Forget (6 page)

Once I reach the 10th Arrondissement, my feet explore Canal Saint-Martin for a good hour. I notice more Parisians than tourists along its arched bridges and concrete banks. Perfect weather has brought a decent amount of foot traffic, but despite the crowd, the area still appears charming and calm. Chic streets are speckled with cafés, high-fashion boutiques, and scholarly bookshops. I find myself loving the trendy and creative vibe flowing throughout. It might be my favorite part of Paris.

My phone vibrates against my hip. I pull it out of my messenger bag and see another text from Lindsay.
Get a tattoo.
Apparently, she’s bored in Milan’s airport while waiting for her flight back to New York. She’s been sending me messages all afternoon. Each one highlighting the infamous bucket list she created for me back in college. Nearly everything on that stupid list is beyond outrageous.

‘Nope. There is nothing I love enough to brand on my body.’

‘There has to be something you can think of!’

I walked inside of Au Fait as I read the text, laughing quietly to myself. Only a few patrons fill the rustic joint. Dark, wood paneling, British flags, and sports memorabilia accentuate the very pub-like feel. And rows and rows of liquor bottles sit behind the sprawling bar. There’s a small, makeshift stage and beside it sits a wall made entirely of a chalkboard—crazy sayings and drawings cover it from ceiling to floor.

My ass finds a spot at the bar, and while the bartender has his back to me, I respond to Lindsay’s text.

‘NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. So get the idea out of your head.’

‘You’re a whore.’

I laugh a little too loud.

The bartender is looking at me, and I’m faced with another handsome man within Paris’s city limits. His eyes are alight with curiosity and for some odd reason the sense of déjà vu smacks me in the face. “I’ll only serve you once you show I.D.
and
tell me what you’re laughing about.” His English brogue fills my ears.

Does every hot guy in Paris have an English accent?

I tilt my head in amusement. “I.D.? Isn’t the legal drinking age sixteen in Paris?”

He slings a towel over his shoulder and rests his elbows on the bar. “That’s for beer and wine, love. It’s eighteen for liquor.”

“You think I look younger than eighteen?” I almost snort in laughter—
almost
—thank God, I hold it back. My first day in Paris used up enough awkwardness to last a year. “And who says I want liquor?”

“I’m just trying to play it safe, love,” he answers, shoulders shrugging and smirk flashing. “I can’t have seventeen-year-old tourists coming in here and risking our liquor license.”

He’s so full of shit. I roll my eyes, grabbing my California license from my wallet. My hand slides it across the bar in a smug fashion.

“Brooke Sawyer, twenty-six.” He glances at me then back at the license. “An organ donor from California, who weighs . . .” he pauses and peeks up at my reaction. The audacity of this guy has my brow rising.

“A man who announces a woman’s weight to a group of strangers is known as an asshole where I come from.” I give him a pointed look. “You might be more familiar with the term
arsehole.
And I bet the queen would be quite upset with your lack of manners.”

He laughs heartily, handing my I.D. back to me. “You’ve got sass. I like it. Consider your first drink on the house. And seriously, I was just teasing you. I hope I didn’t offend you with the whole I.D. bit.” I can’t help but grin at his adorably guilty smile.

“If that’s your half-ass form of an apology, I’ll accept. Consider yourself forgiven.”

“Thank you,” he says dramatically, holding his hand to his heart.

His eyes hold a frisky edge. The kind of eyes that show this guy isn’t all business, and I’d guess flirtation just comes naturally to his playful personality. He’s probably a few years younger than me, and his body is one that proves he does something to keep his lean frame nice and fit. A few tattoos line his arms, wrists, and even fingers, and the shock of dark hair peeking out from a grey beanie only adds to his appeal.

Seriously, what’s with all the good-looking English men in Paris?

“What’ll it be, love?”

That’s the second “
Love
” I’ve got tossed in my direction. I’m guessing that’s the English equivalent of sweetheart or honey. “I’ve been sent here to try one of your famous Bloody Marys.”

“You got it.” He busies himself behind the bar, skillful hands mixing my drink.

I read Lindsay’s latest text.

‘Open mic night.’

‘No way. That’s ridiculous. And not happening.’

‘What about karaoke? I know the coolest karaoke bar in Paris.’

‘NO.’

Lindsay is relentless about everything. That trait was much needed, to help launch her modeling career, but as you can see, it often makes her a pain in my ass.

‘What part of Paris is that bar in? Au Fait, right?’

‘Canal Saint-Martin. It might be my favorite part of Paris.’

‘Very cool area. Chat later? I’m getting ready to board.’

‘Definitely. Have a safe flight. Love you, whore.’

‘Love you too, hooker.’

One sip of an Au Fait Bloody Mary, and I’m hooked. Now I know why Millie said it’s the best Bloody Mary I’ll ever taste. I literally moan into my straw.

“That good?” The bartender asks, his playful eyes smile at me.

“Am I that obvious?”

Nodding, he points a finger towards my drink. “The moaning into your drink kind of gave it away.”

“Damn, I thought I hid it,” I say through a laugh.

He leans closer, and whispers, “You need to try to hide those moans a little better, love. Every bloke in this pub is turned in your direction, wondering what has the pretty American girl so excited.”

I blush, it’s unavoidable.

“I’m Jesse, by the way.” He offers his hand.

I shake it. “Nice to meet you, Jesse. I’m Brooke, but you already knew that.” Since this isn’t Alexandre, I need to get some damn balls to ask Jesse where I can find the man who has something for me.

“Brooke, the organ donor from California, who’s five foot three and weighs . . .”

My finger stabs him in the chest. “Don’t be an arse.”

He holds both hands up in reaction. “I was going to say, weighs merely a pound or two more than Tinkerbell.”

I shake my head as my lungs huff out a laugh. “
Sure,
I bet that’s exactly what you were going to say.”

“Please tell me you’re not another woman who worries about her weight. You’ve got nothing to worry about by the way. I could fit you in my pocket and still have room.”

“Are you flirting with me?” I question with a raised eyebrow. Playful flirting to exchange a few laughs is one thing, but flirting with the intent on getting in my panties is the complete opposite of what I want from my new friend/bartender Jesse. I’m not sure I want him flirting with me in that kind of way, which is odd, I know, but undeniable.

The bar towel is flung over his shoulder. “Nah, just being honest. Anyway, you’re not my type.” His eyes assess my face. “I mean, you’re beautiful, but you’re too sweet, too nice. I like my women a lot meaner.” He winks.

Relief is a strange feeling to have, from that response. Why on Earth would I be relieved that I’m not his type?

And
meaner?
It’s not like I’ve been rolling out the red carpet of “let’s be friends” gestures. Only one type of girl would fit the bill for him. “You remind me of my best friend.” He does. Jesse is exactly Lindsay’s type of guy—gorgeous, and a smart mouth that would give her a challenge.
“And for your information, I don’t worry my pretty little head about my weight. I just wanted to make sure you had some manners.”

He laughs. “My mother would have my arse if she thought I was acting like a wanker.”

“Good to know.”

While Jesse helps an older gentleman at the end of the bar, I strive to get the courage to ask him about Alexandre. It’s an odd situation. What if this man has something for me that I don’t want to know or see? Would Millie really do that to me? No way . . .
right?

“Hey, hooker.” A voice whispers into my ear, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn around and find a smiling Lindsay standing in front of me. I scream, and it’s way too loud for the afternoon bar crowd, but I can’t hold it in.

“What the hell?” I yank her into a hug, squeezing her tight and jumping up and down in hysterics.

She pulls away from my embrace, still grinning from ear to ear. “I know you said you didn’t need me here, but I needed to be here. You’re not mad are you?” Her smile starts to fall.

“Are you kidding me?” I stare at her in annoyance. “I’d say my reaction spoke for itself.”

She laughs. “I think your screaming woke up the drunk guy in the corner.”

“Sit your ass down and drink a Bloody Mary with me,” I demand, gesturing towards the empty barstool next to mine.

Jesse saunters down towards us, his eyes appreciating the model looks of my best friend. I had a feeling these two would be the perfect kind of match. I’m not sure it’s the kind of match that includes professions of love and vow exchanges, but it would definitely light the sheets on fire. And I can’t blame him for blatantly staring at her. Lindsay is beautiful, all long legs, midnight blue eyes, and gorgeous red lips. Any red-blooded male would be tossing their best friend out of the way—and under a bus for that matter—to get to her. They would, and they do, quite often in fact.

“You’ve got company, I see,” he says towards me. “I heard the screaming from the back room. Who would have thought a girl that tiny would have such a big voice?”

“You should hear her sing. It’s unreal,” Lindsay chimes in, holding her hand out in his direction. “I’m Lindsay, Brooke’s better half.” She winks.

“Is this the best friend you mentioned earlier?”

I nod, and he seems to stand taller, more confident, if that’s even possible.

They exchange pleasantries, but the dirty gleam in their eyes makes me feel like I’m intruding. “She needs a Bloody Mary, and I need a fan from the fuck-me looks you two are flashing each other,” I tease, but it’s the truth. They might as well be screwing on top of the bar. They both smile and laugh in response. I knew they would hit it off. She’s just enough bitch for him, and he’s just enough cocky to challenge her.

“And she needs to know if Alexandre is here today,” Lindsay adds. I slap her shoulder in annoyance. I swear her mind is a steel trap. I briefly mentioned Au Fait and Alexandre two days ago, and yet she didn’t forget. “What?” she asks. “Did you get the balls to have that conversation before I got here?”

I avoid her eyes. My best friend really is a nosey bitch, one that knows me too well.

Jesse’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Alexandre?” he asks. “What exactly do you need him for?”

“I . . . I . . . Well . . .” I clear my throat, reigning in my stutter.

Lindsay slaps my back.

I glare at her.

“Just trying to help,” she answers with a shrug.

“I need to talk to him. Apparently, he has something for me,” I finally spit the words. Stuttering is not an attractive trait, but sometimes it sneaks out when I’m really nervous or anxious about something. It’s one of the reasons I prefer producing someone else’s music rather than being the one singing on stage. No one wants to hear someone butcher their favorite song by stuttering through the chorus.

“Well, Alexandre is not here today. He’s actually in London for a couple more days. He plans to be back by next Friday. And what exactly do you need to talk to him about?” His curiosity is obvious in the questioning tilt of his head.

“It’s nothing that you need to worry your pretty little head about.” I raise a pointed brow, tossing his words back. “So you know him?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Is he a nice guy?” Lindsay asks.

“I mean, he’s not too nice when you’re his son and choose to drop out of college to work on your music career, but other than that, I guess you could say he’s a nice guy.”

“You’re his son?” The familiar relation is shocking. What are the odds?

He nods. “Yeah, I’m one of his sons.”

“One?”
If he looks like this, then what in the hell do the other sons look like?

His tall frame leans against the bar. “I have an older brother.”

I scan the bar for pictures or clues as to what Alexandre looks like, as well as his other mysterious son. Nothing stands out. “So if I come back next Friday, your father will be here?”

“Yeah, he’ll be here. He loves this pub more than his kids. And the man is stubborn as a bull, refuses to hire any help during the daytime hours,” he answers nonchalantly, and then busies himself with other bar patrons orders. The bar conversations revolve around sports, in a language I can actually understand, and I wonder if this has become a “home away from home” kind of place for English-speaking visitors.

I brush a loose curl out of my eyes, and Lindsay grabs my hand, staring down at the black ink on my palm. “What is this?” she tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing the masculine script. Then her eyes are on me, assessing my face for clues. “Who’s Dylan and why do you need to call him?”

I pull my hand from her tenacious grip, sliding it underneath the bar. “It’s nothing . . . kind of a long story.” Okay, so I didn’t tell her about the picture scandal that occurred my first day here. The damn ordeal was far too embarrassing and one that I’d rather forget.

She waves her hand in the air. “As you can see, I’ve got time for a long story. I’m staying in Paris for a week. I’ve got nothing on my agenda except spending time with my Brookie.”

I sigh. “Seriously, it’s embarrassing.”

Jesse slides a Bloody Mary in front of Lindsay, flashing a devilish smirk. “This one is on the house.”

“Thank you,” she says, batting her eyelashes and doing all of the things girls do when they are Lindsay and want to screw the bartender on top of the bar.

I’m thankful for the reprieve. I watch them exchange glances while Jesse helps an older couple that walked into the bar a few minutes ago. Au Fait is a laid back kind of joint where everyone seems to know each other. If I lived in Paris, I could see myself coming here for a drink a few times a week just to chat with familiar faces and enjoy a reprieve from my bumbling French.