by Maggie Way
And she was no more than an irresistibly hot body to him. Just like to the others.
“I’m not well,” she said. “The Coke didn’t work. I’m going to take a hot bath and try to sleep.”
He pulled his hand away and sat there without doing or saying anything. She rolled out of the bed, walked over to the bathroom, and locked the door from inside.
“Jeanne,” he said in a gentle voice. “May I please stay here and sleep next to you? I won’t touch you—you have my word. I just want to be near you . . . a little longer.”
She didn’t have the nerve to say no.
Mat’s voice woke her up. “Jeanne . . . Oh, Jeanne.”
She opened her eyes and turned to face him.
He was fast asleep on his back, and his midsection tented the duvet that covered his lower body.
Jeanne couldn’t stifle a smile.
He’d kept his word last night and didn’t make the slightest attempt to touch her again. They talked for a long time before falling asleep, and all the while, she basked in the heat of his gaze. Oh, how tempting it was to give in! All she had to do to allow him to make love to her was to touch him.
Only she knew better. There would be a price to pay—a high price. No matter how much it affected Mat, she’d have her own burden to bear. Her remorse and guilt to live with.
Mat whispered her name again, still asleep.
She felt her body responding to his hunger. How could it not? The gorgeous male lying next to her craved her in a desperate, fervent way. The way she’d never been craved by anyone in her whole life. It was awe-inspiring and incredibly sexy. It was humbling.
He’d traveled all the way from Paris in the hope of spending the night with her.
But he’d never, not once, hinted he wanted more than a night.
Jeanne got out of the bed as quietly as she could and tiptoed to the bathroom. When she came out, Mat was awake. He lay on his back, his hands clasped under his head, showing off the rippling muscles on his arms and chest.
She tried to look unperturbed.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“When is your flight back to Paris?”
“Tomorrow morning. Yours?”
“Tonight . . . So what’s the plan for today?” He gave her a hopeful look.
“I’m to have breakfast with the gang in thirty minutes. After that, Lena, Rob, and I will do as much sightseeing as we can squeeze into a day. It’s my first time in Copenhagen.”
I won’t spend the day in bed with you, honey.
For a split second, his face fell.
Then he pasted a bright smile on it. “Say hi to the queen for me, and to the Little Mermaid.”
He sat up, and Jeanne gawked at the rugged beauty of his naked torso.
With an effort, she looked away. “Are you booked in this hotel?” Shouldn’t you go to your room now?
“Yeah . . . I should be going . . .” He didn’t move. “I love your pajama shorts. They’re so . . . short.”
“I hope you’re more eloquent in your campaign speeches,” she said.
“I’d better be.” He chortled but still made no attempt to move.
It occurred to Jeanne he might be naked under the blanket, which could explain his reluctance to get out of the bed.
“Um . . . I’m going back to the bathroom so you can get dressed,” she said.
His gaze burned into hers. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Why is it any of your business?”
“It isn’t. I just . . . I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine . . . and I’m dating Didier. Well, almost.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. What’s wrong with Didier?”
“What’s right with Didier?”
Anger swelled in her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s right. He wants to be my business partner. He finds me competent, great at my job, smart. He’s never called me hot.” She gave him a hard look. “It’s refreshing.”
“Jeanne, no matter what he calls you, or doesn’t call you, the guy’s a jerk. You can’t go out with him.”
“Says who? What gives you the right to counsel me on my private life?”
He stared at her, his gray eyes unblinking and a vein pulsing on his strong neck. Then, suddenly, his gaze grew softer, almost pleading. “I may have no right, but a woman like you deserves better than Didier. You . . . a woman like you . . .” He paused, his face contorting in some sort of inner struggle.
Jeanne held her breath. Was he going to say a woman like her deserved him? Was he about to tell her he wanted more than one night?
Their gazes locked, hers searching, his conflicted. In the silence that stretched, her heart thumped. She took a deep breath in a hopeless attempt to calm herself.
When he finally spoke, his expression was determined, almost defiant. “I won’t deny feeling a little possessive of you, no matter how much I fight it. But it’s my problem. It doesn’t change the fact that Didier isn’t a good match for you.”
She exhaled slowly before replying. “Oh yeah? And who’s a good match for me? What about you, Mat? Are you a good match for me?”
He said nothing, just held her gaze as a flush spread over his cheeks.
Jeanne’s nostrils flared. “Or do you expect me to tie a curled ribbon around my neck and offer myself to you just because you find me hot?” She spat the last word as if it were an insult.
“Jeanne, I’m not sure why you get so riled up. The way I see it, being hot is . . . awesome.” He paused before adding, “I’m saying this from personal experience as a former toad-eyed nerd who never got a second glance from you . . . until I became hot.”
The remark gave her pause. Mat had a point. Her pouring scorn on hotness was dangerously close to hypocrisy. Which she abhorred. But then why was she still so upset at his compliment?
In a flash of clarity, it came to her.
“Tell me, Mat,” she said in a much calmer voice. “Would you describe your wonderful girlfriend as hot?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
“Thought so. Would you call her beautiful?”
He sighed and nodded.
“That’s why I get so riled up. It’s not the compliment itself—it’s the implications.” She stared out the window.
He kept silent.
Expelling her breath in a long exhalation, she took a few steps toward him and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Let’s say we do it. Say we sleep together. Would your beautiful girlfriend be OK with it?”
Mat shook his head slowly, his face crimson.
“Would you even tell her?”
“No.”
Jeanne spun around and stomped back into the bathroom. “Get out of my room,” she said, pulling the door behind her.
She paused and added before slamming the door shut, “And out of my life.”
Chapter Six
March
February rolled into March with no sign of the winter relenting. Jeanne had never before seen so much snow fall onto the city and refuse to melt. After a week of denial, the Parisian fashionistas swapped their elegant footwear for fur-lined moon boots and resigned themselves to wearing hairdo-ruining knitted hats.
Pierre installed a patio heater next to the main entrance of La Bohème. The early morning “coffee and cigarette” patrons hailed the initiative as lifesaving.
On the coldest day in Jeanne’s memory, her parents came from the south to spend a long weekend with her. On the first day, Jeanne took them to see an impressionist exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay. They loved it. The next day she took them to an avant-garde art installation at the Petit Palais. They loved the Petit Palais and hated the installation.
On the third and last day of their visit, she took them shopping. Through a combination of persuasion, flattery, manipulation and downright blackmail, the women managed to convince Jeanne’s dad to get rid of the “perfectly serviceable�
�� coat he’d worn for twenty years and buy a newer, warmer and much more fashionable one. In the evening, the three of them marked the historic event with a delicious dinner at La Bohème.
When her parents left, Jeanne went back to her normal life of working double shifts at the bistro, walking around the apartment in underwear, eating out of a saucepan, and binge-watching her favorite series at night. But there was something to be said for hanging out with Mom and Dad. Something related to the amount of love that permeated the air when those two painfully familiar and infinitely dear people made her pancakes in the morning and hung on her every word, no matter what she blathered about.
Two days after they left Daniela walked into the bistro and asked if Jeanne had a minute for a coffee and a chat.
Must be that SOB boyfriend of hers hitting her again.
“Give me five minutes,” she said, gesturing to Amar to stand in for her.
“I’ve got great news,” Daniela said after Jeanne placed two espressos on the table and sat across from her.
Jeanne’s raised her eyebrows.
“Nico found a job. It’s a six-month contract, but if everything goes well, they’ll most certainly renew it.”
“Super,” Jeanne said.
“He’s so excited about it. And he says he’ll stop drinking.” Daniela paused, sipped some coffee, and then looked into Jeanne’s eyes. “If he does, our fighting will stop, too. And . . . the other stuff. I’m sure.”
Jeanne had never seen the concierge looking so happy. Come to think of it, she’d never seen her looking anything but somber. “That’s fantastic,” she said.
Daniela beamed and looked around. “It’s really cozy here. I came by a couple of weeks ago, but they told me you were in Copenhagen. Did you like it?”
“I only had one day to visit, and the weather changed every five minutes. But yes, it’s a charming city.”
“Like Paris?”
Jeanne shook her head. “Paris is the belle dame of Europe. Copenhagen is more like . . . a pretty lass.” She winked. “Have you seen Enchanted?”
“Of course! It was my favorite movie when I was . . . before things went wrong.” Daniela sighed and looked away.
“Remember Giselle?” Jeanne asked not daring to question the concierge about her past.
Daniela turned back to Jeanne and attempted a smile. “So Copenhagen is Amy Adams?”
Jeanne nodded. “And Paris is Grace Kelly.”
Daniela’s smile broadened. “Got any pictures on your phone?”
“Sure.”
Jeanne tapped the screen until she found her Copenhagen photos. “OK. This is the Rosenborg Castle. That’s where the queen keeps the crown jewels, in case you were planning the heist of the century.”
“It’s cute. Like something out of a fairy tale.”
Yeah. And so was the couple kissing in the Castle Gardens. Jeanne winced remembering how her chest had clenched in pain on seeing them only an hour after sending Mat away.
She opened another photo. “This is Nyhavn. According to Lena’s guidebook, it means ‘new harbor,’ which I guess it was back in the seventeenth century. It’s a bit touristy, but great fun.”
“I love that the houses are painted different colors,” Daniela said. “If someone tries it here in Paris, the city authorities will descend on them like a bunch of starved vultures.”
“No doubt.” Jeanne chuckled.
She pulled up another picture. “I forgot the name of this street, but it’s in the most popular pedestrian area in town.”
“Who’s the guy playing the piano?”
“No clue, but he was good. I enjoyed his music.” Until he played the song Mat and I had danced to at Lena’s party.
Jeanne showed Daniela a few more photos, each one awakening bittersweet memories. It had been such a weird day. Physically, she’d spent it with Lena and Rob sightseeing and sampling Copenhagen’s food and drink, but her mind used the tiniest pretext to daydream about Mat. The exhibits in the ARKEN Museum reminded her of Mat’s love for contemporary art and how he’d once droned on about some undiscovered talent from his hometown. The City Hall building reminded her of Mat’s ambition to be mayor of Baleville. But the worst were the people on the streets of Copenhagen. More specifically, the men. By the end of that marathon day, Jeanne could no longer stand the sight of the tall, sandy-haired, light-eyed Viking descendants who looked so different from the average Frenchman.
And so much like Mat.
How did you avoid someone a month before the wedding when you were the bridesmaid and the someone in question, the best man? Had they lived in different countries—or, better still, continents—it may have been possible. But as it was, Jeanne had no choice but to go to Lena and Rob’s for an emergency brunch on the last Sunday of the month. The couple had to find a new venue for the wedding, because the location they’d booked months in advance had fallen through due to a “regrettable misunderstanding.”
“It’s too late for any Parisian venue,” Lena said, placing a steaming coffee pot on the table. “As soon as they hear the wedding is in three weeks, they just laugh at me.”
“How many guests are you expecting?” Jeanne asked.
“A hundred and twenty, give or take.”
Jeanne wrinkled her nose. “Hmm. That’s way beyond what La Bohème can handle.”
“I know,” Rob said with a sigh.
“The worst is that Dad is going to say we should’ve let him take care of everything.” Lena threw her hands up in despair before turning to Rob. “If we eat humble pie, I’m sure he can organize something in Moscow.”
Rob gave her a miserable look. “I’m sure he can. And I have no doubt it would be a grandiose event. Christ.”
Mat swallowed his last piece of toast and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “Everybody, stay calm and eat croissants. I have a plan.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at him in hopeful silence.
“After we sign the certificate at the town hall here, get the photos taken and grab a quick lunch, we’ll drive to Normandy. The guests can carpool or take the train.”
“You think we can get a large enough place there on such short notice?” Rob asked.
“I don’t think, I know,” Mat replied with a smug smile. “My mom is friends with a priest at Saint-Pierre, a Benedictine abbey not far from Baleville. She talked to him yesterday, and he said he can squeeze you between two other ceremonies.”
Lena clapped her hands, and Rob grinned.
Mat raised his hand. “There’s more. I talked to the charming hotel near the abbey. The manager is a client.”
“And?” Lena looked at him as if he were a messiah.
“It’s a go, both for the reception hall and the rooms. You need to travel there as soon as you can, make the payments, and discuss the details.”
“We’ll go tomorrow,” Rob said.
Lena beamed. “You just lifted a ton off my shoulders. Thank you so much, Mat!”
“Don’t mention it. That’s what the best man is for, after all.”
At around two Jeanne stood to leave. “As much as I love your company guys, I’m working this afternoon.”
“I need to get going, too,” Mat said.
As they walked out of the building, Mat cleared his throat. “May I walk with you to La Bohème? It’s on my way to the train station.”
“That’s not where I’m headed,” Jeanne said.
“Oh. OK.”
“I need to stop by Casa Shop to buy curtains for my apartment,” she explained to sweeten the pill. And regretted her charity a second later.
“I know that shop! It’s only ten minutes’ walk from the Gare Saint Lazare,” Mat said, perking up. “So we’re going in the same direction.”
Jeanne shrugged.
They walked in silence for a few minutes.
“How have you been, Jeanne?” Mat asked.
“Great,” she said.
“Still going out with Didier?”
“It’s none o
f your business.”
“Of course.”
A few more minutes passed in silence. Jeanne stole a glance at Mat. He studied the buildings along the street, his lips pressed in a hard line.
“Louis Napoleon had that one built for factory workers.” Mat pointed to stately white building.
“How generous of him,” Jeanne said.
Mat gave her his crooked smile. “In exchange, the workers were ordered to vote for his majesty’s candidate.”
“Is it one of the tacks they teach you at the School for Aspiring Politicians?”
“Only these days you’re supposed to do it in subtler ways.”
Jeanne tut-tutted. “Damn democracy.”
Another 500 meters and we part ways.
At the crossing of rue de Rochechouart and rue de Maubeuge, Mat stopped in his tracks and dashed after a scruffy teenage boy. Flabbergasted, Jeanne watched him catch up with the youth, grab his arm, and turn him around.
“Give me that purse,” Mat said.
“Easy, man! You’re hurting me.” The teenager rubbed his arm and handed Mat a tattered purse.
Mat took the purse and returned it to the middle-aged Roma beggar hovering nearby.
“Can I go now?” the young thief asked, trying to wriggle his arm free.
“To do what? Attempt another theft?”
The youth jutted out his chin in defiance.
“I see. Well, you can certainly continue snatching purses,” Mat said. “Until you get caught and spend a couple years in juvie.”
The teenager rolled his eyes as if to say, I’ve heard it before.
Mat smirked. “A sweet-faced boy like you, I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun in juvie. When they let you out you’ll burglarize a dozen apartments. Then you’ll go to a real jail for a few years. When you’re out, you’ll graduate to armed robbery—I hear jewelry boutiques are an easy target—until they finally lock you up for a very, very long time.”
Jeanne stared at Mat. Where’s he going with this?
“But I have a better idea,” Mat said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Take a shortcut. Skip all the intermediary trouble. Join a serious gang right away and rob Cartier while you’re young.”
