What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1)

by Nichols, Alix

  “He’s good,” Pepe said, turning back to Rob.

  “Can you do the same?”

  Pepe shook his head. “No. And I don’t want to, either. I like people. Even the ones who aren’t Nordic blondes in minishorts. All customers deserve to be treated nicely.”

  “That’s my boy.” Rob patted him on the shoulder. “But you’ll never pass for an authentic Parisian waiter.”

  “So be it,” Pepe declared, his expression grave and determined.

  “You could find another—” Lena began.

  “My r’s are definitely getting better, though, I can feel it!” Pepe’s face lit up with a grin. “This means I may have a chance with one of those blond angels, God bless their minishorts.”

  Rob clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. I was just about to abandon my murderous plans for you, and you have to go and ruin everything.”

  Pepe snarled at him, then turned to Lena. “You know what I like most about blondes? Their napes.”

  “You mean the backs of their necks?” she asked.

  “You may not be able to understand this, but to me there’s nothing more beautiful than the sight of a blonde’s hair pulled up, and a few flaxen tendrils coiling down her alabaster nape.” Pepe closed his eyes, his index retracing a coiling movement in the air.

  Rob shook his head in dismay.

  Pepe opened his eyes. “If I was on death row and was granted a last wish, I’d ask to see a blonde’s nape one more time before they inject me.”

  “There’s no death penalty in Europe,” Lena said.

  Pepe raised an eyebrow. “I travel widely. Including to places where it hasn’t been abolished. So you never know.”

  “Right. You never know,” Lena said.

  “And how was your day, Lena?” Rob asked.

  “I—” Lena began, but was interrupted by the ringing in her purse. Must be Dad. “Sorry, I need to get this.”

  She moved out of the way and answered her phone.

  “Still in love with Paris?” Anton asked.

  “Absolutely.” She tried to convey her enthusiasm while speaking in a hushed voice. “I think I could live here, you know, like forever.”

  “Easy, girl. This is not the plan, remember? The plan is that you stay in Paris for a few months. A year, tops. Then you return to Moscow and start working with me.” He sounded disgruntled.

  “Dad, I’m not sure . . .” Lena felt the familiar guilt clenching her stomach. She was sure. She knew perfectly well what she wanted to do with her life, and it didn’t include working with her father.

  “Dad, that’s your plan, not mine. I really don’t think I’ll be working with you. I’m sorry I’m disappointing you, but I’ve found my vocation. And you know what it is.”

  After a long silence Anton finally spoke. “Lena, I’ve always wanted the best for you. I sent you to Switzerland so that you could get the best education money can buy, a European polish, languages. I wanted to give you the right tools for your future.”

  “And I’m grateful for all that, I really am!”

  “But eventually you have to return home, baby. You belong here. I built this company so that you could take it over one day. You must take it over one day.”

  “Daddy, you’re only forty-six! Why all this talk of me taking over the company?” Suddenly a wave of panic washed over her. “Is something wrong? Are you hiding something? What is it?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, pumpkin. As it happens, I had a medical checkup last week, and I seem to be in perfect health. It’s just . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s my midlife crisis finally kicking in.”

  Anton snorted, then got serious again. “My business is my legacy. And you are my only child, who’s now grown and about choose a career. This is the perfect time for me to start involving you, mentoring you. Can’t you see that?”

  “But Dad—”

  “No buts. You have a duty toward me. Unlike your mother, I’ve always been a good parent to you. For the past twelve years, I’ve been your only parent.”

  The last statement was grossly unfair, and they both knew it. But Lena was weary of reminding him that the reason her mom had been absent for half of her life was much more complicated than he made it sound.

  So instead, she tried another tack. “Anyway, your plan is doomed. You have a hopeless nerd for a daughter.”

  “Not a problem. In my book being a nerd is a qualification. I was a nerd once, too, remember? I was a computer programmer before becoming a businessman. Can it get nerdier than that?”

  “An astrophysicist?”

  “It’s thanks to my nerdy beginnings that I now have an edge over my competitors.”

  Lena considered making an observation that being a computer nerd was slightly more relevant to running an IT company than being a translator. But she doubted she could win this argument with logic, if she could win it at all.

  “By the way, I’ve got some news about the negotiations,” he said.

  “Over Raduga?”

  “Yes. I think I finally managed to grind them down.”

  She was happy to hear it—buying the edgy start-up was a cornerstone of his plan to expand into a new area. “Congratulations, Dad! I know this means a great deal to you.”

  “They haven’t formally accepted my offer yet, but I expect they will in the coming days.”

  “I’m sure they will. This is big and you worked so hard on it.”

  “We could work on the next one together . . .”

  “Dad,” she pleaded. “I study literature and translation, and that’s what I want to do as a career. Not use my language skills for business. Can’t you understand this? Please?”

  Anton paused and then said in an upbeat voice. “Baby, let’s talk about this later, OK? For now, you’re in Paris, writing your thesis so you can get your master’s degree. That’s fine with me and, from what I gather, more than fine with you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  As Lena hung up, the lightness she had reveled in since last night was gone. She tried to tell herself she still had time—a lot of time—to sway her father and avoid open conflict. But she also knew her chances were slim.

  Rob paced his room, trying to get a grip. Good thing he had quit smoking, because this gig he’d signed up for would have warranted a pack before every phone call. The part of the job that required he spend as much time as he could around Lena was a no-brainer. It was like getting paid to watch football and drink beer. Only better. But the part where he had to call Boris and report everything he’d gleaned about her father’s plans made him feel dirty and ashamed.

  He grabbed his phone and called Pierre to remind him that in three days he was taking two weeks off to prepare for his final exams and thesis defense.

  Next, he dialed Boris’s number.

  * * *

  The day was hot, way too hot for early June. Sticky heat permeated the air, dampening people’s clothes and pasting them to their bodies. On a day like this, only tourists ventured out midafternoon while Parisians—and Lena—stayed indoors.

  Finally, just before nine in the evening, a cool breeze arrived. Lena opened her window and was relieved that it no longer felt like a blast from an oven. Rush hour was over, and she could hear the sounds coming from the sidewalk terrace: clinking of silverware against plates, quiet laughter, and relaxed conversation. Diners filled the bistro and waiters darted between tables, taking orders, bringing food, and opening wine bottles.

  Lena grabbed her purse and ran downstairs before the last table was occupied. She took a seat on the terrace, ordered her dish, and opened her book. But she couldn’t concentrate on reading. The evening was extraordinarily pleasant—or maybe her senses were unusually heightened. The aromas of fried garlic and fresh coriander from the kitchen mixed with the citrus and sandalwood perfumes of the diners around her. The smells intertwined happily and played backdrop to the sweet fragrance of jasmine snatched by the breeze from someone’s balcony. If paradise existed, this is how it would s
mell, she thought.

  Oddly, she also felt as though she could hear every word of every conversation around her. People spoke ever so softly, their voices devoid of urgency, their eyes filled with contentment to be with their loved ones. It didn’t matter that they said the most trivial things to each other. Their words fluttered like butterflies with the sole purpose of establishing a connection to share the sweetness of this summer evening.

  Lena’s pulse ratcheted up as she saw Rob step out onto the terrace. He took a sip of his espresso and looked around. When he spotted her, he smiled and made a beeline toward her.

  “How do you feel about Cyril?” he asked.

  “Who’s Cyril?”

  “A rising star of French chanson. He’s really good.” Rob placed two tickets on the table. “The concert is at L’Espace at eleven.”

  Lena blinked several times, processing the situation.

  “Jeanne gave me these an hour ago,” he said. “She got them from a friend who’s a friend of Cyril’s.”

  “Why isn’t she going herself?”

  “She was supposed to go with her boyfriend, but he had a motorbike crash this afternoon.”

  “Is he OK?”

  “A broken arm. Jeanne’s going to the hospital.”

  Rob gave her a questioning look.

  “Oh. It’s nice of you to have thought of me—” Lena began.

  “It’s for a reason. Remember the song about the Eiffel Tower I massacred the other day?”

  Lena nodded.

  “Cyril will sing it, and some classic pieces by Brel and Gainsbourg, in the second part of his gig.”

  How could she say no to that?

  They made it to L’Espace a few minutes before the beginning of Cyril’s act. The place was a stone’s throw from Trocadero. Bigger than a live music bar but too small for a concert hall, L’Espace was packed with a heterogeneous crowd that reflected Cyril’s broad fan base. Curious to see the “rising star,” Lena stood on tiptoe and arched her neck.

  “Urgh. I’m too short.” She blew out her cheeks in frustration.

  Rob knitted his brows. “Come with me.”

  He grabbed her hand and began to push their way through the crowd toward the side of the room.

  “There’s a bench by the wall,” he said, turning his head to Lena. “You can stand on it.”

  Even though the distance to the bench was only a couple of meters, they progressed at a snail’s pace. Taking baby steps behind Rob, Lena wished they’d moved even slower. She wished the room had been bigger and the crowd denser.

  She wished the wall had been sliding away as they approached.

  After telling her about the bench, Rob never turned back, apparently unaware of the effect his firm grip was having on her. He seemed fully focused on getting her from point A to point B with as little shoving as he could manage. She couldn’t detect a hint of a caress in the way his palm enveloped hers. His fingers were perfectly motionless. He’d taken her hand for purely practical reasons, she told herself.

  But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he held her. She closed her eyes. His skin was warm—almost hot—against hers, and his hand gloriously big. Ooh, the bliss. It was as if all the nerve endings in her hand had been bared and primed. How else could she explain the intensity of the pleasure that flooded her senses from such a trivial touch?

  She opened her eyes—the bench was now within arm’s reach.

  “Excuse me,” Rob said to someone Lena couldn’t see. “Could you step aside for a sec, so my friend could climb on top of this?”

  He gave her a little push and, once she stood on the bench, released her hand. It took her all her strength not to say, “No!”

  When Cyril finished his last encore and the applause died away, the arrows on the clock above the bar pointed at five to two. Lena jumped off the bench and gave Rob a bright smile. “Cyril is really good. I liked his songs just as much as the classic hits in the second part.”

  He grinned. “I may be tone deaf but I have impeccable taste in music. I’m glad you enjoyed the performance.”

  “I’ll buy his album tomorrow.” She began to rummage through her bag. “Shall I call us a cab?”

  Rob glanced at his watch. “If we run to Trocadero right now, we can catch the final light show of the of day on the Eiffel Tower. It’s special.”

  Lena didn’t need much convincing to prolong their evening together.

  They got to the plaza just as the sparkling lights on the Iron Lady across the Seine burst into a magical show.

  “We can sit over there.” Rob pointed at the vacant spot on the steps leading down from the plaza, and they wedged themselves between two groups of camera-wielding tourists.

  “Hold your hand out, like this,” he said, stretching his own arm. “You see? It looks like you’re touching the tip of the Eiffel Tower. I can take a picture of you, if you want.”

  Lena whipped out her phone. “Let me take one of you first.”

  She was giddy with excitement. “So how is this show different from the others?”

  “During the regular evening shows, the background yellow lighting never goes off. But now it’s more like fireworks.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes watching the lights dance. And then, within a second, the Eiffel Tower was swallowed up by the night. The effect was spectacular.

  Lena turned to Rob. “Wow.”

  She didn’t want to go home. Sitting here, in this warm summer evening, so close to Rob that their thighs nearly touched, made her feel acutely alive. It was a wonderful feeling.

  “Which one is your favorite Cyril song?” she asked.

  “Let me see . . . The one about the stray dog.”

  “Oh yes. What was the refrain?” She recited, “Grooming is for poodles. Training is for hounds—”

  Rob joined in, singing off key. “I traded my leash for dignity. Got any scraps, anyone?” He smirked. “During my first three years in Paris, that’s pretty much how I felt about my life.”

  Lena didn’t dare ask why.

  “Which one’s your favorite?” he asked.

  She stretched her legs. “Hmm. ‘Maybe I’m the One’. . . I guess.”

  “What about ‘The Clown’?”

  “Urgh. It made me feel uncomfortable. But it’s nice to know I’m not the only person on Earth who’s scared of clowns.”

  He chuckled. “I won’t be offering you circus tickets then.”

  “God forbid. I completely freaked out both times my parents took me to the circus when I was little. When I wasn’t terrified of the clowns, I was afraid the lions will eat their tamer, or the acrobats will fall off the trapeze and break their necks.”

  “You should try bungee jumping as immersion therapy,” he said.

  She made round eyes and shook her head. “Can we change the topic, please?”

  “Sure. How about paragliding?”

  She ignored his question. “So, what’s the plan after you graduate?”

  “In the short-term, finding a good job. Preferably, in the energy sector. In the long-term, running my own business.”

  She nodded, impressed. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t really know. Establishing myself as a literary translator . . . Or maybe an academic career . . .” She gazed at the shimmering river below them. “But I guess my short-term plan is to just hang around in Paris and try to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  “I like your plan,” he said.

  * * *

  Lena was making her way through a plate of garlic butter snails that Rob had recommended, when her phone rang.

  Even though Anton sounded cheerful and breezy, something was off. He didn’t press her for the details of her day. Lena remembered all too well the last time her dad had shown that kind of neglect. He’d gotten into serious trouble with a corrupt government official and narrowly escaped arrest.

  Having ascertained she was fine, h
e said he had to go and wished her good-night. But Lena’s imagination had gone berserk. Five minutes later, she called him back, too worried to wait until they would talk again tomorrow. Anton answered the phone. Lena could hear him apologize to whomever he was with and then it sounded like he was moving. A few seconds later, he asked her if anything was wrong.

  “No, Dad, I’m fine. I was worried about you, actually. Are you OK? “

  “Yes, I’m perfectly OK. Why?”

  He did sound OK and even slightly . . . amused? Now, this was awkward. In all honesty, Lena couldn’t very well reply “Because you were a lot less interested in my life than usual.” She would come across as someone immature, which she probably was. Too late to uncall him now, so she’d better come up with an explanation.

  “Because you sounded . . . distracted?” she finally managed to say.

  “Did I?”

  Lena could hear the smile in his voice and, despite her embarrassment, a weight was lifted off her shoulders. She was about to apologize and hang up, when he said, “You’re right, pumpkin, I was distracted.”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “I guess I’ll have to tell you sooner or later, so I can as well do it now.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I just proposed to Anna and she accepted. I was having dinner with her when you called—”

  “Oh my God!” Lena nearly screamed. “Are you serious? I can’t believe it! But when did you . . . ? How long have you . . . ?” Lena had trouble finishing her sentences. Her mind raced.

  This was big—and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She knew about Anna but had never met her. Dad had been seeing her for a few months now, at least as far as Lena was aware. He never let on how serious the relationship had grown. As far as she was concerned, he still maintained that remarrying wasn’t on his agenda for the next couple of centuries. So, Anna was special to him, and Lena had had no clue. That sort of stung.

  “I met Anna through work. She’s a lawyer, thirty-four, never been married, no children. She’s clever, kind, generous—”