A woman sitting at the table in front of me turns and gives me an icy stare. She calls Lyonette over and scratches her on the head, telling her what a good doggy she is. Why this pretentious poodle deserves praise is beyond me.
I wait while Pierre makes his way toward me. It takes him a while as people stop to congratulate him. I hope they’re also handing him fistfuls of euros for the orphanages. When he eventually reaches me, he brushes his fingers up my arms, across my shoulders, then cups my face in his hands.
Before he can kiss me, I turn my head. “Whoa, not here, mister. Half of France’s upper crust, along with one very obnoxious poodle, are watching.”
“But the French are very passionate people. They see nothing wrong with kissing a beautiful woman in public.”
“This isn’t about them. This is about me.” I twist my body, slipping out of his grasp. Pointing at the nearest exit, I lead him out of the ballroom and into the adjacent courtyard. Looking around to make sure we’re not observed, I pull him behind a large trellis of roses that hides us from view.
I smile. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“Is this the American version of hide and seek?” He jokes as he peeks around the trellis. “Can we play tag next?”
“Yeah, tag, you’re it.” I punch him playfully. I feel his bicep tense as my knuckles graze him. I slowly unclench my fist, raking my fingers against his muscular arm. He shivers and his breath quickens. With my other hand, I do the same thing on his other arm. Then I trace a path with my fingernails from each of his arms to the center of his chest. When I reach the middle, I grab his lapels, pulling him toward me.
“I like how you Americans play tag.”
Then he kisses me. It isn’t a gentle kiss. It isn’t a tentative kiss. It’s the kind of kiss a man gives someone when he knows exactly what he wants. And he wants me.
He presses me against the wall, his kiss leaving me breathless.
The sensation is overwhelming.
Suddenly, he pulls back. His hazel eyes are unreadable. He holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering.
I inhale sharply. Is he going to say this is a mistake? Is he going to make a hasty departure? My stomach is twisted in knots. He stares at me for a beat, then a cocky grin slowly spreads across his face.
He taps me on the arm. “Tag, you’re it.”
So I kiss him. It isn’t a gentle kiss. It isn’t a tentative kiss. It’s the kind of kiss a woman gives someone when she knows exactly what she wants. And I want him.
I pull him toward me, my kiss leaving him breathless.
The sensation overwhelms me. I have no doubt that the sensation overwhelms him too.
Then a woman’s sharp voice says, “Lyonette, ici,” and I’m overwhelmed by a completely different sensation—fear. Fear of being discovered.
I send a silent prayer up to the gods of hide and seek—Please don’t let that horrible dog find us.
The gods are apparently playing their own game of hide and seek because they’re nowhere to be found. Lyonette barrels toward us, knocking down the trellis in the process.
“Pierre,” the woman snaps.
Oh, no. I know that voice. It’s the hotel director. Encountering her in the ladies’ room was bad enough. Now she and her interfering poodle have to turn up and ruin everything.
I try to burrow into Pierre’s chest. I’m short. Maybe she won’t see me.
No such luck. Pierre turns, leaving me exposed. I give a half-hearted wave. She ignores me. Her dog, on the other hand, bares her teeth and growls.
Pierre smiles at the director, bending down to kiss her on each cheek. Then he turns and formally introduces me to her. “Maman, je te présente Mia. Elle travaille à la galerie d’art.”
You don’t have to be fluent in French to understand the critical word in that sentence—maman. The director of the hotel is Pierre’s mother. She may not have given birth to him, but she’s the woman he considers to be his mom. Fluency in French isn’t required to translate her response either. Her body language makes it crystal clear—she’s going to do everything in her power to keep the two of us apart.
9
Sweating in a Snowsuit
Pierre’s mother crooks her perfectly manicured finger at him, then turns and walks briskly back into the ballroom. Lyonette trots along next to her, the toilet paper stuck to her paw flicking back and forth.
Pierre loosens his bowtie, then runs his fingers through his sandy-brown hair. “I better go talk to her. Wait for me here?”
He doesn’t wait for my response. To be honest, I don’t know how I would have replied.
I could have said something like, “Sure, no problem. I’ll stay here and twiddle my thumbs while you explain to your mother why you’re making out with an American girl who is clearly unsuited to your social standing.”
Or maybe something along the lines of, “You don’t seriously expect me to wait around while you run off with your tail between your legs like some sort of mama’s boy? No way, buddy, I’m out of here.”
I’m torn. Should I stay or should I go? With an old song from the punk rock band, The Clash, playing through my head, I weigh up the pros and cons.
If I go, then Pierre will know that I’m no pushover. He’ll get the message that I’m a strong woman who does just fine on her own, thank you very much.
I smooth down my dress, straighten my shoulders, and inhale deeply. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to march on out of here, head held high.
But as I turn to leave, my stomach starts growling. “Hey, wait a minute, Mia,” it says. “If you leave, you’re going to miss a seriously good meal. Lobster bisque to start, followed by steak au poivre, and finished off with apple tarte tatin. You don’t want to skip that, do you? You can swallow your pride and stay, can’t you? For little old me, please?”
I pat my tummy. “With all the pastries I’ve been eating, you’re not all that little anymore. Besides, we don’t want Pierre to assume he has me wrapped around his little finger, do we? He didn’t even wait for my answer. He just assumed that I’d stay here, fixed to this spot, waiting for him to return.”
“Well, I guess you do have a point,” my stomach says, in between loud gurgles. “But, if we go, can we stop at that kebab place on the way back to the hotel?”
My heart decides to intervene. “Enough with this food talk. We’re talking about how Mia feels, not how hungry you are.” Beating rapidly, it adds, “This is exactly like what happened at that Halloween dance Mia and her ex went to.”
I put my head in my hands, flashbacks to that night flooding my brain.
Naturally, the Halloween dance had been held at the country club. No surprise there. Folks like my ex don’t exactly rent out the high school gym and rely on the local sub shop for catering when they have a party. Nope, they need valets to park their cars, attendants in the restrooms to hand them towels, and waiters to ensure the champagne keeps flowing.
I remember being so excited about my costume. I spent hours making a replica of the white snowsuit Princess Leia wore on the planet Hoth, keeping it a secret from my ex. When he picked me up, I twirled around, a huge grin on my face. But his only reaction was to raise his eyebrows and say, “Don’t you think you’re going to be hot?”
When we got to the country club, he was distant. Normally, I had to fend off his public displays of affection, but this time, he didn’t even try to hold my hand. After getting me a drink, he told me to wait for me at the bar while he spoke with someone about an important business deal.
By “someone,” he meant all the women in attendance. I watched as he flirted with the girls my age—all of whom were dressed up in sexy, skin-revealing costumes—fawned over the married ladies, and schmoozed the elderly widows.
I waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, I had to remove my parka, totally ruining my Princess Leia look. He had been right. I was boiling. Boiling from how hot it was in the bar and boiling from rage as he continued to ign
ore me.
Eventually, his mother took pity on me. At least that’s what, in my naivety, I thought it was at the time. But it really was condescension. While I wiped sweat off my brow, she suggested I go home and change into something more comfortable. She even offered to have her chauffeur take me back to my apartment, and then, once I was ready, she suggested that I text her son to come pick me up.
You can probably figure out what happened. I went home. I changed my clothes. I texted my ex to come get me. I waited for him to respond. I waited for him some more. I texted him again and waited even more. Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch, clutching my lightsaber to my chest like a security blanket.
A low growl jolts me back to the present. This time it isn’t my stomach; it’s Lyonette. The poodle is sniffing at the hem of my dress. Then she crouches on the ground near me, fixing her beady eyes on me, as if to say, “Have I got a little surprise for you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare pee on my dress.”
Stepping back just in time, I scowl as she finishes her bio-break. When she’s done, she scratches the flagstone patio, then barks sharply at me. Her meaning is clear. “Snap to it and clean this mess up, loser.”
I give her the finger. Yes, that’s what it’s come to; I’m flipping dogs off. Realizing that the evening isn’t going to get any better, I hightail it out of there, leaving Lyonette to find some other human to do her bidding.
* * *
Pierre texted me that night, asking where I had disappeared to. Rather than get into it, I told him that I had eaten one too many hors d’oeuvres and went home with an upset stomach. They say that if you’re going to lie to someone, to base it on a partial truth. I had eaten too many hors d’oeuvres. Who can say no to crème fraîche tartlets? Or caramelized figs topped with smoky bacon? Not this girl. Plus, there was that kebab that I ate on the way back to the hotel. That didn’t help matters.
The next day, it was easy to make excuses for not catching up. Pierre was busy with a board meeting for his charity during the day, then he worked the night shift. I was occupied at the art gallery with a constant stream of customers during the day, followed by spending the evening putting together promotional materials for the upcoming photography exhibition.
But now it’s Monday, and I can’t avoid him any longer. Probably because he’s standing right in front of me holding a chocolate croissant.
“Is your stomach feeling better?” he asks, waving it under my nose.
The smell of chocolate is intoxicating. So is the smell of Pierre’s cologne. I want them both. But I know that only one of these two temptations is good for me.
So I grab the high-calorie pastry from his hand.
He laughs while I cram it in my mouth. Ladylike I am not, especially when it comes to chocolate croissants.
“I guess you are feeling better. Dinner tonight?” he asks. “I know a place that serves the best cassoulet outside of Carcossonne.”
I tap the glossy catalog on the counter. “Sorry, I have to proofread this so that we can get changes made in time for the opening night of the photography exhibition.”
Yes, that was only partially true. I do have to review the catalog, but there’s time before I have to get the final changes to the printer.
After Pierre leaves, Amélie gives me a stern look. “If you don’t want to go out with him, you should just say so.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to go out with him, it’s that I don’t want to . . .”
“Don’t want to what, chérie?”
I opt for the full truth this time. “I don’t want to fall for him.”
She gives me a wry smile. “I think it’s too late for that.”
I chew on my lip. She’s right. Not only am I telling fibs to Pierre, I’m lying to myself.
“Okay, I admit it,” I say. “I like him. But I’m definitely not head over heels—”
“Head over heels? What does this mean?”
I scratch my head, trying to figure out how to explain the expression to her. Learning idioms in foreign languages is so hard, at least for me. Like, “avoir un coup de foudre,” which literally means to be struck by lightning. But its idiomatic meaning is “to fall in love at first sight.” Not that I know anything about that. No, sirree. I’m not in love with Pierre. I’m just attracted to him.
“Head over heels?” Amélie prompts.
“It’s when you’re so madly in love with someone that it feels like you’re tumbling head over heels.”
Amélie still looks perplexed. “Tumbling?”
Sometimes, it’s easier to demonstrate something than explain it. I look around to make sure that we’re the only ones in the gallery. Then I do a somersault.
Okay, talk about a really bad decision. As my back strikes the floor, I realize that marble is really hard. There was a reason why we used padded mats back when I did gymnastics. I think I’m going to need chiropractic treatment after this. Being impetuous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. If Isabelle had been in my situation, she would have thought through this carefully, decided demonstrating a somersault was extremely misguided, and figured out how to explain “head over heels” with actual words, rather than her body.
As I complete the somersault, I realize that this is actually worse than a bad decision. Pierre’s mother is standing there, her jaw slack.
But, wait, it gets even worse. Lyonette is right by her side. Apparently, she interprets my gymnastic move as an invitation to play with her chew toy. And guess who her chew toy is.
* * *
I grab a wet washcloth from the bathroom in the back and sponge dog drool off my face and arms. It’s going to be harder to fix the rips in my top.
Amélie knocks on the door. “It’s safe to come out. They’re gone.”
I peek out, making sure there aren’t any vicious dogs lying in wait. Who knows? Lyonette could have been holding a gun to Amélie’s head, forcing her to tell me that the coast is clear. Realizing that the lack of opposable thumbs might make hostage-taking a challenge, even for the most determined poodle, I finally step out of the bathroom.
When Amélie sees me, she removes her cardigan and hands it to me. “This will hide the tears in your blouse. La directrice d’hôtel will have a replacement sent to your room later today.”
“Pierre’s mother is going to replace my top? I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?” Amélie seems genuinely puzzled.
“Uh, well, she could have stopped her dog from attacking me in the first place.”
“Attacking you? Non, the dog was playing. That means that she likes you. She does that all the time with Pierre. It is, what do you call it . . . tough-homing?”
“You mean rough-housing?”
She nods, repeating the expression slowly. “Knowing her, la directrice will most likely send you several new blouses. And they will all be designer labels.”
“Of course, they will be,” I say dryly. “That’s probably why she sicced her dog on me. She thinks my off-the-rack clothes aren’t good enough to work here at the hotel.”
Amélie cocks her head to one side. “Au contraire. She appreciates people who have a unique sense of style like you do. It would not matter to her where you got your clothes.”
“With people like her, that’s all that matters.”
“I think, perhaps, that is because you do not know her.” Amélie leans in and lowers her voice. “She shows a tough exterior to the world, but there is good reason for that. She is a lioness. She protects those closest to her. Sometimes, that comes off as cold and hard, but, I promise you, that is not what she is like inside.”
I don’t want to get into an argument with Amélie. Ever since I came to Paris, she’s taken me under her wing and given me the most amazing opportunities. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say evenly.
Her phone rings. “Ah, it is Madame Vernier. I have to take this.”
While Amélie chats with Madame Vernier about catering for the op
ening night reception, I flip through the proof copy of the exhibition catalog. The photographs that will be displayed are amazing. It’s art at multiple levels—the art created by tattooists using ink on skin and the interpretation of that art by the photographers through their camera lenses.
Amélie hangs up the phone and turns to me, a playful smile on her lips. “It is a good thing you told Pierre you are busy tonight.”
I furrow my brow. A few minutes ago, Amélie was chastising me for lying to Pierre.
“I need you to go to the Voodoo Hoodoo Tattoo Parlor tonight. One of our featured tattoo artists is going to be there, and a photographer is going to be there to take pictures of him in action. I need you to be there to coordinate everything.” She gives me a teasing look. “Unless you’d rather stay here and proofread the catalog?”
“No way. Visiting the Voodoo Hoodoo has been on my list of things to do in Paris. Count me in. Who’s the tattoo artist?”
“Dominic de Santis.”
I squeal like a guinea pig. And I’m not ashamed of it either. Dominic de Santis is my tattoo artist crush. My idol. If I could be a tenth as good as him, I’d be ecstatic.
As I twirl around in circles, squealing and clapping my hands together, Amélie laughs. Then she says more seriously, “You don’t mind if Monsieur de Santis does a small tattoo on you for the photographs, do you? They want to document his process.”
I gulp, realizing that I’ve never told Amélie that I don’t have any tattoos of my own, let alone why. What would she think if I told her I’m afraid of needles? Heck, what would Dominic de Santis think? I don’t know of any other tattoo artists who don’t have tattoos. Is it time for me to bite the bullet and get one of my own?
* * *
When I arrive at Voodoo Hoodoo, I pause on the sidewalk and take it all in. Its quirkiness fits in with the other buildings on this uber-cool street. The building is painted black, the door is a glossy cherry apple red, and the shutters are made out of corrugated metal. But what really catches my eye are the hundreds of voodoo dolls that have been attached to the exterior.
Smitten with Croissants Page 9
