Oh, yeah. That’s why I was annoyed with him.
Aggravated anew, I sat taller on my seat. “The reason was that I’ve always wanted to see Paris. It’s been a dream of mine since I was a kid. I had every day planned out, I knew exactly what we would do, the things we would see. And I thought I could handle it on my own, but now that I’m here, I can’t, OK? I can’t handle all the love and romance and fucking happiness all around me when I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon! It isn’t fair!” My voice was rising and several people glanced my way, especially since I thumped my hand on the bar with my last word. But how dare he ruin my buzz and the tenuous peace I’d made with myself about going home!
He shrugged. “Lots of things in life aren’t fair. Doesn’t matter what city you’re in.”
I rolled my eyes as all the attitude progress I’d made during my second glass of wine came undone. “Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard a boatload of them in the week since I was unceremoniously dumped—via text message, mind you—seven days before my goddamn wedding.”
Lucas regarded me carefully. “You’ve got a problem.”
Brilliant, this asshole. “Yes. My problem is that I’m on my honeymoon, alone.”
“That’s not your problem.”
My jaw fell open. Who the hell was he to tell me what my problem was? He went on before I could protest.
“Your problem is that you thought things were going to be one way and they’re not. You’re not even telling me you miss the guy who was supposed to be here with you. You just don’t want to be here alone because that wasn’t the plan.”
“That is not what I said!”
He laughed. “That’s exactly what you said.”
“Well…” I flapped my hands. “That’s not what I meant. I’m flustered. And drunk.”
“So you do miss him? Because I don’t see a heartbroken girl here in front of me. I see someone who’s angry that her relationship ended badly mostly because it ruined an idea she had about the perfect life. And she flew all the way here, but even Paris isn’t enough to distract her from the fact she didn’t get exactly what she wanted when she wanted it.”
“It was more than an idea! It was real. At least, it felt real…most of the time.” My spine curled as the fight left my body. Even my voice weakened. “But what do I know?”
He spoke softer too. “Want to know what I think?”
“No.”
He held up his hands. “Fair enough.”
I put my credit card on the bar. “I want to pay my bill and leave.”
“The wine is on the house.”
“Because you feel sorry for me?” I snapped. God, Mia, just shut up. Why I was letting this guy get to me, I had no idea. Wasn’t I in this bar because I felt sorry for myself?
He hesitated before answering. “Yes. Originally, I felt sorry for you because some asshole treated you wrong. But now that I know a little more, I think he did you a big favor. Now I feel sorry for you because you’re going to let one bad day ruin a dream that you’ve had for such a long time. You know, if you leave tomorrow, I bet you never come back. I bet you’ll always think of Paris as a miserable, lonely place.”
I opened my mouth to argue and then closed it. Was he right? Was I letting one bad day speak louder than a lifetime of dreaming about Paris?
“But I’d also bet you’re stronger than you think.”
I met his eyes, and they were serious. Was he right? I’d known coming here wouldn’t be easy, but I’d gotten on that plane. Cocking my head, I asked, “Were you a psych major or something?”
He grinned. “Double major—music and psychology. Graduate degree in psych. Look, I know we just met, and I do tend to analyze people and open my big mouth when I should probably just keep my opinion to myself. But when you walked in here alone and looked around, I thought, There is a woman who knows what she wants. That confidence is sexy.”
“But I’m not confident.” The words came out like a whimper as I stared down at my left hand, where my ring used to be. I wondered where it was now—I’d thrown it in the toilet, but Coco had rescued it.
“Yes, you are. You’re just a little scared right now.”
Exhaling, I looked up at him through my lashes. “You argue with everything I say. It’s really annoying.”
“Sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, let’s make a deal. You agree to give Paris one more day, and I’ll agree to spend the day being your tour guide—no psycho-analysis, I promise. If you’re still miserable even when you have a friend by your side, you can grab a flight home the next day. I’ll even call the airline for you.”
“A friend, huh?”
“You think about it.” He moved down the bar to fill drink orders, and I checked out his ass again. It really was cute. And though he wasn’t my first choice for a travel companion—I’d rank him somewhere above my mother and below Coco and Erin—the offer was sort of sweet, and I figured he’d make a pretty good guide, being native and all. I could give it one more day.
When he returned, I held up two fingers. “I have two conditions.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Name them.”
“You have to quit arguing with everything I say about myself. You don’t even know me.”
“Yes, I do.”
I drew in a huge angry breath, but he burst out laughing. “Sorry.” He flashed his palms at me. “But you’re cute when you’re mad, you know. It’s going to be hard for me to resist poking at you just a little.”
My mouth hung open. Was he flirting with me? I was half furious, half flattered. On one hand, he’d irritated me to no end tonight with his smart-ass, know-it-all attitude, but on the other…My God, how long had it been since someone had flirted with me this way?
The other bartender called for help, and Lucas held up one finger over his shoulder to put him off a moment. “So? What’s the second condition?”
“There must be wine.”
He grinned. “Deal.” I put out my hand and we shook on it, and then suddenly he pulled me toward him over the bar, kissed each of my cheeks, and then the first one again. “Nice to meet you, Mia. Welcome to Paris.”
#
Despite Lucas’s opinion, I did not feel confident enough to take the Metro for the first time at night, so he put me in a cab and gave the driver directions to the hotel. Lucas raised an eyebrow at my fancy digs but didn’t make any smart comments. We agreed he’d meet me there in the lobby at ten the next morning—he argued for noon, but I insisted on earlier.
“I have to work until two,” he complained.
“Better get right home afterward, then. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow if you’re going to sell Paris to me in just one day.”
He groaned and opened the cab door, and I flashed him a victory smile. I’d sort of been expecting at least a hug or something, but he didn’t go in for one, so I didn’t either. Sliding into the back seat, I lifted a hand in farewell as he shut the door and did the same.
It was oddly disappointing.
#
The next morning I woke at eight, showered, and donned the smaller of the two robes that hung in the bathroom. Humming along with Kate Nash’s “Paris”, one of my favorite songs on the Paris playlist, I let my curls air-dry as I sipped a delicious pot of room-service coffee, nibbled on strawberries and pain au chocolat, and sifted through my clothes for just the right outfit. According to the English-language newspaper that had been waiting at my door, the day would be overcast but not rainy, and the temperature mild.
Hmmmm. Tapping a finger on my lips, I considered my wardrobe. I wanted to look nice but not like I was trying hard—because I wasn’t—but I needed to be comfortable too. My flats had been OK for walking yesterday, but I thought I might go with sneakers today. I paired them with my favorite jeans, rolled up, and a plain white tank top. In case I got chilly, I tossed a soft little sweater in watermelon pink over my shoulde
rs.
Once I was dressed, I put on some mascara and fussed a little with my hair, but really, there wasn’t much I could do once it was dry. Kerastase made products I loved, but sometimes my curls had a mind of their own. Today, thankfully, they were behaving properly.
I finished my coffee and was brushing my teeth when the front desk called up letting me know I had a guest in the lobby. I rinsed, spit, and put on my favorite lip balm before slinging my bag over my shoulder and rushing out the door.
On the elevator ride down, my stomach was actually jumping—what the hell? I put a hand over it and reminded myself not to expect too much out of this day. Lucas was a nice guy and all, maybe even a little attractive, but there was no guarantee I was going to enjoy his company for hours on end, nor he mine. In fact, this day could be totally awkward if we didn’t have anything in common. I’d have to think of an excuse to cut out early if that was the case.
After exiting the elevator, I walked into the elegant lobby and scanned the crowd.
“Looking for someone?” The voice came from behind me, and I turned to find Lucas standing there, hands in his pockets.
I smiled. “This time, I am.”
He returned the smile before leaning in and kissing me, once on each cheek. Was it my imagination, or was he cuter this morning than he’d been at the bar last night? Was something different? I took a quick inventory—no, the scruff was still there and the hair was still kind of a mess. Jesus, did the man own a comb?
But his outfit wasn’t bad. The gray pants from last night were making a repeat performance, but on top he wore a white shirt and a cardigan sweater. It was cute in a sort of nerdy-chic way.
We exited the hotel and Lucas gestured left. “This way.”
“Where are we going?” I fell in step beside him.
“For coffee.”
A sound of frustration escaped me. “I’ve already had coffee! I want to see something!”
“Relax, princess. We’re going to stroll up the Champs-Élysées like proper tourists and then sit at a cafe and have coffee in view of the Arc de Triomphe. You’ll be able to cross two famous sights off your list.”
“How you do know I have a list?”
He grinned sideways at me. “Just a guess.”
Pursing my lips, I smacked him on the shoulder. “You said no analyzing today.”
His eyes lit up. “Oh my God, you’ve got a list for everything, don’t you? I bet you even have one that says ‘Tuesday Morning: blue jeans, pink sweater, gray sneakers.’” He raised his voice to a high feminine pitch to mimic me. “Outfit change at four forty-five into cocktail dress and black heels.”
“Stop it. I do not.” I lifted my chin and kept walking, refusing to look at him lest my expression give me away. How fucking annoying that his stupid analyses of me were so spot-on.
Lucas laughed. “I was kidding, but you do, don’t you? You do have an outfit list!”
“So what if I do? What’s wrong with being organized and planning ahead? I’m good at that.” I’d always thought of my well-preparedness as an asset, so why were my cheeks so hot?
“Nothing’s wrong with it at all, princess.” He took my elbow to pull me up a side street, and I tugged it from his grasp.
“Stop calling me that. I’m not a princess.”
“Says the girl staying at the Plaza Athenee.”
“I’m not paying for it, remember? The ex-fiance?”
Lucas paused. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about him.”
“I wish I could forget about him.”
“You can. You will.” He tossed his arm over my shoulder and squeezed for just a moment, surprising me. “I’m sorry I teased you.”
We walked slowly up the Champs, stopping occasionally so I could ooh and ahh over the merchandise in store windows lining the avenue. I entered a few shops, but he chose to wait outside each time, never telling me to hurry up or complaining that he hadn’t had his coffee yet, like Tucker would have. Tucker didn’t get the point of window shopping—if he liked something he saw, he bought it.
I did see some pretty things I’d have liked to get for myself or for my girlfriends, but my credit card couldn’t handle the price tags. And although I had Tucker’s card and even his permission to use it, I just didn’t feel right about it.
“Not even a souvenir t-shirt?” Lucas asked when I came out of yet another store empty-handed.
I shook my head. “Even the t-shirts are a little steep for me.”
“Yeah, these places jack up their prices because it’s prime real estate. But I know some better shopping areas, less touristy ones. I’ll tell you where to go.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
At the end of the avenue stood the Arc de Triomphe, massive and solid and majestic, way bigger than I’d imagined it to be. As we got closer I stopped walking and stared, open-mouthed. “Oh my God, it’s so huge!”
“I hear that a lot.”
I made a face at him. “Hahaha. Just be quiet and let me enjoy this stuff, OK? That’s your only job today.”
He saluted me.
“So can we climb it?”
“You can climb it.”
“Why only me?”
He shrugged. “I’m not fond of heights.”
I looked at the Roman arch again. It was pretty high at the top. “You’ve never been up there?”
“I have. The view’s incredible.”
“Well, I’ll go by myself then.”
“No problem. I’ll wait for you here.” We’d reached the end of the block, where a café with a huge red awning and lots of tiny outdoor tables sat kitty corner from the arch. Lucas chose an empty table and sat down. “Aren’t you going now?”
“I guess so.” But I stood there a moment longer, feeling strangely let down that he wouldn’t accompany me. “You sure you won’t go with me?”
“I’m sure. Go on.” He waved me toward a metro station sign. “The easiest way is to go underground and take the walkway.”
I followed his instructions and used my Paris Museum Pass to enter. I actually had two passes—I’d ordered them ahead of time for Tucker and me. As I climbed the hundreds of steps to get to the top of the arch, I thought of maybe giving the other one to Lucas. I wonder if he likes art. I knew he must like music since he majored in it along with psych, but other than that and his job, I knew almost nothing about him, not even his last name.
My leg muscles were burning after a few dozen stairs, but it felt good, and the physical exertion lifted my mood. When I get down, I’ll ask more about him, and I’ll be open-minded and even pleasant, dammit. I won’t compare him unfavorably to Fucker, I’ll stop judging his hair, facial or otherwise, and I’ll even thank him for spending the day with me.
Because really, when I thought about it, he could have just sent me on my way last night. For heaven’s sake, it’s not like I’d been so charming he’d been unable to resist me. I’d been pretty bitchy, actually.
A little breathless from the climb, I reached the top and stepped into the wind, pulling my sweater tighter around me. Carefully, I approached the edge and took in the panoramic view. But rather than the Eiffel Tower or Louvre or La Défense, my eye immediately sought the café where Lucas was waiting for me, and I thought I saw him there, but I couldn’t be certain. I pulled out my camera and took a few pictures before heading back down the steps, through the underground walkway, and back up to the café. Lucas was right where I’d left him, an empty coffee cup on the table. He’d been checking his phone, but quickly tucked it into his pocket when he saw me, something else Tucker would never have done. He was glued to that thing.
“So? How was it?” Lucas pulled the chair on the other side of the table out for me.
“It was amazing. It was breathtaking. It was…” I lowered myself into the chair and pumped my fists in the air. “Triumphant.”
Lucas laughed and raised his hand for the waiter. “That good, huh?”
“Well, I didn’t see anyone kissing or getting eng
aged, which automatically makes it better than my visit to the Eiffel Tower yesterday.”
“Good. Would you like coffee?” he asked as the waiter approached.
“Sure, thanks.”
Lucas held up two fingers. “Deux cafés.” The waiter picked up the empty cup and retreated, and I leaned forward onto my elbows.
“So, Lucas...wait, what’s your last name?”
“Fournier.”
“So, Lucas Fournier. You majored in psych and music, you’re a bartender, and you’re scared of heights. Tell me something else about you.”
“I didn’t say I was scared of heights.”
I blinked. “Yes, you did.”
“I said I wasn’t fond of them. There’s a difference.”
A smile tugged at one corner of my mouth. “Of course. Pardonnez-moi.”
“And I’m not really a bartender. The Beaver belongs to my brother Gilles, and I just fill in there sometimes when I’m in Paris.”
“What do you normally do?”
“I teach intro psych at NYU. I’m just here through the summer visiting my mother and doing a little research.”
“In psychology?” I asked before taking a sip.
“In music, actually.”
“What are you researching?”
“The traditional folk music of Romani guitarists. I’d like to write a book about it.”
I tilted my head at the unfamiliar word. “Romani, what’s that?”
“Well, a lot of people refer to them as gypsies, but that term sounds a little harsh these days.”
“Aha. And do you play guitar as well?”
He smiled. “I do.”
Intrigued, I set my cup down. “Can I hear you play?”
“Did you bring a guitar?”
“Not here, silly. Maybe later?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You planning on coming home with me?”
Immediately my cheeks burned. I’d gone from pleasant to pervy in under a minute. “No—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I just—”
Lucas laughed as he reached over and patted my shoulder. “Relax, Mia. I’m only teasing.” He pulled some money from his pocket and laid it on the table.
Frenched Page 4
