Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Are you saying she had a boytoy?”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Her secret boytoy. She never told any of her friends and family that she had gotten married. Eventually, she got bored with him, and came back to France for a while. Pierre had just come back from Africa and the two of them starting spending time together. Then one day, a gossip magazine discovered Giselle’s secret husband. It’s the kind of juicy scandal they love to print. Pierre was furious when the article came out. She laughed it off, saying that the Brazilian guy didn’t mean anything to her.”

  “I can see how Pierre would be upset that Giselle was cheating on her husband.”

  “But it was more than that,” Gladys says. “It was also the fact that Giselle abandoned the poor guy, like a dog abandons a toy they’ve tired of. When it came time to do his rotation as a waiter, he decided he needed to get out of Paris and away from Giselle.”

  “That explains a lot.” I twirl a lock of my hair, then stifle a laugh. I had forgotten that I had dyed it blue. Earlier today, I would have been worried about what Pierre’s mother would think of my hair color, but now that I’ve gotten to know Gladys de Dakota du Nord, things are different. I take a deep breath, then say, “I was married once. When Pierre found out about it, well . . .”

  “He was angry,” she says quietly.

  “He told you?”

  “No, he hasn’t said anything to me. Amélie told me what happened.” She cocks her head to one side. “I had an impulse to visit the Eiffel Tower today. It’s not normally something I would do, but I was drawn here for some reason. And I think that reason was you. It was a chance to get to know you.”

  I raise my glass and clink it against hers. “And for me to get to know you too.”

  15

  A Star Wars Tangent

  I tell Gladys everything about my short-lived marriage. She listens intently. There’s no judgment, only understanding. Eventually, I run out of steam and out of stories. The experience has left me feeling lighter and deeply relaxed, almost like I’ve had a gentle massage at a spa.

  As we part ways at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, Gladys tells me that Pierre can be stubborn. “You’ll have to be the one to reach out to him. After what happened with Giselle, he’ll be skittish about trusting you.”

  I take her hands and squeeze them. “I do care for your son, but I’m not sure that’s enough. I know you were able to adapt to this world, but I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. Pierre and I weren’t meant to be together. We need different things out of life.”

  “Nonsense. You two are perfect for each other. Once you and my son have a heart-to-heart, you’ll see that too.” She kisses me on the cheek, then gets into her car. Before the chauffeur closes the door, she adds, “You just have to believe, Mia.”

  As her car speeds away, I pull my phone out. So much has happened that I can’t process it. I feel like my head is going to explode. It’s time for a debrief with the girls.

  Isabelle is the first to dial into the video chat. I turn my phone around so she can see the Eiffel Tower.

  “What was it like at the top?” she asks.

  “Full of fish eggs and bubbles,” I say.

  She laughs. “You say the weirdest things.”

  Ginny pops on. “What did I miss?”

  “Mia is at the Eiffel Tower,” Isabelle says.

  “Did you know that a man cycled down the stairs in 1923 for a bet?” Ginny asks. “He won the bet, but the police arrested him at the bottom.”

  “How do you keep all those random history tidbits in your brain?” I ask.

  Before Ginny can answer, I hear Celeste say, “How do I get this to work again?”

  “You’re pointing your phone at the floor, Celeste,” I say. “Turn it around . . . there you go.”

  Celeste waves at us once she gets into view. “Hello, girls. Ooh, Mia, I love your hair. Blue really suits you.”

  “It suits my mood,” I say.

  “You still haven’t patched things up with Pierre?” Celeste asks. “You really should.”

  “You sound just like his mother.”

  Ginny arches an eyebrow. “His mother? You mean the Ice Queen of France?”

  “Turns out she’s not as icy as I thought.”

  After I fill them in on my tête-à-tête with Gladys, Isabelle asks me what I’m going to do about Pierre. “Do you think his mom is right about the two of you belonging together?”

  “Look, I’ll be the first to admit that there’s something between the two of us—”

  Celeste chortles. “Something? A little something called love, that’s what it is.” Then she starts humming a show tune.

  “South Pacific?” I ask.

  “No, Oklahoma,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Never seen it.”

  “Well, here’s what we’re going to do, dear. I’m going to send you a ticket to Greece. You come visit, we’ll watch Oklahoma, and we’ll sort out your love life. It worked for Ginny. She had some baklava, we watched To Catch a Thief, and now she’s with the guy she was always meant to be with.”

  “That’s sweet, Celeste, but I can’t go to Greece. The photography exhibition opens next week, and I promised Amélie that I’d work at the art gallery until the end of the summer.”

  “Well, I’ll pop a ticket in the mail, just in case you change your mind.”

  “No, really, even if I could come to Greece, I would never let you buy my ticket.”

  Isabelle pipes up. “Mia has a hard time accepting gifts from people.”

  “My, oh my, if that isn’t the craziest thing I ever heard,” Celeste says. “What do you do on Christmas? Sit in the corner and play with crumpled up wrapping paper like a cat while everyone else opens up their presents?”

  “No, that’s different,” I say.

  “How so?”

  “Um, I spend Christmas with my family and friends.”

  Celeste gives me a mischievous smile. “So gifts from friends are okay?”

  Realizing I’ve been trapped in a corner, I quickly end the call, promising to touch base again with them after the photography exhibition.

  * * *

  A couple of days later, I get a cryptic phone call from Dominic de Santis asking if I can meet him at Voodoo Hoodoo that evening. The timing works well for me. I start work back at the art gallery tomorrow, and it’ll be crazy busy putting the finishing touches on the photography exhibition. There will be little enough time to eat and sleep, let alone to visit the coolest tattoo parlor in Paris.

  I spend the day puttering around Jean-Paul and Amélie’s apartment, then grab my backpack and walk to the Métro. Some people turn up their nose at public transportation, but I enjoy it. The buskers playing music outside the station, the eccentric characters sitting next to you on the train, the diversity of languages being spoken—it all adds to the vibe that is Paris.

  When I get to the tattoo parlor, Dominic greets me enthusiastically. “Your hair is fabulous. And your outfit is to die for. Now, come along. I want to get your advice about something.”

  “Me? My advice?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why I asked you to come here.” Snapping his fingers, he instructs his assistant to pour us some sparkling water, then grabs my hand. As he leads me toward the rear of the tattoo parlor, he tells me that everyone who is everyone is going to be at the opening night of the exhibition. “You will raise lots of money for those poor abandoned dogs. I’m thinking of adopting one. I have my eye on the most adorable Chihuahua.”

  When he pushes open the door to the back room, I gasp. Lying on the table is a man with a very familiar-looking back. Gazing at the elephant tattoo at the base of his neck and the yellow-bellied marmot tattoo on his right shoulder, I put my hands on my hips. “What exactly is going on here, Dominic?”

  “I thought that would have been obvious.” He points at the rock that the marmot is sitting on. “I need to finish this portion of the tattoo, and I want to get your advice on how
to do the shading.”

  Yeah, right. A world-renown celebrity tattoo artist wants my advice on something as basic as shading? Not very likely. “This is a set-up. Who put you up to this?”

  Pierre rolls over on his side, giving me a view of his sculpted abs. He fixes his eyes on Dominic. “Please tell me my mother didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Dominic puts his hand to his chest in mock horror. “I don’t know what you two think is going on here. I simply wanted to get the advice of a colleague on your tattoo.”

  “I bet it was Amélie,” I say.

  “Where is that girl with the sparkling water? I’m dying of thirst. I’m going to track her down.” Dominic waves his hand at us. “I’ll leave the two of you to discuss the marmot tattoo.”

  Pierre sits up on the table and runs his fingers through his hair. I want nothing more than to rush over and run my own fingers through his sandy-brown locks. The last time I touched his hair, it was incredibly soft. I’m dying to find out what conditioning product he uses, but that would seem like a weird question to ask in this particular moment.

  Instead, I lean against the wall, maintaining a safe distance between the two of us. “Do you think he’s coming back with water?”

  Pierre suppresses a smile. “I highly doubt it.”

  “Do you really think your mother arranged for us to run into each other here?” I ask.

  “I hope not,” he says. “She still doesn’t know that I have tattoos.”

  “Do you really think she’d be upset by them?”

  “Yeah.” He sighs. “Ever since I can remember, she told me that people with tattoos lack class. She can be a real snob sometimes. I’ve tried to tell her a million times that tattoos are mainstream now, but she’s got a real hang-up about it. I don’t know why.”

  “It probably has to do with what she experienced when she moved to Paris.”

  “Why do you think that?” Pierre asks, his brow furrowed.

  “It couldn’t have been easy being an American from a small town, suddenly finding herself thrown into French high society. She told me about—”

  Pierre pushes himself off the table and takes a step toward me. “You spoke with my mother?”

  “Uh, yeah . . .”

  He narrows his eyes. “When?”

  “A few days ago.” I fold my arms across my chest, unsure why he’s so agitated. “I ran into her at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Gladys and I had a good chat over champagne and caviar.”

  Pierre scrubs a hand across his chin, then bursts out laughing. “She told you her real name is Gladys? Wow, I think you’re the first person outside of me and my father who knows that. She insists on being called Juliette.”

  “Like I said, we had a good chat. Turns out we have a lot in common. We’re both from small towns, grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, and . . . ”

  Pierre takes another step forward, closing the gap between the two of us. “And what?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble, lowering my gaze and squeezing my arms tighter around my chest.

  “Tell me,” he says as he softly strokes my cheek. When I don’t respond, he gently kisses the top of my head, then trails kisses down my face, pausing to nibble on my earlobe. He slips his fingers underneath the collar of my blouse and pulls it back slightly. I gasp as he brushes his lips against my neck. He draws back and looks intently at me, his hazel eyes sparkling in the overhead light. “Tell me.”

  Snaking my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, I pull him back toward me. I run my hands up his bare chest, then loop them around the back of his neck. As he bends his head down to kiss me, I whisper, “And we both fell in love with French guys.”

  “Love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine. “You love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.” Then I start giggling. Totally inappropriate for the moment, I know.

  When Pierre looks at me quizzically, I explain. “Sorry. That scene from The Empire Strikes Back is playing in my head. The one where Princess Leia tells Han Solo that she loves him right before he’s about to be encased in carbonite and he replies, ‘I know.’”

  Pierre gives me a cocky grin. “Despite the fact that I own a Han Solo costume, I’m no Han Solo—”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” I say with a teasing tone. “You’re not nearly as good of a spaceship pilot as he is.”

  He puts a finger on my lips. “Let me finish. What I was going to say is that you should tell me you love me again and wait for my reply without going off on some Star Wars tangent.”

  “Star Wars tangent? Me? Never.” I hold my hands up in a mocking surrender fashion. My mouth grows dry as he grabs my wrists and presses me against the wall. As his lips near mine, I groan before uttering the words, “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he says, then kisses the side of my mouth.

  As his kisses become more intense, the door flies open. Dominic’s assistant is standing there with a tray. “Monsieur de Santis said that you two wanted some water.”

  * * *

  I’m mortified at being caught doing the smoochy-face thing. I grab the tray from Dominic’s assistant and practically run into the reception area. After setting the tray on the coffee table, I sink onto the red velvet couch.

  Pierre sits next to me and takes a sip of water. “That tastes good. It was getting hot in there, don’t you think?”

  My face feels flushed. I grab a glass and gulp down its contents. Then I burp. So ladylike, I know. But when you drink water that’s carbonated really quickly, well, sometimes things go terribly wrong.

  Pierre laughs, and I smack him playfully. He pours me some more water, which I sip more slowly this time.

  “So, we should probably talk,” I say.

  “Talk. That sounds serious. Wouldn’t you rather go back into that room and talk about my tattoo some more?” He winks. “And by ‘talk about my tattoo,’ I mean—”

  I hold my hand up. “I know exactly what you mean. But I think we’ve had enough tattoo talk for right now. Although, there is one tattoo-related question I have.”

  Pierre points toward the back room. “Shall we?”

  “I think we can discuss it out here,” I say with a smile.

  “Okay, shoot.” Pierre leans back in the couch.

  “It has to do with your scar. Dominic has done an amazing job incorporating it into the marmot tattoo. So naturally, I want to know how you got the scar.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Naturally.”

  “Jean-Paul told me that you had an injury which put an end to playing rugby in college. I assume this scar has something to do with it?” When he nods, I add, “I’ve figured out most of your secrets, but I still don’t know the story behind this one.”

  “Secrets? I don’t have any secrets from you.”

  “Hah. When I met you, you were a waiter. You never told me you were a billionaire. That’s a pretty big secret.”

  Pierre runs his fingers around the rim of his glass. After a beat, he takes my hand in his. “Listen, I get that the fact that I come from money is a big deal to you, but it’s not what defines me. I wasn’t drawn to you because of your financial status. When I first met you, I was attracted to the fact that you were a Star Wars geek like me.”

  “You weren’t attracted to me because of how gorgeous I am?” I say in a mocking tone.

  His expression grows serious. “Mia, that goes without saying. You are incredibly beautiful.”

  “As beautiful as Giselle?” As I utter those words, I realize how pathetic I sound.

  “Sure, Giselle is pretty, if you like that kind of thing. But you’re . . . you’re . . . beautiful inside and out.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not very good with this kind of thing. My parents are both really reserved. We never really talk about feelings and—”

  Now Pierre looks like the one who’s mortified. As his face reddens, I take pity on him and try to lighten the mood. “Wow, this is really
getting sappy, mister. Sorry, I was just having an insecure moment because I know about you and Giselle’s history.”

  He cocks his head to one side. “You do?”

  “Yep, Gladys told me all about it.”

  “I’m going to have to have a word with her.” He shakes his head, then says, “Just believe me when I say that you’re beautiful, okay? And we’ll leave it at that.”

  “Believe,” I say softly.

  Pierre claps his hands together. “Okay, what else do you want to know? What other secrets do you think I’m hiding from you?”

  “Well, there’s the Board of Trustees thing. What was that all about?”

  “Oh, that.” Pierre purses his lips. “There were a lot of misunderstandings the day we went skydiving, weren’t there? You thought I was going to propose, when what I was planning on doing was asking you to join the board of my charity. I really think we can benefit from your experience with grassroots fundraising, and you’d bring a fresh perspective to the work we do.”

  “Yeah, that whole prenuptial thing was pretty embarrassing.”

  He takes a deep breath. “And I’m embarrassed about how I reacted when I found out you had been married before. Amélie told me all about your ex and what a jerk he and his family were to you. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

  “Hmm, so Amélie told you about my ex and your mother filled me in on Giselle? They’re a couple of busybodies, aren’t they?”

  “The best kind of busybodies, don’t you think? If it hadn’t been for them, we wouldn’t be here right now.” He reaches for my hand and gently kisses the back of it. “Was that okay? I know you’re not a big fan of public displays of affection.”

  I rub my thumb on the palm of his hand. “I’m starting to get used to them. Now, about that scar.”

  He laughs. “Not everything is a juicy secret. Some are just embarrassing. When I was in college, I went to a panel at a Star Wars convention. Some really big cast members were on stage. I was standing on a wobbly chair, trying to take pictures of them. This die-hard fan wearing a Wookie costume rushed the stage. Security was running after him, and I got knocked down.”