Kissed in Paris (32 page)

“Anybody here?” I called out. Before the unsuspecting tenant could answer me, my foot caught on a dusty easel, and I toppled to the floor, a massive painting crashing down right next to me. “Damnit.”

From my new vantage point on the paint-splattered floors, I peeked around the small cottage, taking in the striking artwork strung over every spare inch of wall space, sprawled atop the kitchen table, propped up on easels. The artist had painted warm sunsets blanketing the Seine river, astonishing views of the Eiffel tower, the Louvre, the Champs-Élysées. Each image showcased a different Paris sight in a completely unique and breathtaking style, but there was one common thread that accompanied every single painting—a young couple locked in a sexy, passionate kiss. The heat of their embrace sizzled up off the canvas and settled in my tired bones. 

I blinked the tears from my eyes, refusing to acknowledge the thought that coursed through me at the sight of these fictional couples kissing in Paris—that there was only
one
time a man had kissed me and I’d felt that same scorching passion.

And it
wasn’t
with Paul.

Scrambling to my feet, I headed straight to the kitchen, not caring if the artist came home. Damn these stupid paintings. I needed to eat or I was going to pass out. I poured myself a glass of water, downed it, then found a wheel of camembert cheese and a basket of bread which I immediately began devouring.

After eating close to half the wheel and drinking another full glass of water, my head started to feel a little more normal and the dizziness subsided.

But the confusion remained. And while the face of the man I’d been with for eight years seemed to be somehow permanently erased from my mind, the man I’d only known for two days had now etched himself in there, and was stubbornly refusing to leave.

As I set the basket of bread back where I’d found it, I spotted a full bottle of Beaujolais wine already uncorked on the dusty countertop. I grabbed the bottle, sat back down at the kitchen table and poured a huge gulp of fruity alcohol down my throat.

And after a few more swigs, like magic, my confusion was swept away, along with my memory of the awful conversation I’d just had with Paul.

The one thing that remained was Julien’s face.

I leveled my gaze with the bottle and decided I would keep going until he disappeared.

***

“Chloe, wake up.” A distant, deep voice called out to me. I must’ve been dreaming.

“Chloe!” he said again, his voice stronger this time.

A warm hand cupped my cheek, then another one behind my neck. My eyelids fluttered open, then shut again, and finally back open.

Scruffy cheeks, worried brown eyes, and a rustled head of chestnut hair met my gaze.

“What’s going on?” I asked as Julien propped my head up onto a pillow.

“I came back from the hospital and couldn’t find you in the house. I thought something had happened. I thought Claude had come back and . . . never mind.” He shook his head, the worry disappearing from his eyes. “I see that you just took a walk.” He waved an empty bottle in front of my face. “And you found some wine.”

Ugh. My stomach curled as the smell of alcohol wafted past my face.

“Get that away from me.”

Julien held back a grin. “So you are a drinker now? I never thought I would see the day.”

“I’m not a drinker.”

“Of course not,” he said as he pulled me up to a sitting position.

“What time is it?” I asked, squeezing my eyes closed to stop the spinning.

“Three o’clock.”

My head swayed slowly from side to side and as I turned to focus on Julien’s face, I noticed his head was swaying too.

Damn, I was still drunk.

Julien placed his hands on my shoulders. “You are a little wobbly, no? Do you feel okay?”

“Mmhmm. I’m fine. Just a little . . .”

“Drunk?” he finished for me.

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine.”

“You need to eat something,” he said as he leaned me back against the couch cushions and stood up.

“I did eat. I ate that cheese. That camenamburt stuff.”

“You mean the camembert?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is that all you’ve eaten today? Some cheese?”

I nodded.

Julien swiveled around on his heel and headed toward the kitchen, mumbling something under his breath. I closed my eyes as I heard him banging around in there, when suddenly a thought came to me.

I shot up from the couch and charged into the kitchen.

“We have to get out of here!” I gripped the counter as I felt myself toppling over. Maybe I’d stood up too fast.

He turned, an amused expression on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“This isn’t our place,” I hissed. “I broke into some artist’s cottage. We can’t just take their food. We have to leave.
Now
.”

Julien laughed, then turned back to the refrigerator. “You are the one who broke in first and stole the wine and the cheese. If anyone gets in trouble, it will be you.”

A sinking feeling seized my stomach as the room swirled in circles around me. “I’m not getting in any more trouble. We have to go.”

“Relax,” he called over his shoulder. “This cottage belongs to me.”

“What?”

“It’s mine. I bought it from my father when I moved back to the vineyard two years ago. I’ve only been staying in the house with my mother since my father died.”

 “Oh,” I said, a hiccup escaping from my lips.

“So, you broke into
my
cottage and stole
my
food and wine. I should have you arrested, you know.”

“Very f . . . funny,” I stuttered, once again taking in the paintings of Paris, of the kissing couples, adorning every bare surface of the cottage. “Wait a second, so
you’re
the artist?
You
painted all of these?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. And I was not very happy to see that
someone
had run in here and knocked over my latest work in progress.” Julien raised a brow at me as he set a plate of fruit, vegetables and bread on the table, then filled up a tall glass of water. “In case you are worried, which you do not seem to be, the painting you flung to the floor is not damaged. Now sit. You need to eat.”

Dumbfounded, I plopped into the kitchen chair. “I didn’t
throw
your painting onto the floor. I tripped over it. And how come you never told me you were an artist anyway? Where did you learn to paint like this? Is there anything else I should know about you?” I grabbed a sliced carrot and stuffed it into my mouth.

Julien sat across from me and watched me nibble. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You women are very dramatic, you know that? All I ask is to have a simple life. To live in my nice little cottage, paint my paintings, drink some wine, and of course help the police arrest other conmen like me. But as long as there are women in my life, such a simple existence is never possible.”

I glared at him from across the table, while secretly feeling relieved that he’d fixed me this plate of food. Raw veggies had never tasted so delicious.

“I think you like the drama,” I told him.

“That is ridiculous. No man likes drama.”

“Even French men?”

“Even French men.”

“Well, I’m just about the
least
dramatic woman you’ll ever meet, so if
I’m
too dramatic for you, then you might as well . . .” I trailed off, losing track of where I was going with that. The giant strawberry in my mouth was making it hard for me to remember.

“Might as well what?” Julien asked.

“I don’t know. You get the point.”

He laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So finally, I get to see the
relaxed
version of Chloe. It took quite a lot to get to this point, you know?”

“I’m
not
relaxed,” I told him through a mouthful of strawberry.

“Oh?” he arched an eyebrow. “But you are free and clear. The police do not care about you anymore. And you are going home tomorrow. How could you not be even a little bit relaxed?”

“That’s all true. And thank you, for, you know,” I waved my hand back and forth in front of me, “dealing with all of that. But, there is still a problem. A
huge
problem. My fiancé doesn’t even know if he wants to marry me this Saturday.”

Julien’s smile disappeared. “That is a problem.”

“Two detectives came to our house to question him and now my family knows everything, and it’s going to be horrible when I go home tomorrow. Horrrrrible,” I slurred as I closed my eyes and plopped my forehead into my hands.

“The wine is making a little more sense now.”

“You’d be drinking too if you were me.” I lifted my eyes to his. “I’m sorry. I’m talking all about myself, as if my problems are the only ones that matter. How’s your mom doing?”

“She is doing a little better. She will be released from the hospital in a couple of hours.”

I smiled. “That’s great news. Why did you come home then? You could’ve stayed there with her.”

Julien’s eyes darted down to the table, then back up to mine. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “Thanks.” All of a sudden, I remembered yelling at Julien earlier that morning, telling him that he deserved whatever was coming to him. That he deserved to lose this vineyard. That I didn’t care if he ever found the painting.

“You know,” I said softly, as I pushed a stack of carrots around on my plate, “I’m sorry about what I said to you this morning. About you deserving to lose your home. I didn’t mean that. Well, okay, at the time, I might’ve meant it. But that was just because I was angry because I found out about your whole con-man past. I don’t really want you or your family to lose the vineyard. It’s so amazing here.”

Julien’s brown eyes flickered. “It is okay. You were right, after everything I have done, I do not deserve to have good things happen to me anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe it is not enough to change. Maybe the wrongs I have committed in the past will always follow me.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I think everyone deserves a second chance.”

“That is just your American optimism speaking.”

“But you’re doing a good thing now. You’re taking care of your mother. You’re trying to help your family. And trust me, I know
all
about helping crazy families. That’s what I’ve done my entire life. Well, ever since my mom died anyway.”

“I am sorry about your mother. When did she die?”

“It was a long time ago, when I was twelve. She died giving birth to my youngest sister.”

“That must’ve been tough at such a young age. I know how hard it has been to lose my father, and I am a grown man.”

I plopped another strawberry on my tongue and chewed. “Tough doesn’t even begin to describe it. But it’s okay . . . well, it wasn’t okay for a long time. My dad’s anxiety was through the roof trying to raise three little girls and a newborn by himself, so I stepped up to the plate and took over where my mom left off. Every time my dad or one of the girls went off the deep end, I handled it. I made
sure
it was okay. And I still do. Which Paul doesn’t like all that much because then I don’t have as much time to take care of
him
. And it doesn’t help that my sisters are totally crazy when they’re all together, and he really can’t tolerate women in large doses. But whatever, he just has to deal with it because he doesn’t have a choice. Because he’s marrying ‘Just In Case Chloe.’ The one who’s prepared for whatever disaster they throw my way.”