by Ava Miles
“All I can say is prenup,” Chase said in a harsh tone. “If the paint fumes have you thinking that far ahead.”
Evan was surprised to find the thought of marriage didn’t freak him out…not like it did when it was mentioned by one of the gorgeous gold-diggers who had hoped to snag him so they could have access to his billions. Margie would never be like that.
In fact, she would rather hate his money.
For a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to be married to her. As he gazed across Paris’ rooftops, he could see them strolling along the Seine hand in hand. Every morning she would greet him with that sweet smile of hers when she woke. Of course, he would have to wake up well before dawn for that to happen, but this was his fantasy, so there was no need to account for her unusual hours.
Her kisses would anchor him in a whole new level of happiness. And she would bake her cinnamon rolls, which she could sell to a bakery in Paris, while he worked on his inventions. And after they both finished doing the work they loved, he would sweep her off her feet and make love to her until neither one of them wanted to move. Yeah, he liked that.
“Evan,” Chase urgently said. “You’re scaring me with all this silence.”
“How did you know Margie was here?” he asked even though he suspected he knew.
“You know I have a few people keeping an eye on you due to corporate espionage,” Chase said. “I get a call every time a new person comes into your circle. Especially in Paris, your hometown.”
He understood Chase’s paranoia. His wife had taken some important corporate documents from him and used them as leverage in the divorce proceedings. Chase had feared one of Evan’s shallower girlfriends might do the same even though Evan had promised to keep everything confidential in his private R&D room in the penthouse or the special security box he’d designed for travel. Unlike some inventors, Evan still liked to hand draw until he was ready to start designing his work in AutoCAD. Of course, they were supposed to abide by these protocols anyway due to their security clearances, but things happened.
“So your guys did their job, and now you know she’s not a threat to me. You can stop following her or whatever it is they’re doing. If you knew her, Chase, you’d laugh at the ludicrousness of the thought.” He didn’t think Margie would laugh though. She’d be insulted, and rightly so. It was another secret he’d definitely be keeping.
“Are you sure about her, Evan? She grew up super rich, so she’s used to the lifestyle, but her parents disowned her years ago. She currently has just over twelve hundred dollars in her personal banking account. If she landed you—”
“Shut the fuck up, Chase. Right now.”
There was a shocked silence on the other end. Evan’s heart rate lurched from normal to anaerobic in seconds. He’d never said anything like that to Chase before. But hearing him say those things about Margie…
“You do love her,” the man finally said with a groan. “I’ll excuse what you just said. But I’ll tell you this once, Evan. No one talks to me like that. Not even you.”
The younger boy in him, the one Chase had cultivated and helped grow into a man, wanted to kowtow, but he planted his feet on the balcony and stared off into the horizon. “Then promise me that you’ll never say one more bad word about Margie—to me or anyone else—ever again.”
“I apologize,” Chase said easily. “I was out of line. I’m only trying to protect you, Evan.”
“You’re not my father, Chase,” he said. But as he said it, he realized something—for a long time, he had looked to Chase to be his friend, brother, and dad all in one. “At least I don’t need you to be anymore. How about we just agree to look after each other as friends?”
There was another pause. “That sounds okay. Do I need to come to Paris to meet her?”
Evan had never introduced Chase to any of the other women he’d dated. “I don’t know.” When he thought of it, he did want Chase to meet her. “It’s complicated right now.”
“Right. She still doesn’t know who you are. I think you should keep it that way until she tells you she loves you. It’s the only way you can know with one hundred percent certainty that she’s not just after your billions.”
Hearing Chase give that advice helped alleviate the guilt he’d been feeling all day. He knew he shouldn’t make love to Margie without telling her the full truth, and yet…
“I agree. For now.”
“Good,” Chase said. “Now, I’m going to let you go so we can both get back to work.”
“Go to bed,” Evan said even though he knew it would make no difference. “It’s almost ten o’clock there.”
“It’s early,” Chase said with a chuckle. “I’ll talk to you later, Evan.”
“Bye, Chase,” he responded and hung up.
He pocketed his phone and leaned against the rails. They’d never gone at each other quite like that before, and while it scared him a bit, how much he’d asserted himself with Chase, he also felt powerful. Like he’d just slayed a dragon from his past. After all these years, he was finally man enough to speak his mind and not run from conflict.
Everything seemed to be changing.
***
When Andre finally called an end to her first day of instruction, Margie was in possession of his secret baguette recipe and a new wealth of knowledge about the different types of flour. Rye flour softened wheat-based flour, and chestnut flour—a decadent pale yellow color—added sweetness and was gluten free. Of course, the latter was used sparingly, both because of its lofty price and its dense texture.
All but six of her apprentice loaves had been sold. Her heart glowed in her chest when she thought of the people who would be eating her bread with their evening meal. She’d fed people before, but they were her friends. These loaves had been her first sale as a professional baker, and she planned to celebrate.
“You will take your extra loaves home with you now, ma petite,” Andre said, tucking them into a large cloth bread bag.
“We can’t possibly eat them all,” she said, laughing. “Can I take five of the loaves to Father Charles to give to the poor?”
His whole face softened, and he pulled her in for a warm hug. “You have the heart of a baker, Margie. In the smaller villages in France, bakers would always make an offering of the first loaves at their new shop to the church.”
That cinched it. “Can you call him and tell him I’m coming? Does he speak English? My French…”
“I will call him and draw you a little map to the church.” He immediately took his phone out and called Father Charles. She was catching more words in French, but he was speaking so fast. Her brain felt like it was ready to explode, especially after all she’d learned today.
“He said to ring the bell to his residence. It’s a small gray stone house with a blue door, off to the right of the church. If you feel so called, ma petite, give him four of the loaves. Keep one for you and your man. And then take the remaining one and lay it at the feet of the Madonna in the courtyard behind the church. Even though St. Honore is the patron saint of bakers, our Lady loves those of us who make bread as well.”
Margie had never grown up in organized religion, but she felt oddly moved. While in Mexico, she’d been surrounded by the rituals and faith of the people there. She’d never felt a part of it, being an outsider, but she’d respected the reverence people had for Mary and the saints.
“There’s a patron saint of bakers?”
Andre laughed. “There’s a patron saint for everything, and while I’m no regular church goer anymore, the roots of the old traditions still run through my veins like they run through all of Paris. If you know where to look, you will see this everywhere. The Green Man. Various gods and goddesses. Jesus. The saints. Angels. Paris has been around longer than the Catholic church.”
She remembered Evan mentioning how an Egyptian goddess had been honored on the site where Notre Dame was now built. “I will have to pay more attention.”
“Som
etimes you don’t have to pay attention, ma petite. What wants your attention will always find a way to capture it. This town has magic. I hope you will allow it to feed your soul.”
Rare tears popped into her eyes. She was holding the loaves she’d made in her arms like they were her children. It was only the first day of her apprenticeship, and she already felt transformed by the experience.
“Andre…I don’t have the words to thank you. This apprenticeship and you…”
“Come now, ma petite,” he said thickly. “You will make me cry too. I share with you all I know because it was shared with me. And now you will share it with others. And we will feed the world from the love we have for the bread, as we are meant to do. Now go. All this emotion is making me long to head to the park with my family so Belle and I can watch our children play.”
The others had left the shop after it closed at three, but Andre had insisted Margie spend just one more hour there so he could show her his grandmother’s hand-written recipes. The cards had yellowed with age, and the ink was smeared in places from a stray drop of water here and there. She’d felt honored Andre would show her these prized treasures. Recipes were magical time capsules, and one day, Margie decided, she wanted to give her hand-written recipes to her children after teaching them how to make bread. It would be another part of this new legacy she was a part of.
After collecting her purse, she stepped outside with him and watched him lock the shop. People were walking on the street, chatting in French. Laughter reached her ears, and she turned to see a young girl skipping with a red balloon in her hand next to her mother. The charming sight brought a smile to her lips, and she nodded to them as they passed by.
Andre kissed her on both cheeks. “I will see you at three, ma petite. Enjoy your time with the Madonna. And your man.”
“But you start at two!” she protested.
“You are still adjusting to baker’s hours and the time change. The extra hour will allow me the time to get some things started so I can give you more of my attention. Don’t frown, ma petite. I want to give you my attention. Ask Belle. I love to hear myself speak.”
She laughed. “All right then. I will see you at three, not two.”
“Now go left and follow the directions I gave you,” he said. “This journey is yours to make on your own.”
He headed off, and she looked down at the map he’d drawn. Finding the church wouldn’t be difficult. She only had to go four blocks, turn right, and then walk two more. She thought about texting Evan to tell him she was finished with her apprenticeship for the day, but part of her wanted to wait. This way she could take her time and wouldn’t feel rushed to meet him. She could savor each part of her day rather than rushing through it.
When she arrived at the gate to the modest neighborhood church of St. Francis, she immediately spied the small gray house with the blue door. She crossed the courtyard lined with red roses and knocked on the door. It opened, and before her stood an older man in black pants and a black shirt with a white collar.
“Father Charles?” she asked in English, her brain too full of new knowledge for her to attempt speaking French yet.
“Oui,” he said. “You must be Margie. Thank you for bringing bread to us. People will not go hungry tonight due to your generosity.”
She had to be jet-lagged or something, but more tears popped into her eyes. She reached into the bag and took out five loaves. How could she keep one for her and Evan when people might go hungry?
Father Charles smiled. “Andre said you would try to give me five loaves, and I was to remind you that you must keep one for yourself. You bless yourself when you eat the bread made from your hands. Even the baker must be nourished, for if you go hungry, who will make the bread?”
He gave her back the extra loaf, and she clutched it to her chest.
“The Madonna is right around the corner. She is going to like you. You have a kind heart, child.” The grooves around his mouth transformed as his smile stretched even wider. “Enjoy your time in Paris, Margie. And come back here whenever you want. We will always welcome you.”
She felt the urge to do a yoga bow and decided just to give in and do it.
His smile grew wider. “Yes, the Madonna will really like you. Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir,” she said as he closed the door.
The cobblestones on the path leading around his house to the back of the church were smooth with age. Everywhere she looked, red roses opened to the ribbons of sunlight streaming through the ancient trees towering above her. She spotted Mary easily in the middle of a circle lined with more roses. The statue was stone, but she looked alive. Her eyes seemed to stare at Margie as she placed the bread at her feet beside other offerings—a flickering candle, a blue rosary, a fading red rose, and a letter.
Stepping back, she placed her hand on her heart. They gazed at each other.
“Thank you,” she whispered and then bowed to the lady and retraced her steps with her one remaining loaf to find Evan.
Chapter 5
When Evan met Margie on the street in front of L’Hotel, she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He only had a moment to process how gorgeous she looked in her bright yellow dress.
“I did it!” she cried. “I made my first baguettes in Paris!”
The glorious smell of baked bread saturated her hair, and he took a long inhale to drink it in. Like he wanted to drink her in. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Andre is incredible, and so is his wife, Belle,” she rushed on, pressing away so she could rearrange the bread bag hanging over her shoulder and reach for the one loaf inside. “This is my baguette.”
The golden brown color was like afternoon sunlight on sandstone. The unmistakable slashes on the bread were a lighter shade. And the bread smelled as heavenly as she did.
“It’s so perfect,” he said, “I don’t want to eat it.”
She laughed. “Oh, we’re going to eat it! It might be our main course tonight. I want to eat it and eat it and eat it with you until there’s nothing left.”
He was both touched and aroused to hear her say that. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“Oh, Evan! I’m so happy.”
Her arms wrapped around him again, and he clutched her to his chest. Seeing her like this reminded him of how he’d felt after landing their first major defense contract for INV-333. He’d man-hugged Chase and all his other scientists. Then Chase had poured out a thirty-year old whiskey from Ireland to celebrate, and they’d all gotten rip-roaring drunk.
“We have to celebrate,” he told her.
He would take her to the most expensive restaurant in Paris. She deserved the best. He was glad he’d booked the grand suite at the hotel as well, even though it was sure to raise questions. It wasn’t a mere hotel. It was one of the most luxurious and highly regarded hotels in Paris.
Wiggling out of his arms again, she leaned back, her green eyes twinkling. “Andre insisted I keep this loaf—just for me. For us.”
Then something passed over her face. Her smile shifted from its mega-watt power to something else. Not unhappiness, he realized after studying her for a moment. No, it was peace. He wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she had a secret too.
“That was nice of him,” he said, keeping his hands on her waist, not wanting to let her go.
She looked away for a moment, and a flush covered her cheeks. “I gave the leftover loaves to a priest at one of the local churches.”
He tipped her chin up so she’d meet his eyes. “That was very nice of you.”
“Andre does it with the leftover bread from his shop.” Then she blew out a massive breath from a buildup of oxygen. “And I…well, I want to tell you…even if you think it’s weird. I left one of my baguettes at the foot of the Madonna behind the church like Andre suggested, and I…it touched me. Here.” She pointed to her heart.
Something moved in his own chest, and he couldn’t resist anymore. As he lowered his mouth to hers, she ros
e on her tiptoes to meet him. The corners of her lips were curved from her soft smile. He traced them with his tongue. Then she opened her mouth to his, and he was lost. It didn’t cross his mind for a moment to step away. This was Paris. It’s what was done.
He fell into the moment. The heated moisture of her mouth as he kissed her over and over again warmed him. Everywhere. Their tongues danced, and by the time they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Her eyes were glassy, and the rose on her cheeks this time was from passion.
“Can we eat in our room?” she asked. “I…don’t want to be around people tonight.”
Every muscle tightened with lust. “I don’t want to share you either.” He took her hand. “I already checked in. Let’s go inside.”
When they entered the lobby, she gasped. Her neck arched as she stared at the multi-story circular rotunda ending with a skylight at the top.
“Oh my,” she whispered, clutching the tan suit jacket he’d thrown on over his casual outfit of a white shirt and jeans. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I thought you’d like it. L’Hotel was built in 1828 and is one of the oldest hotels in Paris. Oscar Wilde lived here until his death, and for over a century, it’s been the place to come for artists, writers, and entertainers. There are only twenty rooms.”
Her eyes were enormous as she looked at him. “We’re staying here?”
From the outside, it was hard to imagine the grandeur of the interior. “Yes,” he said, ushering her to the elevators. “It’s like I said. You deserve something special.”
The doors shut without anyone else entering the lift. Though he wanted nothing more than to be alone with her, he found himself wishing they had company. It was the only way he could stave off her questions. And the lies he was about to tell.
“There’s no way you can afford this place,” she said with a frown. “You told me not to worry, but I can’t help it. I don’t want you living beyond your means for me. When you said we’d go somewhere special, I never imagined a place like this. I'm sure your apartment would do just fine. Evan—”
