I open the taxi door, but before I can get out, Pierre pulls me back in. “You can’t possibly be serious about staying here.”
“I’m sure it’s fine inside,” I say. “The landlord did warn me that they were doing renovations to the building. That’s why the rent is so cheap.”
As I scoot out of the taxi, I hear Pierre telling the driver to wait for us. When I try to open the trunk to get my bag, Pierre puts his hand on top of mine and shakes his head. “No, you’re not staying here.”
I snatch my hand away. “Of course I am. Do you know how hard it is to find an apartment in Paris that I can afford? Do you expect me to sleep on the street?”
“The street would be better than this place.”
I spin around and flounce up the stairs, avoiding the piles of garbage in my path. When I try to pull the front door open, it won’t budge. Pierre comes up behind me and yanks forcefully on the handle, his biceps bulging underneath his t-shirt. The door pulls free from the hinges, and Pierre sets it to the side.
“After you, my lady,” he says, bowing at the waist.
I cautiously walk inside, gagging at the stench, which I suspect is coming from the black mold peeking out from behind the peeling wallpaper.
Pierre looks at me, his hazel eyes steely. “Seen enough?”
“No. I haven’t seen my apartment yet. It’s on the fourth floor. They’re probably doing renovations from the top floor downward.” I dash up the stairs, calling out behind me. “Come on. I bet you twenty euros that it’s really charming.”
By the time I make it to my floor, I’m gasping for breath. I had forgotten that the French number their floors differently. What we call the first floor, they call the ground floor. Our second floor is their first floor, and so on. So when I got to what I thought was the fourth floor, it turns out it was only the third floor. It was a struggle to climb that final set of stairs, let me tell you.
When we reach my apartment, Pierre pokes his head inside. “This is charming?”
“Well, at least I don’t need your help to open the door.”
“That’s because there isn’t a door,” he says dryly.
“Technicalities,” I say, following him into the main living area.
“There aren’t any windows either. Is that another one of your technicalities?” Pierre folds his arms across his chest. “This is definitely not charmant.”
Before I can argue with him, a rat scurries across the floor and stops in front of me. He raises himself on his hind legs, sniffs the air, then starts to climb up my jeans. I scream and drop my bouquet. Fortunately, the rat jumps off my leg. Unfortunately, he begins feasting on one of the almond filled croissants.
“Tell you what,” Pierre says. “You can forget about the twenty euros you owe me if you agree that you’re not going to stay here.”
“Agreed. But where am I going to stay?” I put my head in my hands.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
By the time we’re back at the taxi, he’s arranged accommodations for me. “It’s perfect for you. No commute to work.”
“What do you mean ‘no commute’?”
“I got you a room at the Hôtel de la Marmotte.”
I gulp. Hôtel de la Marmotte is where the art gallery I’m going to be working at is located. It’s also one of the trendiest hotels in Paris. “There’s no way I can afford that.”
“The concierge is a buddy of mine. He’s arranged for you to stay in it for free for as long as you need. It’s a spare room that the hotel normally keeps vacant.” Pierre puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “It’s all taken care of. I’ll have the taxi drop off your luggage at the hotel and you and I can walk to the Louvre.”
My jaw tightens. Pierre is starting to sound like my ex-husband. Swooping in and saving the damsel in distress. Taking care of things. Calling in favors from his buddies for the little woman. I want so desperately to refuse Pierre’s offer, but what choice do I have? Finding another apartment is going to take some time. I’m too exhausted from the train ride to tackle that now. And, besides, the Louvre awaits.
* * *
“I can’t believe I finally got to see the Mona Lisa,” I say to Pierre as we leave the Louvre. Pausing to take a picture of the glass pyramid structure that towers over the museum courtyard, I try to decide whether I like the juxtaposition of I.M. Pei’s modern design with the classic French Renaissance architecture of the original building.
I decide that I do like it. In a way it’s like what I do—taking classic oil paintings and transforming them into something new using tattoo needles and ink.
“Did you have any other favorites?” Pierre asks as he hails a taxi.
“Oh, yes. The one by Georges le Tour.”
“Which one was that again?”
“The Card Sharp with the Ace of Diamonds,” I say. “It was the one depicting a card game.”
“Oh, yeah. That poor guy. Oblivious to the fact that he’s being cheated.”
“Serves him right, don’t you think? Wealthy people think they’re so entitled. It’s nice to see them get their comeuppance, even if it’s only in an oil painting from the 1600s.”
Pierre furrows his brow. “That’s not really what you think about rich people, is it?”
“Maybe they’re not all like that,” I concede.
Pierre is quiet during the ride to the hotel. Occasionally, he points out landmarks, like the Jardin des Tuilieres and the Place de la Concorde, but for the most part, he stares at his phone, a pained expression in his eyes. I wonder if it’s a touch of indigestion. We did eat a lot of the croissants before I sacrificed the rest of the bouquet to the rat.
“We’re here,” he announces. “Notice the panes in the windows and the absence of rodents?”
“Ha-ha.” I’ve come to terms with staying at this luxury hotel while I look for another apartment to rent. Sure, I don’t like that Pierre had to come to my rescue, and he probably could have done with less of a take-charge attitude, but he’s a nice guy who’s just trying to come to my aid.
As one of the bellboys opens the door and helps me out of the taxi, I stifle a laugh. I can’t picture Pierre wearing this get-up—a red, double-breasted fitted jacket with a band collar, gold trim, and way too many buttons, paired with a matching pillbox hat. It looks like something an organ grinder’s monkey would wear, not a grown man.
Pierre and the bellboy joke around with each other for a few moments while I stare in awe at the ornate marble facade of the hotel. This place is so fancy that even the members of the country club back home might feel uncomfortable here.
A woman wearing a gray suit rushes out. “Pierre, la directrice de l’hôtel aimerait te voir. Bouge-toi.”
I give him a sideways glance. “Hmm . . . The director of the hotel wants to see you. That can’t be good.”
He sighs. “No. I can’t imagine it is.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Just be your usual charming self and sweet talk her.”
He gives me a wry smile, then places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me into the lobby. “Jean-Paul, can you look after Mia while I take care of something?”
A distinguished-looking older man comes round from the concierge’s desk, takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Jean-Paul, you smooth talker, you.” Pierre pulls my hand away and cups it between his. I smile at the reference to that cute scene in The Empire Strikes Back where Lando Calrissian flirts with Princess Leia. “Save it for your wife.”
Jean-Paul holds his hands up. “Ah, do not worry. My wife is the only woman I have eyes for.”
“How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Almost thirty-five years.” Jean-Paul beams as he tells me how he met his wife.
The woman in the gray suit waves urgently at Pierre.
“I have to go,” Pierre says to me. “Jean-Paul is the head co
ncierge at Hôtel de la Marmotte. Any questions you have about the hotel or Paris, he can help you with.”
“Go, go,” Jean-Paul says. “I’ll get Mia settled in her accommodations, then introduce her to Amélie.”
“Amélie is the manager of the art gallery and Jean-Paul’s wife,” Pierre explains before he rushes off.
Jean-Paul chuckles. “It’s good to have him back in Paris. I’ve known him since he was a baby. He’s grown into a fine young man.”
“Ooh, I bet you have some great stories about him as a kid.”
“I certainly do. And for the right price, I’ll tell you, especially the embarrassing ones.” Jean-Paul hands me his business card. “Now, first things first. These are my contact details. If you need anything at all, let me know.”
“Thanks, that’s really sweet.” I inspect the card, smiling at the hotel’s quirky logo of a yellow-bellied marmot sitting in a claw-foot bathtub. I love that they’ve named this hotel after an adorable furry rodent. The place might be fancy, but it also has a sense of humor.
Then I frown when I read the small print underneath the hotel’s name—a Toussaint property.
“Toussaint,” I muse. “That’s Pierre’s last name.”
Jean-Paul cocks his head to one side. “Yes, that’s correct. Pierre Toussaint.”
I chuckle. “For a minute there, I thought he was related to the owners of this hotel, but I guess it’s a pretty common name.”
“But he is related to the owners. They are his parents. Didn’t you know? Pierre is the heir to the Toussaint fortune.”
5
Love is Like a Toothache
“The Toussaint fortune?” I splutter. “What are you telling me? Pierre is some sort of billionaire?”
Jean-Paul smiles. “I have no idea what his net worth is. It’s not something we discuss. We talk about more important things like the rugby.”
“Pierre plays rugby?” I’ve always been fascinated by rugby. Men in striped jerseys and shorts engaged in a full contact sport, which is similar in some ways to American football, but without the protective gear.
“He did when he was in college, but then he was injured.”
Rugby explains a lot. His confidence, which borders on cockiness at times. His slightly misshapen left ear. His broad shoulders. His muscular chest. His—
Whoa. I need to stop this train of thought. Get your mind out of the gutter, Mia. Remember who Pierre is—a rich, pretentious guy who likes to dole out favors so that you’ll bow down and worship him. He is not someone who you should fantasize about. Focus.
“So, Jean-Paul, tell me about Pierre’s injury. What happened?” There, that should be a safe topic. Injured guys are so unsexy.
Jean-Paul’s face clouds over. “That’s something you should probably ask him about.”
“Okay . . . well maybe you can answer this. If he’s so rich, why is he working as a bellboy? Shouldn’t he be wearing a suit and tie, sitting in some fancy boardroom, sipping on scotch and counting his money?”
“Pierre wants to learn all aspects of the hotel business. It’s important to him to have hands-on experience. Earlier this year, he worked as a receptionist at the front desk. Before that, he was a dishwasher in the kitchen. After his rotation as a bellboy, he’s going to work for me as an assistant concierge.”
“Won’t that be strange—you being the boss of the, well, the, um, boss?”
“Pierre has a . . . what do you call it . . . he has an egalitarian spirit. He thinks everyone is equal.”
I guess I can see how people might think that. Pierre was joking around with the bellboys earlier, and the woman from the front desk spoke to him informally, telling him to hurry up. But at the end of the day, the boss is the boss.
“And don’t forget. I’ve known Pierre since he was a baby. I’ve even changed his diapers. He knows who’s boss.”
Jean-Paul chuckles. It’s infectious—a mixture of Santa Claus-style ho-ho-hos and Mr. Rogers’ more sedate laughter. I find myself joining in, my grin turning to full-fledged belly laughs as I picture Pierre in a baby-sized rugby jersey and diapers.
When I catch my breath, I ask about Pierre’s stint as a waiter. “Does his family own the cruise ship?”
“No, they are strictly hoteliers. The cruise ship line is owned by friends of the family. Rather than work at one of the hotel restaurants, Pierre thought it would be a good idea to get experience as a waiter elsewhere because . . .” Jean-Paul’s voice trails off. He gives me a penetrating gaze, then stares at the floor. “Perhaps you should ask—”
“Ask Pierre? Got it.”
Jean-Paul looks back up at me. “We’re all delighted that he’s back now. He seems so happy since he returned. I think you have something to do with that.”
“Me?”
He grins. “Yes, you. In fact, I haven’t seen him this happy since he came back from Africa.”
I shake my head. “Africa?”
“Hasn’t he told you about his time in Africa?”
“No,” I say slowly. Now that I think about it, Pierre hasn’t told me much about himself. All we seem to talk about is Star Wars, croissants, and tattoos. “What was he doing in Africa?”
Not surprisingly, Jean-Paul gives me an evasive answer.
“Never mind,” I say. “I get it. It’s something I should ask Pierre about.”
“That would be best,” the older man says. “Now, why don’t I show you to your room? You can freshen up before you meet Amélie.”
As Jean-Paul leads the way to the elevator, I ponder our conversation. In a short space of time, I’ve discovered there’s a lot I didn’t know about Pierre. He’s loaded. He has a mysterious injury. He’s spent time in Africa. And, for some reason, he didn’t want to work as a waiter at one of his family’s hotels.
What other secrets is he hiding from me?
* * *
Jean-Paul inserts the key card and opens the door to my new accommodations. After he carries my suitcase in for me, I walk into the room, my feet sinking into the plush oriental carpet.
As I set my Star Wars backpack on a carved wooden console table, I check out my surroundings. Oddly, there’s no bed. Just living room furniture. But this isn’t the kind of furniture you’d find in your average American’s home. No, there is some seriously fancy stuff going on here. A large bay window is flanked by a Louis the Sixteenth settee and armchairs . . . or is that Louis the Fifteenth? Why all these old rich dudes all had to have the same name is beyond me. Anyway, the point is that this is the type of stuff royalty would sit primly on while sipping sherry or whatever it is that people drank back then, not a sectional couch from Ikea that a dude named Lou would lounge on in his boxer shorts munching on a bag of potato chips.
What really perplexes me is figuring out where I’m supposed to sleep. I’m pretty sure the settee isn’t hiding a foldaway bed inside its silk, toile upholstery fabric. I turn to ask Jean-Paul about it, but he’s disappeared. I peek behind the heavy brocade curtains, but he’s not hiding there. He isn’t on the balcony either, or behind the potted plants.
Okay, I really doubt that a distinguished-looking Parisian concierge is playing hide and seek, but it does give me a good opportunity to have a nosy.
As I’m looking in the closet, I hear someone clear their throat. Jean-Paul is standing in a doorway that I assume leads to the bathroom.
“Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” I say.
“If you’ll let me know which bedroom you prefer, I’ll place your suitcase in there.”
“Which bedroom? You mean there’s more than one?”
“Yes,” Jean-Paul says nonchalantly. “They’re back this way, across from the kitchen and dining room.”
I rub my temples. “Kitchen, dining room, bedrooms . . . this isn’t a simple hotel room, is it?”
“Well, this is a bit simpler than some of our suites. It doesn’t have a humidor or sauna.”
“Considering I don�
�t smoke cigars or like to sweat, I think I can live with that.”
Jean-Paul smiles kindly at me, and I instantly regret my sarcastic tone.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that this is really overwhelming. When Pierre offered me the spare hotel room to stay in temporarily, I envisioned a converted broom closet.”
“You’re probably tired from your trip. You took the overnight train from Italy, right? Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll arrange for you to meet Amélie later.” Jean-Paul looks at his watch. “Shall we say two hours from now?”
A nap does sound good. I pick the bedroom that’s decorated in subdued blue tones. The only pop of color is a large oil painting of a marmot hanging above the fireplace. It makes me smile. A painting of a marmot wearing a Scottish kilt and tam isn’t exactly something you expect to find in a fancy hotel suite. But that’s what this place is known for—its quirky touches.
I lie down on the four-poster bed and exhale slowly. What am I going to do? I can’t in good conscience stay here. Rolling over on my side, I press my face into the soft down pillow. Again, not the type of pillow you’d buy at Ikea. This thing is probably stuffed with phoenix feathers. And, yes, I know that phoenixes are mythical creatures. But, if you’re wealthy, you can probably employ a team of geneticists to create your very own phoenix in a lab, just so you can pluck its feathers for your pillows.
The phoenix pillows do their job, and I feel myself drifting off to sleep. An hour later, the alarm on my phone jolts me awake. There’s nothing worse than waking up abruptly when you’re having a weird dream. And a dream of Pierre playing rugby while dressed in a marmot costume is pretty weird.
While I take a bath—complete with begonia-scented bubbles and rubber duckies—I consider my options. Stay at the hotel and take the art gallery job or move into the boarded-up, rat-infested apartment and try to find another paying gig.
Smitten with Croissants Page 5
