I looked off to my left, forcing myself to not fall victim to Henri’s rousing gaze.
The past few days had been wonderful—hedonistic if there ever was an example of the word. Nothing but sightseeing, wine-tasting and sampling cheeses, frequenting one boulangerie and one patisserie after another, and more sex than I’d had since…since…well, since I was with Brandon.
If the travel bureau of Paris needed a poster to entice American women to venture this way east, I’d be the perfect pin-up girl. Wild-and-fancy-free with a Parisian lover on my arm, a macaron poised temptingly at my lips, a Hermès scarf about the neck flying in the wind, the Eiffel tower, Pont Neuf, and the Arc de Triomphe dropped behind me, with a big banner overhead reading, “Vive la France!”
But I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew my time in Paris was brief, and my time spent with Henri was soon to become a memory.
Henri was sweet and fun, he was intelligent and gorgeous, he was unbelievable in bed, and we made a pretty good couple. He wasn’t one of those men who added a bunch of weighty baggage.
Unfortunately, he didn’t do anything lasting that could help take the weight off. He was a romancer, and not the monogamous kind. Wining and dining women was second nature to him, like knowing to add a hint of chili pepper to hot chocolate for a tantalizing kick was second nature to me. I couldn’t expect Henri to be a one-woman man for me, or move to the States to give us a real go, just as he couldn’t expect me to give up my life, my ambitions, or my café in Seattle for him. We had a lot going for us, yet so very much against us.
Sure, in the moment, when we were wrapped in each others’ arms in his bed or walking hand-in-hand under the starry night, or while dining together at one of the old-school bistros along rue de Charonne, I’d feel free as a bird, forgetting all about past and failed relationships and my everlasting singleness. Henri made me feel alive and beautiful.
But if we were both frank (and he unashamedly always was), he was an in-the-moment flirty fix and I a stars-and-stripes muse. Our relationship was one of those “relationships” that isn’t any more real than the one you have with a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough on a quiet Friday night in front of the television. Except that with Henri your hair gets mussed from mind-blowing sex, the scent of Gauloises oddly turns you on, and all your Catholic schoolgirl guilt goes flying out the window because you’re in Paris on vacation for god’s sake! Even the pope would understand your folly.
No matter from which angle I looked at it, though, a “fix” wasn’t going to cut it—wasn’t going to do much long-term work for my state of lovelessness and loneliness. It would work for my time abroad, but what then? Henri and I, quite simply, had no future outside of Paris. I hated that this was fact, but I couldn’t deny it forever…and it was time to finally face it.
“Actually,” I said, peeling my eyes away at last from the two young children playing tag in the peaceful Parc de Bercy. “It’s more like two days.”
“Two?” Henri said, surprise evident in his tone. “Chérie, you’ve only just got here!”
“I know,” I said. “But plans have changed.” We stopped walking, his hand still in mine. “A friend of mine is coming into town.”
“A friend?” He nodded. “You are always the lucky girl, Sophie, getting your friends to come visit you when you’re here.”
I scrunched up my face, making a “that’s true” kind of expression. I waved off the fact that, yes, the last time I was in Paris Chad had been in town selling some painting of his, and Claire and Conner had come, too. Conner had proposed to Claire then—it was a very big deal, and Henri understood why I insisted on being MIA for a while.
“Are the same friends coming?” he asked. We had stopped at the tall, wide row of cement steps that added architectural flair to the Parc de Bercy. An artsy waterfall feature sliced through the tiered seating.
“No,” I said, taking a seat next to him. “Another friend from Seattle, Jackie. It’s a last-minute trip, and she wants to have some girl time, you know? Shopping, bonding, going out for drinks and dancing.” I rolled my eyes playfully.
“I think that’s wonderful.” Henri gave me a soft and quick kiss. “But I’ll miss you.”
I pulled one leg into my chest and smoothed away the few loose pebbles that’d stuck to the back of my aubergine- and gold-chevron-patterned pedal pushers.
“I’ll miss you, too, Henri.” I flashed him a small smile. “All good things come to an end at some point, though, right?” I jostled a pebble in my hand amidst the sudden silence, the silence that comes with imminent goodbyes.
“We still have two days,” he said at last, looking deeply into my eyes. “Two days to do whatever you like.” He wrapped an arm around me and gave a light squeeze. “Minus, of course, the bit of time I need to spend finishing my article.” One side of his face twisted into an apologetic expression.
“Of course,” I said, knowing that Henri’s piece about modern-day poets who emulate Paul Verlaine was due to the small magazine for which he freelanced. Everything about Henri was so romantic and so…almost unbelievable, like it was too romantic or too free or too fanciful to be real. Like our relationship, it was a beautiful Parisian experience to have for a time, but nothing more, nothing lasting.
“And we can do whatever you want to do, chérie.” Henri pulled me closer to him, and I let the pebble fall. I listened and watched as it went clicking and clacking down the long row of steps, eventually rolling out of sight.
“You know what I’d like, Henri?”
“What’s that?”
“A romantic walk along the Seine.” I smiled and pressed a hand to his chest. I thumbed at one of his undone buttons. “It’s cheesy, I know, but it’s what I want.”
***
As planned, Henri and I went for an idyllic evening stroll along Paris’s winding river. We held hands, we kissed, we stopped for a late-night coffee and dark cherry clafoutis. We watched as the tourist boats puttered along the Seine, the sparkle of camera flashes going off in a blaze as soon as the boat achieved the illuminated Notre Dame.
It had even started to rain, no umbrella in sight, but it didn’t matter. Henri and I continued our stroll along the Seine just the same, and on through the romantically lit streets of Paris as we made our way back to the small Île St-Louis.
“We’re soaked,” I laughed out as we neared my hotel on the poshest of streets on the island, the Hôtel St-Louis en l’Île.
“I told you we could have cut our walk short,” Henri said, his accent, though usually only a hint detectable thanks to several rigorous years studying English, heavier than usual. It must have been the copious amounts of champagne at dinner he insisted we toss back in celebration of our last night together.
“No, no,” I said, waving a hand. I pulled my room key from my clutch and looked up into the sky, the rain still only spraying down in a light shower. “I like Paris in the rain. I like Paris anytime. And I wanted to walk.”
“You wanted to walk.” He chuckled lightly.
“I wanted to walk,” I repeated, slipping my free hand in his.
“So your friend arrives tomorrow morning?” He took one step closer to me, our faces inches apart.
“Tomorrow morning, yes.” I tried to steady my breathing, make my words come out calm and indifferent.
The reality that I was a single woman in Paris, despite the amazing way Henri made me feel over those few short days, was a tough pill to swallow. I wished I didn’t have to say goodbye; even more so, I wished things between us could’ve somehow worked out.
But the time had come to swallow that difficult pill. I was saying goodbye to Henri that night, unaware of when, or if, we’d ever see each other again. Henri had “complicated” relationships and a number of trysts I preferred not to know about. Earlier in the champagne-filled evening he’d said I should stay in Paris, work at one of the little boulangeries in the Bastille, and, I quote, “Be my Américaine inspiration.” He offered to let me live with him until I
could find a place of my own. All very enticing suggestions and offers.
When I’d asked about other “inspirations,” including the petite brunette who appeared in at least two photos in his apartment (to be fair, there was one of the two of us from the first time I was in town), he’d said in such a laidback, French way, “C’est normal.”
C’est normal for him, but not for me. While it was flattering to be “an inspiration” for a creative writer, I was in search of love, not lust, not flattery, not carnal passion. All right, I suppose love and flattery and carnal passion, and hell, a smidgen of lust are all right, too. But, the fact of the matter was, no matter how warm and inviting and a tiny bit tempting Henri’s offer was, my future lay elsewhere.
“Is this goodbye?” Henri asked, his green eyes catching the overhead street lighting beautifully. “Goodbye until next time?”
“I don’t know if there’ll be a next time,” I said.
“Well,” he placed both hands on my waist, “whenever you find yourself in Paris, you know where to find me.”
He leaned in for a kiss and I succumbed, despite the voice inside my head telling me to say goodbye to the past.
He brought his lips to mine with a deep and growling passion, his tongue dancing with mine and causing butterflies to flutter in my stomach.
He pressed his body nearer mine, the kiss intensifying, no regard for the time, the place. There we stood, in front of the hotel, under the glowing streetlight, getting wet by the summer rain of Paris, wrapped up in the moment of saying au revoir.
“Should I come up?” he asked once he slowly released me from the kiss. He pressed his forehead to mine, and I couldn’t help but smile as he fixed me with a deep gaze, the rain droplets dusting the edges of his long, dark lashes. “One last night?”
I shook my head, then quickly pressed my lips to his. The kiss was brief, yet still intense.
“I should go,” I breathed out at last.
I swallowed hard, forcing down the unsettling feeling. My body was screaming at deafening levels to take what was in front of me—Enjoy! Give in! It was one last magical night in Paris!
But my heart was telling me to let go. To move on and let the memories remain memories. Henri was not what I needed, and it was time I accepted that if I ever wanted to move forward.
“Goodbye, Henri,” I said, rubbing a finger over his wet, soft lips.
“Goodbye chérie, my little American baker.”
I opened the hotel lobby door, and halfway in I turned around. Henri was standing there, one hand in his tight pants pocket, the other giving a small wave goodbye.
I waved and smiled, and thought as I turned on my heel, It was fun while it lasted.
I heard the lobby door close behind me, and I proceeded up to my hotel room.
I unlocked the door to my room, and, before I entered, I inhaled deeply through a smile.
“Oh, how fun it was,” I said to myself, all the while thinking, But this is nothing like that first trip to Paris!
Chapter Sixteen
“Dammit!” I cry as the cookie sheet falls onto the counter with a loud clang. I wave my hand rapidly, the potholder glove flying off.
“You okay?” Evelyn asks from the kitchen sink in the corner.
“Yeah,” I mumble, sticking my thumb in my mouth. “Burned the damn cookies, and there’s a hole in that potholder.”
“Want to cool it under the sink?” She gestures below her at the running water.
“Nah.” I blow on the burned part of the inside of my thumb. “I’m going up front, close out the cash register.”
As I make my way behind the front counter, thumb still in my mouth, I notice a pair of high-set headlights in the middle of the parking lot. It’s Chad, coming to pick Evelyn up, yet again ten minutes too early, as has been the pattern for a while now.
Before I open the door to let him in, I grab the damp rag from atop the espresso machine and wrap it around my injured thumb.
“Hi,” I say, giving Chad a quick smile as he enters the café.
“Hey, Sophie,” he says coolly.
“Working on a project?” I lock the door after him. He’s wearing one of his pairs of paint-splattered, torn jeans.
He looks down at himself and sniffs in response, “Yeah, a mural for a doctor’s office.”
“The big time.”
He shrugs casually and says, “A friend of the family.”
“Ahh.” I quickly pull out a nearby chair on my way back to the counter.
“You can wait a bit,” I say to him over my shoulder. “Evelyn’s finishing up the dishes. Another ten minutes or so.”
I open the cash register and begin to count out the day’s earnings, but Chad doesn’t take a seat. Instead, he’s smiling and making his way over to me.
“Busy day?” he asks, resting an arm on the counter—an arm that’s splashed with tiny dots of paint. He raises his eyebrows and leans over to get a look at the cash register.
“Yes,” I say curtly. I motion with a wad of bills to his arm. “That paint better be dry. You’ll be in serious trouble if you ruin this counter.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He leans forward again, making an “I’m impressed” expression as he surveys the contents of the filled register.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling the handful of twenties against my chest, one arm hovering protectively over the register drawer. “You can sit and wait for Evelyn.” I nod my head to the withdrawn chair. “We’re still on the clock.”
I begin to mentally calculate the cash when Chad says, “What happened to your thumb?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Sophie the esteemed baker burn herself?” He begins to simper.
“Chad the esteemed painter not know how to paint inside the lines?” I quip back with a smirk.
I quickly pull at another twenty-dollar-bill, still managing to keep mental track of the sum, when I wince at the sudden pain. I’d moved too fast, hitting the burn at the tenderest spot. “Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hey there.” Chad reaches out and takes my hand in his. “That must be a pretty bad burn there, Sophie.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug off as he carefully unwraps the rag, exposing the pink, burned flesh.
“You should run some cold water on that thing, put some ice on it.”
“I’m fine.” I try to pull my hand back, but Chad won’t let up. He drapes the rag loosely back around my thumb and says he’ll go get me some ice if I won’t.
“I’m fine, really,” I call out as he disappears around the corner.
A minute later Chad returns with a sandwich baggie filled with ice cubes.
“Here, ice this sucker.” He hands me the bag.
“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling a childish face.
I try to keep hold of the bag balanced on top of the burn and simultaneously finish my calculations, but the bag keeps sliding off. “Dammit.”
“Here.” He walks around the counter and steps near me, holding out his hand. “Let me tie it for you.”
“I’m fine, really.” I roll my eyes as he ignores my protestations. He begins to wrap the rag around the bag and manages to fashion a bandage.
“There we go,” he says in a low voice, intently focusing on his nursing skills. “That…should…hold.”
“You’re too kind,” I say in a teasing kind of way.
“You burned the hell out of your finger.” He finishes fastening the rag securely. “It’s not kindness, it’s common sense.” His coffee-colored eyes look at me slightly mockingly, slightly comfortingly.
“Yeah, yeah.” I turn back to the register, nudging him away from behind the counter. “Too much to do, too little time.”
“Someone’s in a sour mood.” He chuckles and walks around to the other side of the counter, leaning again his painted arm on the countertop.
“Well burning myself isn’t anything to smile over,” I say, “and, if you must know—not that it’s any of your business—my dad called to t
ell me my brother, John, most likely will not be coming home for the holidays after all.” I blow out a long puff of air. “It totally blows. I was really looking forward to seeing him.”
“Ah, Sophie. I’m sorry. That does blow.”
“Yeah, well.” I pull out the stack of ten-dollar bills. “What can I do? That’s life.”
“Maybe New Years?”
“Doubtful, but maybe.”
“But Claire and Conner are planning a trip around Christmas,” he says spiritedly. “That ought to make up for the bad news with John.”
“That’s true,” I say with a small smile.
A kind expression crosses Chad’s face, a flicker of sympathy, perhaps.
“Hey, sweetie,” Evelyn’s voice rings out as she emerges from the kitchen.
Chad abruptly turns to look at his girlfriend as she pulls up on her toes for a kiss. She then looks to me and says, “He got you some ice for your burn?” She gestures to my thumb. “That’s good.” She slips an arm around Chad’s waist. “Dishes are all clean, Sophie. And I took care of the charred cookies for you.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” I brush my long bangs out of my face, still feeling cross over the mishap with the faulty oven changing temperature on me from nowhere.
Evelyn looks up at Chad with a cheery smile. “I’m ready if you are.”
Chad looks at me, that ridiculous lip ring pulling up as a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like we’re out of here, then.” He knocks on the counter, then points to my wounded finger. “You make sure you ice that for fifteen minutes. You need that hand for baking all those chocolate chip cookies.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, the two making their way to the front door.
“And Sophie,” Chad calls out as Evelyn passes through the front door, ducking below his outstretched arm that’s holding the door open.
“Yeah?” I remove my apron and begin to fold it.
“Sorry again about John. Don’t let it get you down, though.” He pushes his chin up with his thumb. “Keep your chin up. Remember, Claire’ll be back again soon enough.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 12
