Kissed in Paris (34 page)

“Wow. So you’re a closet artist
and
a cook. Unbelievable.” I gazed around at the chicken, the buttery vegetables, the colorful salad and the steaming hot quiche, my sour stomach eager to fill up with some of this amazing cuisine.
I couldn’t believe that Julien had made all of this himself. I was used to late-night take-out since Paul and I were both horrible cooks and never had the energy to whip something together at the end of a long work day.

“My mother loved to cook too,” I told him. “She started to teach me when I was younger, but after she passed, my dad opted for microwave dinners and macaroni and cheese instead.”

“Macaroni and cheese?” he echoed, his brow furrowing.

“You don’t really do the whole processed food thing in France, do you?”

Julien shook his head. “I picked some of the vegetables for this dinner over there in that garden,” he nodded to his right. “The
poulet
. . . euh, I mean the chicken, I buy from a farm down the street, and the wine, well, it is obvious where that comes from. So no, the French are not big fans of food that is not fresh.”

“That’s probably why you’re all so thin.”

“Oh, so you agree with me now? That French people are healthier than Americans?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I kid,” Julien said as he broke off a piece of bread, handed me the baguette, then gestured around the table. “You see, I love big, crazy families. I do not understand how people live without them. It is what keeps life interesting.”

“I thought you didn’t like the
drama
.”

“Mmm, yes. I did say this earlier, didn’t I?” He shot me a sly grin. “I was lying. I love it.”

***

 The laughter and joking didn’t cease as bottles of wine were consumed at record speed and every last bit of food disappeared off the serving dishes. As most of the chatter was in French, it was lost on me, but Julien stopped to translate as often as he could.

I didn’t mind sitting there in a haze of my inability to understand French. Even though I’d slept off most of the alcohol from my depressive binge earlier in the day, I was still feeling more than a little off knowing that in less than twenty-four hours I would be home, running damage control on my family, on my engagement, on my life. And I was secretly hoping the French chit-chat would carry all the way through dinner was so I wouldn’t have to answer any more questions about my
new relationship
with Julien.

But, about half-way through the meal, the mood suddenly turned somber. Pierre-François stood and walked over to the head of the table where Julien’s mother was wiping a tear from under her eye. He placed a hand on her shoulder, then lifted his glass.

“
À Jacques
,” he said, his eyes suddenly red-rimmed and sad.

“
À Jacques
,” everyone else echoed with a lift of their glass.

I realized then that they were talking about Julien’s dad. I raised my wine glass with the others and took a sip, the berry-flavored currant rushing down my throat. I stole a sideways glance at Julien, his brown eyes soft and full of warmth as he gazed over at his mother.

I felt my heart pull as I watched him turn to his sister, who was also wiping a few stray tears off her cheeks. He smiled, clinked his glass with hers, then took a gulp.

“
À papa
,” he said.

“
À papa
,” Camille repeated.

Julien cleared his throat, then turned to me. “From what you have heard about my father, you probably think he wasn’t such a good man. But for all of his faults, he was the happiest man I knew, and he kept my mother very happy. He would have liked you. It is too bad he is not here tonight to meet you.”

I glanced up at the sky. “Maybe he’s up there somewhere with my mom.”

Julien smiled. “I hope so. I am sure your mother was a beautiful woman, if she was anything like her daughter.”

I fidgeted in my seat, dropping my gaze to the table and wondering why Julien felt the urge to say all of these sweet things to me when his family wasn’t even paying attention.

“I see that you are drinking the wine,” Julien said, nodding toward my glass. “After today, I thought for sure you would never drink again.” His devious grin was back.

Just as I was about to respond, a female voice called my name from across the table. I turned to find Julien’s mother gazing over at me, a weak smile etched onto her pale face. “I am sure you did not come all the way to France to hear a bunch of old French people crying. And besides, my husband would not have wanted us to be sad. He would be happy that our Julien has
finally
found such a nice woman.
Alors, racontez-nous l’histoire
! How did you meet my son?”

I glanced over at Julien for rescue, hoping he didn’t expect me to answer this question.
He
was the more experienced liar, after all. To my astonishment though, Julien’s cheeks were a shade pinker than normal, and his mouth, for once, was out of words.

Julien’s mother raised an eyebrow at us. “Maybe it is not a story for the dinner table. Am I right?”

Oh, God. She thought we had a one-night stand. I turned to Julien once more, hoping he’d figure out something believable to say to them. But then I remembered how he’d told the newlyweds that we’d met on a nude beach.
Merde.

“No,
Maman
, it is nothing like that,” Julien assured her. “I was in Paris, on . . . euh . . . business, and I saw Chloe walking out of her hotel, and . . .” Julien trailed off as his eyes locked with mine. “And the moment I saw her, I knew she was someone I would be spending a lot of time with. So, I kissed her.”

“Is this true, Chloe? My son walks up to you on the street in Paris and kisses you?”

My stomach flip-flopped as I remembered Julien’s lips on mine in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée. A burst of nervous laughter escaped from my lips. “Yes, that’s exactly what happened actually.”

“
Oh la la
.
This story is just like one of Julien’s paintings, no? I cannot believe you are still here. You must be a very special girl, Chloe.”

The rest of the family giggled, not tearing their eyes from me and Julien.

Julien’s mother clapped her hands together as an ornery grin and a bit more color peppered her cheeks. “You know, this makes me think of a song.”

“
Maman
,” Camille said in a tone reminiscent of a two-year-old girl stomping her feet.

“
Tais-toi, ma fille. Va chercher mon disque de Charles Trenet.
”

Camille stood and stomped toward the house, not masking her disapproval of whatever her mother had just said.

“What’s going on?” I whispered to Julien.

“I hope you like to dance.”

“What?”

Before he could explain, an old French song traveled from the kitchen window out into the balmy summer evening.

Julien’s mother set her laughing gaze on us, the weariness now wiped clean from her eyes. “
Dansez!
” she ordered, nodding toward the tree-covered patio next to the table.

With a chuckle, Julien took my hand and led me over to the patio.

“We’re not seriously doing this, are we?” I hissed through my smile as I trailed along behind him.

Julien didn’t answer. Instead he slid his right arm around my waist and pulled me into his chest.

“
Quelle chanson, Maman
?” Camille screeched out the window, irritation ringing through her voice.

“
La Romance de Paris
,” Julien’s mother called out as she sipped her wine and watched us expectantly.

“Don’t worry, I will lead you,” Julien’s voice carried over the upbeat tune that flooded the warm summer night.

Before I had another second to protest, Julien spun me around, then pulled me back into his chest, his breath hot on my cheeks, his hand gripping my waist. I swayed with him to the fast-paced music, aware of everyone’s eyes on us—this new
couple
that seemed to be bringing a spark of happiness to a family who’d just experienced a monumental loss.

And I tried
not
to enjoy it. I tried to tell myself that this was all just a part of the act. That I wasn’t in any way having an incredibly nice time with Julien or his huge, fun-loving French family. That I was simply doing him this favor because he’d figured out a way to get me home in time for my wedding.

But I couldn’t ignore the comfort I felt in his arms, the rush I felt from spinning around on the patio with him, and the gnawing thought in the back of my mind that maybe this
wasn’t
for show.

Julien held his rugged face close to mine as he sang along to the old French song, the short verses rolling off his tongue, the tune reminding me of the black and white films my mother used to love.

“What do the lyrics mean?” I asked after he’d spun me around again and pulled me back into his embrace.

Julien held me tighter, a sultry gaze passing through his eyes. “They have loved each other for barely two days. There is sometimes happiness to be found in pain. But now that they are in love, their destiny—or their
fate
—is no longer unlucky.
That
is the romance of Paris.”

Suddenly I forgot about our audience, their chatter fading into the background, and I all heard were the song lyrics, replaying themselves over and over in my head.

The romance of Paris. Barely two days. Happiness in pain. A fate that is no longer unlucky.

All traces of the turbulent few days we’d spent together were wiped away as Julien’s hands led me around this magical slice of paradise where orange and pink hues swirled in the sky overhead, casting golden beams down on the rolling hills of the vineyard.

In that moment, I forgot about Paul too. About my wedding. About Claude stealing my passport. About Julien’s past. And about the fact that this dance was just an act we were playing in front of his family.

Because for those brief seconds, as I relaxed into Julien’s arms and let him twirl me around the patio, it felt real.

It felt as if
this
was supposed to be my life . . . my
destiny
.

But as the song carried on and each verse brought us closer to the time when this dance would end, when we would go to bed, when I would wake up in the morning and leave this vineyard never to see Julien or his family ever again, I realized I didn’t want it to end.

Not the song. Not this moment. Not my time here.

Julien nudged his scruffy cheek against mine. “What are you thinking about?”

I shook my head in an attempt to cast off the feelings that had, in an instant, lodged themselves deep into my being, refusing to leave. But with each sway of our hips, each squeeze of Julien’s hands on my waist, each lustful gaze he threw my way, the layers upon layers of armor I’d wrapped myself up in since the death of my mother began to peel away. And all that was left was the truth.

Instead of being messy, Julien’s five o’clock shadow was suddenly sexy. His strong arms wrapped around me were comforting, and I knew that if I slipped, his arms would catch me. He would make sure I didn’t fall.

It’s what he’d always done for his family. And it’s what he’d done for me for the past three days. He’d made sure I was okay. Made sure I didn’t fall. And he hadn’t even known me.

“Chloe?” he asked again, jolting me from my thoughts.

“Yes?” I whispered, noticing that the rest of the family had paired up and joined us for a dance on the patio, and that they were no longer watching us.