When she finally quieted down, she explained. "Veronica, Olivier is Levi." Pause for effect. "Olivier Laurent. He's like French old money." She flicked her fingers in the air again, lowered her voice as she continued. "Apparently, he's a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte. He's almost royalty, but you wouldn't guess it by the way he acts around people, women in particular. This plane is his, or his family's. Can you believe it? I mean, I've been in private planes before, but nothing like this. This is beyond posh. He's that rich." A smug look appeared on her face.
"Oh. I didn't realize." Ever since meeting Levi, I had taken little interest in him. So my theory was correct. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. And a jerk. And he had a very sexy body. And he wanted me. I shook my head to clear my wayward thoughts. "When Sandrine told me that this Olivier was coming with us, I thought it was one of her cousins or something. Well, thanks for clearing it up. It would have been embarrassing had I said something out loud."
Her hand patted my arm in a soothing manner. "I told you. I got your back, sister." She winked.
Once we had the all clear to take off , I immersed myself in some work I brought with me. Just because I was headed to Paris didn't mean I could slack off. I still considered a big chunk of this trip to be work-related. The company wouldn't survive on its own, and neither would Chase, not without my supervision.
One of the things that always stopped me from working was a full bladder. After having too many glasses of sparkling water, I stretched and headed to the bathroom that Isobel pointed out . I walked by Landon and Trent, who were involved in a very serious game of chess. They waved at me as I passed.
I reached the polished bathroom door and didn't see any indication that it was occupied, but I was obviously wrong.
When I opened it, I was surprised (only a little) to see Levi with the French attendant, about to join the mile-high club. I suppressed my shock, closed the door immediately, and hurried back to my seat.
"That was fast," Isobel said.
"It was occupied." I busied myself by picking up a Paris guidebook out of my purse.
"There's another one at the front. It's smaller but functional."
"Thanks." I stood up right away and walked to the smaller bathroom. I did my business, cleaned up, took off my contacts (the cabin air was drying my eyes out) and put my glasses on. When I returned to the seats, Isobel joined her cousins, Levi was still absent, and so was the glamorous Sophie-the-flight-attendant. The slight pang of jealousy jarred me, but I managed to shake it off.
Jake waved at me to join him, looking up from his book and patting the unoccupied seat on his side. I grabbed my stuff off my seat and settled beside him.
"Are you okay? I know you don't like to fly." That wasn't completely true. I loved flying. I just hated the touchdown part. I was touched that he remembered. I wondered idly what else he remembered about us. About me.
"I'm fine, thanks. I'm just doing a bit of work. What are you doing?" I nodded at the book in his hand. It looked like a manual, and he confirmed it by saying "work".
I smiled at him, let him work, and continued mine. A few minutes later, I felt a strong presence across the aisle. Without looking, I knew right away that Levi was back from his little tryst. I angled away from him, but I could feel his eyes trained on me. I managed to ignore him long enough in the end.
Although, when Jake stood up to stretch his long legs, Levi took the chance to sit beside me. I straightened upon hearing him sigh.
"You look adorable in glasses. Like a sexy librarian," he whispered, the scent of champagne tickling my ear. Seriously? Could he be any more cliché?
"My eyes were dry. They're just glasses." I bit back, pushing the spectacles closer to my face.
They really were just glasses, non-designer, black, and nondescript. They were glasses my grandmother could pick up from the drugstore, but I paid tons for mine. "Aren't you supposed to be...somewhere else?"
"Somewhere else? Like where?" I had managed not to make eye contact with him since he sat down, but that didn't stop him from trying to get me to look his way.
He fiddled with the papers tucked between me and the armrest. He even felt the fabric of my shirt. He reminded me of a five-year-old boy with ADD. Maybe that was it. He had adult ADHD, which might explain the constant changing of girlfriends, or partners, including porn stars and flight attendants. I just couldn't believe that I was now part of that list. I sucked in a groan.
Although I still had trouble remembering the sex part, which surprised me a little bit since Levi was a self-proclaimed Sex God , I was also relieved that I couldn't remember that much. It was enough to pine for the groom. I didn't have to lust after the best man too.
He continued to touch my things, which brought me back to my point. He needed to be somewhere else. "Maybe Sophie, our flight attendant, needs help filling up the drink cart," I added her title in case he never bothered to ask for her name.
I felt him stiffen beside me, then eased. "That was you who opened the door?" Now that got my attention. "Are you jealous?" His smirk irked me.
"You've gotta be kidding," I mocked him, looking over my glasses.
A couple of beats passed, then he snuggled closer to me, whispering in my ear. "You've already spent one night with me, sweetheart. You know how great that feels."
I wanted to smack him…hard…right on the kisser, but that would only make everyone curious. So I settled for a retort, something I didn't usually do, but Levi brought the bitch out of me.
I took off my glasses, shook my hair as seductively as I could a la shampoo commercials, and sucked on my bottom lip. The trick worked, attracting Levi's eyes to my reddened lip. "Maybe it was one night with me that made the difference. You're just itching for a repeat performance." I leaned in closer. "I was so great that you had to have me again."
Our faces were so close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. His pupils dilated. My breath faltered. Neither one of us was touching the other, but electricity zinged over my skin.
His face turned serious, and slowly his lips curled into a seductive smile. My stomach fluttered, and my lower abs contracted. I hated that he knew how good-looking he was and that he could see the effect he suddenly had on me. Time to change tactics. “How’s Ophelia?” I gave him a rueful smile, happy to get my mind out of this heady cloud.
He was about to answer me when Jake blurted out, "Nica, you're not staying with us?" I gulped and sat back in my seat, crossing my shaking legs. He sat across from us, leaning forward, arms resting on his legs. "Isobel said you're staying at a hotel. We have more than enough room for you."
Levi laughed, keeping me from answering Jake's question, but the prick answered for me. "You're wondering why your ex-girlfriend isn't staying with you and your current lover?"
I glared at Levi. He might have been telling the truth, but he didn't have to be rude to his best friend. I turned to Jake, who had turned pale, and smiled.
"I'm considering this as work-related travel, but I would also like to experience Paris like a real American tourist. I want to explore the city a bit when I'm not needed, and I didn't want you guys to fuss over me. Plus, I've already booked a room at a mixed Baroque and Contemporary hotel facing the Eiffel Tower."
"Ah, the Baroque period," Jake said, clearly remembering a conversation we had in the past. His face softened, and the smile on his lips brought back happier memories. "Baroque is Nica's favorite art period. She thinks it's the most romantic." He tilted his head as he regarded me with an endearing look on his face.
Jake stretched his leg out and nudged my foot with his. "Remember when I argued that Renaissance was more romantic? You chewed me out talking about Caravaggio and Tenebrosi, Rembrandt and the Dutch Golden Age, and how chiaroscuro in The Baroque period was all about deeper, livelier colors filled with passion in contrast to the secretive darkness of the backgrounds." Jake shook his head as we both laughed.
"I think you fell asleep when I started talking ab
out Vermeer's Girl with the Pearl Earring." I was shaking from laughter but quieted down when I turned and saw the sadness and confusion in Levi's eyes.
I couldn't let him affect me. This was the most Jake and I had talked about our past since our breakup.
"Levi, did you know that Nica has a Masters in Fine Arts?" Jake asked him, clearly noticing Levi's mood.
Levi shook his head, slouching into his seat and touching his fingertips together under his chin.
"Maybe you should take her to the Louvre so she can give you an art history lesson like she gave me when we went to the Guggenheim," Jake suggested. I just about wet my pants.
Levi, clearly liking the suggestion, sprang back up. His blue eyes lit with excitement. "You want to? I may be able to get you a private tour."
"No, thanks," I said, turning away from him, although I believed he could get me that private tour. I’d be lying if I said I was tempted by it.
"Why not? I'd be a great tour guide," he proudly claimed.
I shut down my iPad and rearranged my papers. "I highly doubt it." I noticed that Jake had gone back to reading his book. Clearly, our trip back to memory lane was over.
Levi didn't relent.
"Give me five reasons why you would be." I splayed my fingers up at him.
"Just five?" he gloated.
What a prick.
He raised his left hand, counting off his reasons. "I speak the language better than anyone on this plane and possibly than most Parisians. I lived there for a number of years, so I know the city rather well. I have connections to most, if not all, the places you'd probably want to visit. I can give you a piggy back ride if your feet get tired. And....and I'm great to look at."
Unbelievable! "How is that even a reason?” I asked, wanting to laugh in his face.
"How is it not?"
I shot an inquisitive eyebrow.
He became contemplative, chewing on his bottom lip. I quivered a bit watching him do that. Levi rested his arm on the armrest, creating a mild sizzle on my skin when our hands touched. "Fine. How about...number five, I won't fall asleep if you start talking about things that are interesting to you." He studied my face, and I wondered what he was searching for. His eyes were brilliant blue, his red lips pouty, and his minty breath tickled my cheek.
I leaned back in my seat, smiling inside and appreciating that he believed in those reasons. "I'll think about it." I picked up another packet from my bag, the beginnings of a charity event Chase and I were planning, which was taking place after the wedding, and placed it on my lap. "Now, go away and let me work, or stay there, but be silent." I didn't glance back at him, but I could feel the mega-watt smile he had on.
Levi didn't get up right away. He shifted, groaned and moaned, sighed and yawned, and stretched and whistled. When he realized that I intended to work for the rest of the flight, he stood up to join Landon and Trent and challenged the winner. With a secret smile held , I squashed down the fear and confusion bubbling within.
N ine
The Wedding Dress
When we arrived in Paris, I was chauffeured by a kind old man who didn't speak a lick of English. But he helped me with my luggage even when I insisted, in a horrible attempt of the French language, that I was fine on my own. Sandrine had given strict orders when she met us at the airfield, and he had to oblige.
Three cars waited for us. One was just for her and Jake. Levi had mockingly declined to join the already packed second car that seated Trent, Landon, Isobel, and her army of luggage. I was terrified that he would insist riding with me in the third car, but he told us that he had to meet with someone and would see us later for lunch. He stood back as we drove away. I couldn't help but wonder who he was meeting. Maybe Sophie did need help filling her ‘drink cart’.
Checking in at the hotel was a better experience than I thought it would be. One of the bellhops was an American, so he translated for me and for the desk clerk. He also helped me get my stuff into the room. His name was Charlie, but everyone—and he insisted that I should, too—called him Chaz.
The first thing I noticed in the room was the view of the Eiffel Tower. It felt too surreal.
Although my heart belonged to San Francisco, my mind often wandered to Paris.
My single mother had helped pay for my education. Even though she would have been proud to work extra hours to support me if I had decided to move to this city to study Fine Arts, I had declined profusely.
When I started making more money with event planning, I never had time to travel unless it was for clients, and most of them remained in the US. As my career flourished, my priorities shifted, and Paris became a pipe dream.
I was taking in the view beyond the open windows under the blue sky when my ringtone startled me. My mother was calling to see how my flight had gone.
I spoke briefly to her, saying that I needed to get ready for the dress fitting and lunch. I did exactly that but took a longer shower to prep for the fitting. No one would want to take measurements of a stinky bridesmaid.
Promptly, I made it to the design house where Sandrine and Isobel were already waiting. Isobel sat bored and sulking, fiddling with her phone, and Sandrine appeared put out. They both jumped out of their seats, almost pushing each other to give me a hug and shower me with kisses.
Sandrine introduced me to Crâyon, the fashion designer in skintight black trousers and a colorful paisley shirt, with cheeks so hollow I wanted to pick him up and carry him to the nearest hospital. I tried not to butcher his name but did anyway.
He sneered at me the entire time.
His assistant handed me champagne and produced the dresses for Isobel and me.
A sea-foam green, beaded chiffon overlaying sparkly silver silk, with cute circular patterns along the hem for Isobel (which she merrily referred to as the puke green dress, even though it looked fabulous, like nothing I had ever seen before, and the fit on her was perfect), and a blush pink, layered trumpet dress for me. I had minor adjustments on my dress--Sandrine confessed that she had forgotten to ask for my bra size.
Both Isobel and I changed back into our regular clothes, and while we waited for Sandrine to try on the dress Crâyon had created for her, we drank champagne and ate caviar. I loved every minute of it until Sandrine stepped out of the dressing room.
For a bit, I wasn't sure why I felt like I was going to pass out. Perhaps I should have eaten something more substantial before the fitting. Sandrine had a killer body. She posed and sashayed in front of us. The long train glided on the marble floor behind her.
"So? What do you think?" she asked Isobel and me.
Then, like a lightning bolt hitting me, I was all too aware of why I felt faint. It wasn't the lack of food. It wasn't even the woman in the dress.
It was the dress.
It was a sweetheart neckline, heavily beaded bodice, vintage lace trumpet dress with a long scallop-hem train. It screamed great taste, boasted of great talent, and was definitely expensive. It was perfect.
It was also the same wedding dress that had filled my dreams. A fat tear rolled down my cheek. My hand flew my mouth to suppress the angst and sadness and disbelief.
Sandrine took them as tears of joy and hugged me. Crâyon spoke to her in French, cooing at the beautiful bride with the dreamy dress. My dream dress. Sandrine turned around so he could place the vintage veil over her perfectly shaped head. Sandrine was beyond perfect. She looked perfect in my dress. And she would look perfect in my dress when she married my perfect ex-boyfriend.
I excused myself for a moment, stepping out of the place, breathing in the Parisian air. But the city had lost its magic.
The air smelled stale and pungent. The street looked desolate and dirty. The buildings showed off their crumbling, old façades. The radiance dimmed . I had the urge to call Chase and tell her I was going back home immediately and canceling the contract with Jake and Sandrine. I didn't care what the repercussions would be. I just needed out. Surely, she'd be supportive and understanding
.
Our company would probably get sued. It seemed like something Sandrine or maybe her family would do. We'd probably lose more clients Jake and his family had connections with. We might have to fire all our staff. I might have to move back in with my mother in Fresno. Grief struck like an ax through my heart at the possible loss.
With no other choice and a heavy heart, I plastered on my best fake smile and headed back into Crâyon's design house.
* * *
Back in my hotel, I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, sat up on my bed and stared out the window at the tower still standing proudly in front.
I remembered the time Jake had promised to take me to this city. It was two days before he left for Paris. A couple of days before he met Sandrine. I was busy preparing for a huge event and couldn't go with him.
What if I had been able to go? Would we still be together? Would he have met Sandrine? Would I be in some beautiful hotel room months later, alone and in constant tears?
I cried and cried for an hour until my head started to hurt. I showered again, trying to cleanse myself of the afternoon's events and unanswered questions.
Out of desperation and sheer loneliness, I messaged Levi and told him that I’d decided to let him be my tour guide. If Chase was with me, she would have said, "When life gives you lemons, you punch life in the face and take the strawberries. Then make a margarita, which is way better than lemonade." To anyone else, it wouldn’t have made sense, but as I dried my tears, it was all I could hold onto.
Levi arrived on time at the hotel. I met him in the lobby with my trusty camera, a small notepad for taking down inspirations and notes, a scarf just in case it got cooler, a smile and a promise to myself that I would have a better time. I could tell that he noticed the puffiness under my eyes, but he didn't say a thing about it, and I appreciated him more for that. He kissed my cheeks softly, and he took my hand over his arm.
Confessions of a Wedding Planner (Bliss Series Book 1) Page 8
