by Mia Asher
“Looks like the same thing as you.” She grins as she checks out Sébastien unashamedly. “Enjoying myself, Val.”
A guilty blush burns my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were coming to Paris. I mean, last time we spoke, you said you had nothing planned.”
“That time at Neiman’s, right?” She shrugs, and even her shrug is seductive. “Change of plans.” She reaches for a blond god, who appears to be much younger than us, and snakes her hands around his tuxedo-clad arm. “I decided to treat myself instead. Val, meet Ryan. Ryan, meet Valentina.”
I introduce them to Sébastien, and we shoot the breeze for a little. There aren’t any uncomfortable silences because of Gigi’s continuous chatter. A natural born entertainer, all eyes and attention must be on her at all times. I don’t mind it. I actually prefer it that way. It gives me time to think of an answer in case she asks me about William or Sébastien. Or of an excuse to leave without being rude.
She reaches for my hand. “Val, come with me. Gentlemen, we’ll be back in a few. Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”
“Which is not much,” I say sarcastically under my breath, making her laugh.
She guides me to a ladies’ bathroom, opening all the doors of the stalls to make sure we’re alone. When she’s satisfied, she moves toward the marble counter, reclines her hip against it, and crosses her arms. “Now, answer two things, you naughty girl. Where is that hapless husband of yours? And, most importantly, how in the world did you end up in the arms of Sébastien Leroux? Not that I blame you one bit.”
“You know him?”
“We went to the same boarding school in Switzerland for a while, but I don’t think he recognizes me.” She shakes her head. “Gods like him didn’t mingle with mere humans. He was a few years ahead of me, but whispers of what he could do to a woman’s body followed him everywhere. And he was just a kid then. Thinking of how he is now …” She pretends to fan herself, leaning forward as though she were going to tell me a secret. “Have you fucked him yet?”
“There’s nothing between us,” I’m quick to add, blushing and beyond uncomfortable.
“Okay,” she replies, a sly grin on her face. “If you say so. He’s quite the catch, you know? World-renowned artist, sex god extraordinaire, and independently wealthy. Dad was some kind of Wall Street King. Mom was a famous French actress. So I ask you again, how did you end up in his arms, you lucky, lucky girl?”
“I wasn’t in his arms.”
“Oh, babe. You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”
I stand next to her, reclining my hips against the marble counter, and bump her shoulder with mine. “You know, for an egomaniac, you notice too much.”
She has the decency to laugh.
“William is back home. And I’m here, trying to figure out my next step,” I say, suddenly feeling deflated. Being next to her brings it all back, injecting a dose of stark reality into the fantasy world I’ve been living in for the past few days.
Understanding shines in Gigi’s eyes. “I was really mad for you when Larry told me what happened. Like seriously? Fucking the intern? Couldn’t he have been less cliché?” She nods towards the door of the bathroom. “Ryan, out there. He’s my divorce gift to myself.”
My eyes widen. “Wait, what? I didn’t know you and Larry were having problems.”
“Yep. The asshole traded me for a newer model, so I upgraded too.”
I place a hand on her diamond-covered wrist. “I’m sorry, Gigi.”
She pats my hand. “Oh, don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for Larry. My lawyers are better than his.”
We chat a little bit more about the proceedings of her divorce. If she notices I’m avoiding the subject of my own marriage, she doesn’t mention it. Besides, what is there to say? That it’s pretty much over?
We leave the bathroom and join the guys who are waiting for us in the same place. As soon as I spot Sébastien, I feel like the air is back in my lungs, and when his smiling eyes meet mine, I can breathe again. If this is wrong, I can’t bring myself to care.
Sébastien places his hand on the small of my back, touching bare skin. Possessively. Unashamedly. He claims that part of my body and my body surrenders with a shivering sigh. Leaning close to my ear, he whispers enticing words, “Want to get out of here?”
And an even more dangerous answer forms in my chest, in the back of my throat, on my tongue, in the tip of my fingers. God, yes.
“Yes.”
HE TAKES MY HAND as I pick up the front of my dress and follow him. Laughter bubbles inside me, out of me. At this moment, we are young, reckless, eternal, and alive. So fucking alive. Hair-raising electricity courses through me. He steals a champagne bottle from a passing waiter. We’re not walking anymore. We’re running past strangers, past crowds of angry people. It doesn’t matter. It all becomes a blur around me except for the solid warmth in my hand guiding me away from the darkness and towards safety like a beacon full of light.
We make it outside. Chests heaving. Street lamps bathing our surroundings in an amber haze. A tornado of happiness and exhilaration threaten to sweep me away.
I look up at the night sky full of stars shining like little diamonds. Spread my arms and twirl one or two times, feeling free. “Beautiful, aren’t they? The stars?”
“Yes, very beautiful.”
Glancing in his direction, I find him watching me closely instead. Pleasure settles deep in my core, making my entire body throb with yearning.
Sébastien brings the green bottle to his lips and chugs down some of the champagne, drinking it with gusto and pleasure. When he’s finished, he hands it to me with a secret smile in his eyes. I stare at the bottle for a second and think what-the-hell. Throwing caution and manners to the wind, I let go and reach for the champagne. And I drink, and drink, and drink. I drink as though all my life I’d been dying of thirst and this is the first time my mouth has tasted water.
“Easy there,” Sébastien says, amusement carried in his tone.
Laughing and choking a little at the same time, I hand the bottle back to him as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry. That felt good,” I say, smiling shyly. “Tasted good, too.”
Sébastien goes to a garbage can to throw the empty bottle away. I watch him walk back. Deadly half smile pulling up the left corner of his mouth, hands carelessly in his pockets, hair loosely down. He’s animalistic and primitively regal, like the ruler of the animal kingdom stalking his prey, watching it cower before he takes its life. My palms begin to sweat. I’m dizzy, weak on my knees. Maybe I had too much champagne to drink?
No, it’s him.
Yes, it’s definitely him.
“La Bohème” is playing in the background, the famous tune floating out of the windows where the party is still going strong. Cars fly by. The Eiffel Tower watches us. Some pedestrians walk past.
He stops in front of me, shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over my bare shoulders protectively. I slip my arms in the sleeves of the jacket, enjoying the traces of warmth left over from his body and the lingering smell of his cologne. His eyes on me. The way he’s looking at me. It’s all that matters.
“I can’t offer you a dance in the rain right now. But, how about in the moonlight?” he says huskily, the lamppost bathing him in an amber haze.
Oh, Sébastien. “You were paying attention …”
“Of course, I was. When it comes to you, I always am.” An easy grin slowly spreads on his handsome face. “Now, shall we?”
My hand trembles as he takes it and places it on his chest, close to where his heart is. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. A gasp escapes my lips, a shiver of pleasure spreading through me.
A ball of nerves, I try smiling and making a joke out of the situation. “If I step on you, I apologize in advance. I’m terrible at this. Two-left-feet Val here. Once a guy told me that I looked prettier sitting down than—”
“I highly doubt that. Remember? Th
e kitchen. I saw you dancing.”
“T-that was different. I didn’t—”
“Valentina …”
“Oh, yes. Right. We’re dancing.”
“More like trying to.” He chuckles when I whack him on the shoulder, the sound soft and toe-curling. “Come, put your feet on top of mine.”
“What? No, your shoes will be ruined.”
“C’est la vie. Enough stalling, Valentina. Dance with me.” He lifts me so my feet are on top of his feet, and begins to sway.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wincing a little, imagining that this must be painful for him.
“Never better,” he whispers close to my ear, tightening his grip around me. “I’ve got you, ma petite chouette.”
I’ve got you. Simple words, but how safe do they make one feel.
I let my gaze roam over his features while getting lost in the heady sensation of being in his arms. Sébastien is like the sun. Dark without him, and bright, so bright whenever he’s near you. He can be blinding, but what does it matter when your body is burning once again?
And under the moonlight and the stars as our witnesses, we move slowly, effortlessly. There’s no rush. No room for thought. Just pleasure. The world could be falling apart, and it wouldn’t matter. I lean my head on his strong shoulder, smelling his scent of man and smoke and champagne, filling my lungs until every pore of mine is drowning in him. He moves closer, resting his cheek on top of my head, taking a deep breath. And baby, it’s good. We become two bodies slow dancing in a wildfire. If there’s nothing left of me after this, it will all be worth it because, for the first time in a very long time, I remember.
I remember what it is to feel alive.
“Ready?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you trust me?” he asks throatily, tightening his grip around my waist, pulling me closer to him.
I blink a couple times, still in a daze. However, the answer jumps out of me. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Sébastien takes me by surprise when he bends me backward over his arm, whisking me into an extravagant dip that is close to the ground. A shriek of shock turns into laughter and more laughter. And then laughter turns into a silence full of meanings that can’t be spoken. My heart kicks into overdrive, an invisible chord pulling me toward him.
He kisses my forehead, chuckling ruefully. “It seems we have an audience.”
“What?” I ask, disoriented by the sensation of his lips on my skin.
Straightening with me in his arms, Sébastien winks before twirling me one last time. The movement grand, elaborate. I squeal with happiness as he catches me by the hips and brings our bodies flush against each other.
The sound of mad clapping erupts somewhere from our right. I let go of him and turn in the direction of the small group of people watching us. Heart soaring and feeling silly, I reach for the edges of my dress, grabbing them between my fingers on each hand, pull the skirt out to each side, and accord them with a very pretty, ladylike curtsy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sébastien bowing to our audience, which makes them lose their minds. Our gazes meet briefly over the sounds of clapping and some catcalling. I smile. He smiles. And the world disappears around us.
I’m falling for him.
The thought doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s more like opening my eyes and seeing the blue sky for the first time in a very long time.
BURYING MY FACE in the pillow, I avoid opening my eyes for a little while longer. I wiggle my toes relishing the sensation of my skin against silk sheets. My entire body exhales in pleasure as memories begin to replay like a broken record of my favorite album in my mind. Was any of it real or just a lovely, lovely dream made out of wishful thinking?
But it must have happened. Because there’s this lightness in my chest. I feel like I can fly. I want to get up and jump on the bed like a toddler. Laugh and laugh until my stomach hurts and I can’t breathe. Hold onto this feeling and live forever just like this.
Letting out a sigh, I flip on my back and open my eyes. My gaze lands on the crystal chandelier and the rainbow of light reflected by each piece of glass. I blink a couple of times before reaching for my phone to look at the time. It’s eight in the morning, then I focus on the date.
It’s Tuesday.
Another kind of excitement flows through me. I’m supposed to be at the flower shop in two hours. About to get out of bed, I hear the doorbell ring. Frowning, I reach for my cardigan and put it over my silk nightgown before I open the door to find a young deliveryman holding a large plastic bag. The smell of butter flows out of it. Curiosity disperses the last traces of sleep from my mind. Helmet in hand, he smiles as he hands me a note.
I take the bag from the guy and go in search of my wallet. I tip him and shut the door behind me. I raise the expensive stationery to my lips and kiss it as though it’s Sébastien’s lips. After placing the note carefully in the front pocket of my cardigan, I walk to the kitchen, place the bag on the counter, and take out multiple plastic containers filled with food. I take off the lid of each one of them to find eggs prepared every which way: a frittata, an omelet, over easy, sunny side up, and the list goes on. An explosion of pleasure and delight bursts from somewhere deep inside me. Oh, Sébastien. You silly, wonderful man.
Out of the shower, I get ready in no time. I skip the blow dryer and let my hair dry naturally. Embrace the curl, the inner rebel inside me jokes. Summer, flowery dress. Check. Flats. Check. Perfume and lip-gloss. Check. Glasses. Check. Ready to conquer the world? Abso-fucking-lutely check.
On the way to the flower shop, I discover new smells. New sounds. The soundtrack of the city becomes a beautiful harmony to match its rhythm. I take a deep breath as I trace the flowerbeds lining an iron gate with the tips of my fingers while walking past it. The silky smoothness of the petals reminds me of Sébastien’s touch. I wonder where’s the guilt, the shame. But my heart remains blind, quiet to all of it. I try to picture William, but the eyes of my mind show me a man and a woman dancing under the moonlight to “La Bohème” as each step they take slowly illuminates every dark corner of her life.
Shaking my head, I push thoughts of William out of my mind. I will deal with the mess I’ve made when the time comes. The day will eventually come when the consequences of my actions catch up to me.
But today isn’t that day.
So I turn my back on reality. Wanting to enjoy this borrowed rose-colored dream for as long as I can.
When I arrive at the flower shop, I find Mr. Lemaire already inside waiting for me. He greets me with a tentative smile and a dictionary of French to English in hand. I laugh.
“It seems like we had the same idea.” I pull out of my leather bag a dictionary of English to French and place it on the counter. Mr. Lemaire focuses on the book and nods, his weathered blue eyes twinkling with good humor.
I give my head a tiny shake and smile at him, thinking that it’s time to set this place straight. Placing my hands on my hips, I scan my surroundings. Hmm. The flowers need watering and some trimming. Shelves are covered in dust. The floor needs a good sweep and mopping. The windows need attention too. I should be daunted by the amount of work ahead of me, but that’s the last thing on my mind. In fact, I’ve never been more ready in my life. Every part of me is vibrating with vigor and excitement.
I notice Mr. Lemaire observing me with curiosity and interest, probably trying to figure me out. I can almost picture what he sees. A woman more suited for The Ritz than at a decaying store swimming in dust. But the woman he sees is not who I am. It’s who I thought I needed to be, but not anymore. With each second that I spend in this place, that I spend in Paris, I’m more myself than I ever was in my cavernous house in Greenwich.
I point toward the back of the store and then mimic the movements of sweeping the floor. Mr. Lemaire frowns, confusion embedded in the lines of his forehead. If this were a cartoon, this is where he’d scratch his head as a big question mark appeared above him. I laugh, reaching for
my dictionary sitting on the glass. After finding the word I’m searching for, I put down the book and look at him.
Our eyes meet. “Moi.” I point toward me. “Balai,” I say, pretending to hold a broom in my hand.
“Ohh!” He nods. “Aimerais-tu faire le par terre,” he says.
I’m not really sure what he’s saying, but I nod nonetheless, enjoying myself regardless of the very obvious language barrier between us. He gestures for me to follow him to the back of the store, and there he hands me a book with pictures of flower arrangements.
What?
How did we go from brooms to books? Did I use the wrong word?
Confused, I stare at the book in my hands when I hear Mr. Lemaire chuckling. Meeting his gaze, he’s watching me with an impish light in his eyes while holding a broom in his hand. Oh, he got me, and he got me good.
Laughing, I give him the book and reach for the broom. “Merci.” Mr. Lemaire, you naughty man.
The day passes in a blur. My soul dances in a swirling room made out of new experiences: the sensation of dirt beneath my fingers. Sweat across my forehead. The quiet, seldom laughter of Mr. Lemaire at seeing me tending to the flowers as though they are little children. Misunderstandings turning into more laughter. A quiet lunch sitting on the bench outside the store next to Mr. Lemaire who doesn’t say much because he doesn’t have to. I take my flats off, placing them on the ground next to me, wiggling my painted toes. The warm breeze kisses our skin, making our hair twirl in the wind. A sense of accomplishment takes over me, and my goodness, it is good.
When it’s time to close, Mr. Lemaire pats my cheek with a timeworn hand as his eyes hold mine. I wish I knew the words to thank him for what he’s done for me today, the gift he’s given me, but I don’t think I could ever find the right ones. We say goodbye until tomorrow.
Feeling like I’m at the top of the world, I rush home because I want to tell Sébastien about my day. I want to see him. Spend time with him. Watch the same wayward lock of hair fall over his one eye.
