozy. And yes, I’m aware that “cozy” is an odd qualifier for muscles, but as far as Hugo’s muscles are concerned, it totally works.

  So, yeah, I always feel like touching him, but it’s only because Hugo Bonnet is a big, cuddly teddy bear that’s perfect for comforting hugs. Any other kind of embrace with a teddy bear would be a sick, disgusting perversion.

  They don’t even have privates, for heaven’s sake.

  Feeling the color warming my ears, I turn to scrutinize the wall as if I saw something on it. “You can take your exam tomorrow. Really.”

  He says nothing.

  OK, time to change the topic.

  “Tell me, do you still miss the south?” I ask, turning back to him.

  “Sometimes.” He smiles. “Although not as much as I used to. Nîmes is a lovely town,
but Paris is… well, it’s Paris.”

  My lips quirk—metaphors have never been his strength.

  “Does Diane like it here?” he asks.

  My foster sister arrived in the capital two weeks ago. She’s crashing with me until she can find a job as a photographer or any part-time job that isn’t too “shitty.” She’s given herself a month to do that. If she fails, she’ll go back to Nîmes and try her luck there once again.

  I shrug. “Diane never likes anything. Or anyone, for that matter. She tolerates things.”

  Lucky for her.

  Were she a more affectionate kind of person, I wouldn’t vouch for her life, what with sleeping under the same roof as me once again.

  “You’re too hard on her,” Hugo says. “She’s a good girl, deep inside.”

  “She’s aggravating.”

  She really is… on occasion. And not nearly as much as I would’ve liked her to be.

  OK, let’s move on. “And you still have no regrets about turning your back on the family business?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Aren’t your mom and dad upset?”

  “A little. But, hey, they’ve had a year to get used to that idea. Give them another month, and it’ll all be water under the bridge.”

  “Ever the optimist, huh?”

  “I know my parents. They see the glass half-full.”

  I nod. “And what about the bakery?”

  “They’ll hate selling it when the time comes, considering how much they love it.” He shrugs. “But they love their children more.”

  From what I remember of Yvette and Hervé Bonnet, Hugo’s words aren’t just wishful thinking. I can’t recall ever seeing those two people sulk. Hugo and his sister have inherited their parents’ upbeat outlook, bless their sweet hearts. Only Jeanne counterbalances her kindness with a good measure of sass, while Hugo’s more introverted.

  “Bubble Wrap Bonnet and Wool Bonnet,” Lionel used to call them when he was still well enough to make jokes.

  I whirl around and march down the hallway to the family room.

  We’re almost done with this site. After a month of drilling, pipe fitting, and redecorating, the place looks exactly how I’d imagined. I stroke the polished wood of the railing that leads up to the second floor. René’s a first-rate carpenter, one of the best in Paris, and he’s done a fantastic job with the staircase and closets. This whole project has been great fun for many reasons, the owners’ attitude being one of them. It’s rare in my profession to come across a client who gives you free rein to redo her home the way you see fit.