Kissed in Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  I remembered walking past this area the night before, but in the daylight, it was a completely different story. “Charming” didn’t even begin to touch what this town was. It was a real-life fairytale.

  Julien led us to one of the cafés that lined the stream and pulled out a chair for me at a table that had a perfect view of the majestic lake, the towering mountains, the sweet-smelling flowers, the chirping birds, the rustling trees—all of it.

  He sat down across from me and grinned. “See, spending the day in Annecy is not so bad. You do not have places like this in America, am I right?”

  I thought back to our townhouse in DC, near Dupont Circle. It felt light years away. “No. There is nothing like this in the States. Nothing at all.”

  A tall, dark-haired server with a breezy smile on his face appeared at our table. “Bonjour Mademoiselle, Monsieur. Vous voulez quelque chose à boire? ”

  “Un café pour moi, et . . .” Julien turned to me. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Un café pour moi aussi,” I said to the waiter, hoping my accent was comprehensible. “Et je . . . um . . . je suis une question?”

  The server’s eyebrows knitted together. “Oui, Mademoiselle?”

  I thought I’d just told him I had a question. Or did I say I am a question? Shit. Whatever, he got the point.

  “Il a y . . . I mean, il y a une grève?” I managed to spit out.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle, il y a une grève aujourd’hui. And, I speak English if you would like.”

  Why hadn’t he told me that right away? Wasn’t I just screaming stupid American tourist?

  “So all of the transportation systems are on strike today? Trains, buses, rental cars, everything?”

  “Yes, everything.”

  “Do you know of any way I can leave this city and get to Paris or Lyon for example?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. I am sorry. Unless you have your own car, there is no transportation in or out of Annecy today. Surely another day in Annecy could not hurt. No?” He gestured to the picturesque scenery surrounding us.

  “Of course not. Merci.”

  Before the server moseyed off to another table, Julien added, “Monsieur, deux pains au chocolat aussi, s’il vous plaît.”

  Julien raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you think I was lying?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just watching out for myself.”

  “Why would I lie about the strike?”

  I thought of my picture on Julien’s cell phone and the strange text message with my name in it. “Who knows?”

  Julien smiled. “Did you think I wanted to spend the day with you?”

  “No, that’s not what I was thinking. I just—”

  “I did not know you spoke French,” Julien cut in as he pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and laid them on the table.

  “I don’t really speak French. I took a little bit in college, but that was a long time ago.”

  “Your accent is good though. You know, most Americans who come here have horrible accents. I want to tell them, go back to your country and speak English. But you, you have a nice . . .” Julien trailed off as his eyes combed my body.

  “I have a nice what?”

  He grinned. “Accent. You have a nice accent. You would do well here if you learned more of the language.”

  The server set two mini cups of coffee down in front of us along with two fluffy croissants, dark chocolate bursting from the middle.

  “Merci,” I said before devouring the first few bites of my buttery pastry, savoring the warm, gooey chocolate that melted on my tongue. I was so hungry I could’ve eaten five of them.

  I tried to pace myself, but within seconds, only a sliver of the chocolate croissant remained.

  Julien chuckled. “Along with bad accents, Americans have bad food.”

  “We do not,” I said through a mouthful of pastry, which I washed down with a sip of strong espresso. “Have you ever been to the States?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have, and your food is nothing to brag about.”

  “Not all Americans eat at McDonald’s, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It is clear that you do not eat at McDonald’s because you are thin and healthy. But most Americans are not so thin, am I right?”

  “Do you have something against Americans?” I asked, wishing Julien would shut his mouth so I could enjoy my pastry in peace.

  “No, not at all. I am simply making observations. This is how I make my living, you know. I observe. Take you, for example. You are sitting here in one of the most beautiful places in the world, eating a delicious pastry, and yet, you are tense. You cannot allow yourself to relax even for one second to enjoy such a beautiful day, even though there is nothing you can do at the current moment about your predicament.”

  “And this is the first time I’ve seen you outside without a cigarette in your mouth,” I shot back. “Eating too much McDonald’s might be a cause of obesity in America, but aren’t you aware that smoking causes cancer?”

  Julien sipped his coffee and shook his head at me. “American women, French women, you are all the same.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Always trying to tell the man what to do. What is good for us. What is bad for us.” Julien’s lips curved upward into a devilish grin. “Why not just live a little and stop worrying so much?”

  “I don’t tell Paul what to do. And I don’t worry all the time.”

  Julien raised his eyebrow at me again.

  “Stop doing that.”

  “What?”

  “That thing you’re doing with your eyebrow.”

  He let out a low laugh before taking a large bite of his croissant and stretching back in his chair. “It is fun to make you mad, you know that?”

  “And it would be even more fun if you would be quiet and allow me to enjoy the view.”

  Julien snickered under his breath, took a cigarette out of the pack and lit up while I finished my chocolate croissant and breathed in the crisp mountain air blowing off the lake. And just as I felt a few of my worries being swept away at the sound of the stream rushing by, Julien tossed a couple of coins onto the table, grabbed my hand and pulled me up from my seat.

  His jaw was tense, his eyes narrow. “Follow me.”

  “But I didn’t even finish my coffee,” I insisted.

  “Now,” he said, yanking me down the sidewalk and around the corner, his eyes darting over his shoulder the whole way.

  So much for enjoying the moment.

  Ten

  “What the hell was that?” I snapped after Julien let go of my hand and resumed his usual, nonchalant stride.

  “It was time to go.” He took another puff of his cigarette.

  “Did you see someone? Those scary Australians from last night? Or the police?”

  Julien kept walking, his gaze straight ahead, his lips sealed.

  I shook my head, not sure what to think. One minute I felt like Julien was being honest and trying to help me, then the next minute something crazy would happen and I was back to square one, realizing I had no clue what was really going on.

  “Come, I know a nice shoe store a block down the street.” Julien glanced over his shoulder once more.

  “You really expect me to go shopping with you and pretend like that didn’t just happen?”

  “Nothing happened,” he stated very matter-of-factly.

  “Fine. Nothing happened. We’ll pretend that you didn’t just see someone who we are now running from.”

  “At the moment, we are running from no one.” He glanced down at my feet, the skin raw and pink. “I am buying you a new pair of shoes.” Julien stopped and opened the door to his right, then gestured for me to go inside.

  I left Julien’s side, trying to forget about the stunt he’d just pulled at the café and hoping Tattoo Guy and Seductress weren’t after us. I picked up a pair of gray and white Euro sneakers and turned them over in my hands, my temples throbbing a
s I thought of how much time we were wasting by staying here for another day. Paul would be waking up soon. What would I even say when I called him later on?

  “Hey, honey. Just taking a little detour to a fairytale town in the Alps with this undercover French agent I met yesterday. Oh, and by the way, he kissed me in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée, I slept in the same bed with him last night, and he took me shopping. Can’t wait to get home for the wedding though!”

  God, what a freaking disaster.

  “Those look nice. Want to try them on?” Julien stood next to me, a little too close.

  I gazed down at my red dress. “I don’t think they’ll really go with my outfit.”

  “No problem. We will get you something more comfortable to wear. I don’t imagine you want to walk around Annecy all day in this seductive dress. Am I right?”

  “I’m not going to let you buy me new clothes too. This is ridiculous. Shouldn’t we be spending our time trying to get the hell out of here?”

  “I already explained to you, I made a call to the one person who is close enough to come to Annecy and pick us up, but I haven’t heard back. With the nature of my work, there are unfortunately no other options without ruining my cover. I will call again in a minute, after I buy you some new shoes.” His eyes darted out the store window, then back to me. “Unless we want to sit in the hotel all day, we may find ourselves running some more, and with you hobbling around in those high heels, you are slowing us down.”

  ***

  Gripping a shopping bag full of socks and my new pair of snazzy Euro sneakers, I followed Julien out of the store, trying to stay calm. Trying to “go with the flow” and “enjoy the moment” since it appeared that I had no other choice.

  A few feet down the sidewalk, he stopped abruptly, grabbed my hand and spun me around in the other direction.

  “What is going on?” I hissed as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to disentangle our hands.

  “Rien,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Nothing. I am taking you to another store I know. It is called Camaieu. I think you will like it.”

  “Okay, then why are you holding onto my hand with a death grip and making me walk a hundred miles an hour?”

  He flashed his obnoxious smirk. “I told you that you would need the sneakers.”

  “Just tell me what the hell is going on,” I snapped. “Who are we running from?”

  Julien opened the next door we came to and shoved me inside ahead of him. “You shop. I will be in the corner making a phone call.”

  “What? Who are you calling?” I asked, wishing I could bug his phone so I could find out what was really going on.

  “Vas-y,” he said. “I will only be a minute.” Julien spun around and disappeared behind the racks of stylish clothing, leaving me dumbfounded in the middle of the store.

  A sleek saleswoman appeared by my side. “Je peux vous aider, Mademoiselle?”

  “Um . . . no, je . . . um . . .”

  “You speak English?” She smiled at me with kind, hazel eyes.

  I nodded, my mouth still dangling open.

  “Come with me. I help you shop.” She placed her hand on my shoulder and guided me through the store, picking out an assortment of jeans and tops along the way while I smiled distractedly and scanned the racks for Julien.

  Just as she was setting up a dressing room, and I was beginning to wonder if Julien had left me here for good, he popped around the corner, holding a plum-colored T-shirt. He held it out for me. “Here, I think this will look good with your hair.”

  “What were you doing?” I asked as I took the shirt from him and tossed it into the dressing room.

  “Making a call, like I said.”

  “So, can we get out of here soon? Is this person going to come get us? And who is it by the way?”

  “Her name is Camille. And no, she hasn’t answered her phone yet. I left her another message.”

  Was Camille one of Julien’s girlfriends? A guy like him was certain to have at least a few women scattered around France.

  While he certainly had a protective, sweet side to him, he also didn’t strike me as the commitment type. His one chance at love he’d referred to on the train was probably a goldfish he’d forgotten to feed.

  “It didn’t take you that long just to leave a voicemail,” I remarked. “Who else did you call?”

  Julien’s eyes flickered as he placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me into the dressing room. “Just try on the clothes. I make you a promise that I will get us out of Annecy as soon as I can, and I will. There is nothing more for you to question.” He dropped his hands from my shoulders and shut the door in my face.

  “I will wait here,” he called through the door. “Show me when you’re done so I can see.”

  “Humph,” I snorted. Like I was actually going to play dress-up with him and show him each outfit. I didn’t even want to be here. I mean, yes, I couldn’t say I wasn’t looking forward to trashing my heels and this ridiculous dress and changing into some normal, clean clothes, but that was beside the point.

  The point was that this situation was completely out of control, and judging by the way Julien had one eye glued over his shoulder since we’d left the café, we weren’t safe here. We needed to get out of Annecy and find Claude as soon as possible.

  I threw on a pair of dark, boot-cut jeans and the plum T-shirt, decided it would do, and just as I was about to strip off the shirt, Julien cracked the door open. “Let me see.”

  “Hey!” I said, pulling the shirt back down over my stomach. “Ever hear of knocking?”

  His eyes combed the length of my body, resting a little too long on my chest. “I was right. This shirt does look nice with your hair. Do you not think so?”

  I pushed him out of the dressing room and shut the door back in his face.

  Maybe Julien was gay, I thought as I glanced at myself in the mirror, catching a glimpse of the strawberries that had appeared on my cheeks.

  Then I remembered his shameless glimpse of my chest and the way his mischievous eyes had scanned my body earlier that morning in the hotel room and at the café. No, he definitely wasn’t gay.

  I recalled the last time Paul had gone shopping with me and the exasperated look he’d plastered across his face each time I walked out of the dressing room. Julien was right about one thing—French men were a different breed. A weird breed. A breed I definitely wasn’t used to, and as soon as I could get home to Paul, a breed I wouldn’t have to worry about or come into contact with ever again.

  At the register, as Julien pulled out his credit card, he insisted that I get a navy blue top I was about to put back, as well as a chunky, beige cardigan sweater to go over everything.

  “It might get cold tonight,” he said, tucking his card back into his wallet.

  “That’s the least of my worries.”

  On my way back to the dressing room to put on the new clothes, I noticed a few other men in the store with their girlfriends, pleasant looks on their faces, no mumbling or complaining going on. Something must’ve been in the water here . . . or in the wine. This was not normal.

  I emerged from the dressing room in my new sneakers, jeans and the plum-colored T-shirt.

  Julien smiled at me. “Now at least your clothes are relaxed.”

  I chose not to respond and instead brushed past him. It was time to get out of here and figure out a plan. Julien reached for the door, but surprised me as he rested his other hand on the small of my back. He kept his hand there until I’d passed through the doorway and walked out onto the sidewalk.

  Heat crept up my spine, all the way to the tips of my ears as his hand slowly slipped off my back.

  “Thank you for the clothes,” I said, focusing straight ahead on the sidewalk, wondering why Julien’s touch made me feel so off balance. It’s not as if I’d never had physical contact with a man other than Paul.

  Well, okay, I hadn’t had much physical contact with other men . . . okay, fine, I couldn’t r
emember the last time a man other than Paul had placed a hand on me. And to tell the truth, I couldn’t remember the last time Paul had placed his hand on my back the way Julien just had. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Paul just wasn’t a cuddly, touchy-feely kind of guy.

  “Like I said before, it is no problem,” Julien said.

  I continued to focus on the road ahead. I would be home soon and would never again have to worry about other men making me blush. “So, what now? Should we call that girl again? Camille?”

  “She will call me back soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, positive.”

  Julien’s reassurance didn’t mean much to me anymore. He’d been sure about a lot of things up to this point. Sure that we would find Claude and my passport in Giverny, and then in Annecy. Would Camille coming to save us from the transportation strike be another thing he was “sure” about, but that didn’t come to pass?

  Just as I was beginning to ponder what we would do if Camille didn’t pull through, Julien stopped and peeked into a store called Darjeeling. This time though, instead of jeans and T-shirts clothing the mannequins, their smooth white bodies were strung in racy lingerie.

  He lifted both eyebrows this time and shot me a sly grin. “You probably would like some clean underwear too. No?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I am serious. You are probably wearing the same pair for a couple of days now.”

  “What about you? You don’t have a change of clothes with you either.”

  “I was only planning on being away from home for a day at the most. Do you need the underwear or not?”

  As I mulled it over, I realized I would love a few pairs of clean, comfy underwear to replace the pair I’d been donning the past day and a half. And I would pay him back. So it’s not like I’d be indebted to Julien forever.

  Oh what the hell. “Come on,” I told him as I opened the shop door. “You will not be watching me try anything on this time, and I’m not getting anything . . . you know, crazy.”