The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (5 page)

You
have to do this, Chloe.

You
have to break him. You must do all it takes to cool him down… before it’s too
late.

“Chloe,”
he says, looking at me with so much tenderness my chest clenches. “I—”

“Let’s
pretend this never happened,” I interrupt him.

His
expression darkens. “Why?”

“Because…”

Damn
it, Hugo.
How
could I possibly explain this to you?

“Because
I can’t,” I finally say and turn away to resume plastering.

Hugo
follows suit.

An
hour later, we pack up and leave without having said another word to each
other.

*
* *

Eight

I’m
wearing leggings and a loose T-shirt. So are Jeanne, Manon, and Diane. Our
gazes are riveted to a plump blonde in flare jazz pants and a form-hugging top
who’s up on a podium by the mirrored wall. She fumbles with her music
equipment. Two dozen other women of various ages and shapes are scattered
throughout the available space, all staring at the blonde and waiting.

I’m
still not entirely clear on how Jeanne and Manon managed to talk me into
joining them for their Zumba class this morning. They’ve been taking it since
September at the gym that recently opened next door.

They
love it.

Manon
is on a mission to lose weight so she can fit into the designer jeans she
bought on sale. Too bad because her curves are beautiful. It’s a shame they
can’t be transferred onto my scrawny frame rather than just melting away.
What
a waste!
Manon also claims that as a headwaiter, her appearance needs to
convey more authority. How the disappearance of love handles can increase a
person’s perceived authority is beyond me.

But
Manon seems convinced.

Jeanne,
with her unbelievable body, doesn’t need or want to lose any weight. But she
happens to enjoy Zumba.

Diane,
who got up exceptionally early this morning and didn’t know what to do with
herself, is just along for the ride.

As
for me, I’m not a huge fan of gyms and working out. Besides, losing weight is
the last thing on my mind, what with being stuck in XS since puberty. I don’t
particularly love dancing, either.

Why
I am here, then?

Oh
come on, Chloe, you
know
why
—to postpone facing Hugo after last night’s mishap.

I
spent a good part of the night replaying it in my head and asking myself
unanswerable questions. How will he react when he sees me in the morning? Can
we both manage to act like nothing happened? Will we be able to go back to how
comfortable we were around each other before?

Can
we salvage our friendship?

Will
he want to?

Because
I sure as hell do.

Now
that I might lose it, I realize just how much I cherish it. In the seven years
between my moving to Paris and Hugo’s following suit, we only saw each other a
few times when I visited Claire and Diane in Nîmes or when Hugo visited Jeanne
in Paris. We’ve messaged on Facebook sometimes, but nothing meaningful or
regular. Yet I never doubted he was still my friend. Had I been in any kind of
trouble, he would’ve jumped on the first northbound train to be by my side as
soon as he could.

I
would’ve done the same for him.

But
I’d never asked him to come over, not even on that “total meltdown” week five
years ago. It would’ve been too risky, considering my Midas touch.

Ah,
the story of my life.

The
good news is I’ve become an ace at keeping my dear ones at a big enough
distance to prevent them from caring more than necessary—and yet close
enough so they don’t give up on me.

Because
if they do, I’ll give up on myself.

“OK,
ladies,” our unlikely Zumba instructor says in a high-pitched, overly eager
voice. “My name’s Tiff. Let’s roll!”

She
pauses and looks expectantly at the women in front of her.

We
stare back.

I
look to Jeanne for guidance.

“She’s
subbing for our regular instructor,” Jeanne whispers. “I’m not sure what she
wants us to do.”

Tiff
turns her profile to us, cupping her hand around her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Several
women shift uncomfortably and look at one another.

“Are
you ready to roll?” Tiff calls out rally-style.

The
response is an uncomfortable silence until someone to my left shouts, “Yes!”

“Good!
Thank you,” Tiff yells back. “That’s what I want to hear.”

I
turn discreetly, curious to see the kind soul who dared to express such
un-Parisian level of enthusiasm. The uncommonly upbeat
citoyenne
is a
stout middle-aged brunette. She sports a bright yellow, terry cloth headband
that looks like something right out of the eighties.

The
brunette grins, looking genuinely pleased.

Tiff
half squats, spreads her knees, moves them close together, and then draws them
apart again.

“Mobile
knees,” she explains. “It’s the key. I teach African Zumba, so you need to
forget your stiff-backed salsa moves, OK?”

As
if I had any salsa moves, stiff-backed or otherwise.

The
headband-wearing brunette shouts, “OK!”

“As
I said,” Tiff continues, “I don’t want to see any Latin moves today. I want to
see you shake it the African way. My way!”

Her
ruddy complexion and flimsy blond hair is such a stark contrast to her
profession of faith that I can’t help smiling.

Two
black women in the front row giggle and give her a benevolent, “
Oui
!”

With
that, she turns the music up, and the class begins.

The
four of us and all other women in the room spend the next hour energetically
wiggling and shaking various body parts to the best of our ability. We also
jump, clap, punch the air, tap our feet and, shedding the last remains of
dignity, do the Gangnam Style horse-riding move until our leg muscles beg for
mercy.

We
also giggle a lot, especially when Tiff explains her “trademark” shower wave.

“Picture
yourself facing the shower column,” she says, standing sideways. “Now turn the
shower on and let the water hit your face.”

We
dutifully turn our profiles to her and tilt our heads up.

“
Only
the face!” Tiff glares. “Keep the rest of your body out of the way!”

We
push our butts out.

Tiff
smiles. “That’s more like it. Now bend backward a notch so the jet lands on
your chest.”

She
shows us the exact degree of the bend.

We
execute.

“Continue
the wave and feel the water touching your tummy,” Tiff instructs, jutting her
croissant-lover’s belly out. “And finish with your thighs.”

Manon
tries her best to do the perfect shower wave while Jeanne, Diane, and I titter
and goof around.

Our
fearless leader plows on with unique gracelessness, peppering her demos of each
new routine with shrill commands to “sing along,” “smile,” and “say yes.” These
appear to work on exactly ten percent of the students, made up of the portly
brunette and her two sidekicks.

Not
only do they respond to every motivational call, they also cheer one another in
a heavily accented French. Could they be sisters? Or maybe longtime besties
who’ve grown to resemble each other the way old couples do? They’re dressed in
identical tracksuits and have died black hair held back with terry cloth
headbands. All three suck at African Zumba, but they stop and high-five after
every massacred routine.

As
the class winds down, Tiff takes us through a few stretches and then demands
that everyone smile and shout “African Zumba rocks!”

Everyone
does, more in recognition of her indomitable spunk than of her debatable skill.

In
the changing room, Jeanne marches up to the headband set and tells them they’re
her heroes.

“I
would’ve never made it through this class without you,” she says. “And I’m not
sure Tiff would’ve survived it, either. Thank you for being so generous!”

The
brunettes look mighty pleased, and an animated exchange ensues, during which
Jeanne establishes the ladies are childhood friends who hail from Portugal and
have been working as
concierges
in the 9th district for almost twenty
years.

Jeanne
insists they come with us to
La Bohème
for a quick coffee among
neighbors. The bar area has been finished since Monday. I can totally see how
the barista in Jeanne is itching to inaugurate it. Two of the three accept the
invitation, and I’m grateful, because it means I’ll enter the bistro with
boisterous company and a legitimate excuse to spend at least ten minutes
chatting with them while enjoying Jeanne’s top-notch espresso.

That’s
ten more minutes to brace myself before I face Hugo. Maybe in those ten minutes
I’ll have an epiphany and figure out a way to restore our relationship to its
pre-hand-rubbing state.

Or
maybe I’m just grasping at straws.

* *
*

Nine

Jeanne
hands me my cupful of cinnamon-flavored ambrosia. That’s not at all how you
take your coffee in Paris—or anywhere in France, for that
matter—but that’s how I like it. And Jeanne is kind enough to humor me.

I
prop my elbows on the antique countertop that I’ve cleaned, waxed, and covered
with two layers of plastic film.

“Please,
can I peel this off?” Jeanne tries to make a hole in the plastic with her nail.

I
point at the offending finger. “Hands off my counter.”

She
arches an eyebrow at me. “
Your
counter?”

“Yes,
sweetheart,
my
counter. As long as this bistro is under renovation,
everything here is mine, including the walls, the floor, and this magnificent
bar.”

“I
see.”

“So
the plastic stays.” I arch an eyebrow of my own, mimicking Jeanne’s expression.
“Am I being clear?”

Jeanne
throws her hands up and turns toward the coffee machine. “Bossy pants.”

Alcinda,
the concierge with the yellow headband, is next to get her fragrant cup. She
closes her eyes and smells her espresso before taking a tiny sip. “Ah, the bliss.
I wish I could make this cup last forever.”

“Don’t
worry, honey,” Jeanne gives her a wink. “I’ll make you another.”

“That’s
very kind of you, but I need to head home as soon as I finish this to check on
my husband.”

“Is
he sick?” I ask.

Alcinda
lets out a heavy breath.

“He
believes he’s being tailed by tax inspectors,” her friend says.

Alcinda
nods with another sigh. “It’s because he spent some time with aliens last year
when I was visiting my mom in Portugal.”

“I
don’t see the connection,” Manon says.

“It’s
elementary, Watson,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

Hugo
.

I
spin around on my barstool and stare at him.

“Morning,”
he says before turning back to Manon. “Everyone knows there are illegal aliens
on Earth. Everyone knows they have no intention of returning to their
inhospitable home planets.”

The
corners of Manon’s mouth begin to twitch. “So?”

“So,
if they’re staying, they should pay taxes.” Hugo leans on the counter. “The
problem is they’re hard to locate. So tax inspectors follow Alcinda’s husband
in the hopes he may lead them to the aliens.”

“That’s
exactly what he claims,” Alcinda says with a smile, and then she narrows her
eyes at Hugo. “Are you paranoid, too?”

“No,
I’m not,” he says before pointing at Jeanne and then at me. “But my sister and
my boss might disagree.”

I
take in his mischievous smile, and my whole body sags with relief.

“I
can certify,” I say pointing at Hugo, “that this man doesn’t have a persecution
complex.”

I
nearly add that if anyone is paranoid around here, it’s me because I’ve been
catching sight of my ex-lover in random places over the last few weeks.

But
I bite my tongue.

Some
confessions are better kept for a shrink.

“Too
bad,” Alcinda says with exaggerated disappointment in her voice.

I
turn to her and realize I’d been looking at Hugo—not her—the whole
time. My apprehension goes away. He clearly wants us to move on, to continue
the way we’d been before last night.

And
it’s working.

I
want to hug him for making this so easy.

“Thank
you for the coffee,” Alcinda says to Jeanne as she climbs down from her
barstool.

Jeanne
gives her a toothy smile. “My pleasure.”

Alcinda
pushes a handful of coins across the counter toward Jeanne, who pushes them
back. They continue at it for a few more passes, pressing hard against the
protective film.

“My
counter!” I growl as I snatch the coins and hand them to Manon, who drops them
in the drawer of the cash register.

Alcinda
and her friend leave while the rest of us finish our coffee and chat about this
and that. Jeanne announces her plan to throw a wine tasting party for her and
Mat’s friends once the bistro reopens. It’ll be an occasion for her to
celebrate the renovation and for Mat to nurture his relationships with his
Parisian supporters.

“Do
they matter for local elections?” I ask.

Jeanne
nods. “Absolutely. Especially the influential hot shots like Sebastian Darcy.”

Diane
flinches at that name and then asks with exaggerated disinterest, “You think
he’ll show up?”

“I’m
sure he will,” Jeanne says. “He and Mat get along super well. He’s cool… for a
rich man.”

Diane
gives her a tight smile.

“Speaking
of bashes,” Manon says. “My flatmates and I are throwing a Halloween party
Saturday night. Will you come?”

Jeanne
shakes her head. “Sorry. Mat’s parents are celebrating their divorce anniversary.
We can’t blow them off.”

I
frown, perplexed. “Did you just say
divorce
anniversary?”

“Yep.”
Jeanne grins. “Mat’s parents became besties after they split up. They value
their friendship so much that a couple of years ago they started celebrating
it.”

“Crazy,
huh?” Hugo gives me a lopsided little smile that does something to my chest
that’s strictly prohibited.

I
shake my head. “Where is this country going?”

“Mom
and Dad are invited, too, seeing as they’re in-laws.” Hugo’s smile becomes
bigger and toothier.

I
breathe again.

His
grin is contagious, but it’s a friendly tap compared to the sucker punch I
received a few seconds ago.

“They’re
excited,” he continues. “Especially because next month they’re having their own
celebration. Thirty years of marriage.”

“I’m
happy for them,” I say. And I truly am.

“What
about you?” Manon turns to me. “Will you come?”

“Depends
on where you live.”

“Montmartre
hill.” She touches my arm. “Come on, Chloe, it’ll be fun.”

“I’ll
think about it.”

“You’ll
need to wear a costume. Bring some booze. The plan is to party all night.”

I
look at Manon, trying to assess her age. Twenty-two? Twenty-three, max. This
means most her friends will be her age. A masked party with a drunken crowd of
twentysomethings? My next dose of sex is as good as guaranteed, and I wouldn’t
even need to hunt. It would be a pure, laid-back
gathering
.

I’d
be an idiot to pass up such an opportunity.

“OK,”
I say. “I’ll be there.”

“Brilliant!”
Manon grins and turns to Hugo. “What about you? Can you make it?”

Please
say no
, I beg
silently.

It
isn’t just about what happened last night. I don’t want him to watch me flirt
with a random fellow and leave the party on his arm.

This
is totally irrational because it would actually be good if Hugo saw me leave
Manon’s party on a random fellow’s arm. He’d recognize me for who I am—a
“floozy,” to quote Fabien—and wouldn’t touch me again with a ten-foot
pole. But I guess I’m not a rational person because I’m praying Hugo will say
no to Manon’s invitation.

“Sure,”
he says. “Thanks for inviting me.”

After
Jeanne and Manon leave, I gather Hugo and René and distribute tasks among the
three of us. We work in near silence for the next seven hours, stopping only
for a twenty-minute lunch break.

At
five we finish the kitchen, swallow the fifth or sixth coffee of the day, and
move our painting supplies downstairs to the basement.

At
six thirty, René calls it a day.

Hugo
and I continue working. Being alone with him again is a bad idea, but I don’t
have a choice. Our next client expects her remodeling to start Monday, which
leaves us only two days plus the weekend to finish everything here. Besides,
given how relaxed Hugo’s been around me since this morning, I’m guessing
yesterday’s incident was just a glitch.

It
didn’t mean much to him.

The
basement is even colder than last night, but I pretend it’s OK until my fingers
are too frozen to hold the brush. Glancing at Hugo, who looks engrossed in his
work, I turn my back to him and put my brush down. It’s time for a little
exercise. I jog in place for a couple of minutes and do a few jumping jacks
while shaking my hands and wiggling my fingers. To finish, I hug myself and rub
my sides.

Two
strong arms wrap around me from behind, wonderfully tight. Hugo presses his
large, warm chest against my back, and it feels so good I can’t find it in me
to push him away. So I don’t. Worse still, I lean into him, delighting in the
heat coming off his body, the snugness of his embrace, the hardness of his
muscles…

So
damn good.

“Chloe,”
he whispers above my ear.

My
eyelids drop. The need, the promise, the indescribable intensity he packs into
that single syllable incapacitate me. My head begins to spin. My heart launches
into a crazy haka
dance, threatening to dislodge itself at any moment.

He
holds me, pressing his lips to the crown of my head, encasing me with his
entire being.

“
Pichune
,”
he whispers again. “My Chloe.”

My
brain melts into a mash.

I
want to say his name, too. My tongue, my lips are itching to form it. At this
precise moment, I doubt there’s anything I want more than to murmur his name.
Hugo
.
That combination of sounds will be my safety valve, an outlet for a huge and expanding
need inside me. A monstrosity of need that quickly spirals out of control.

He
grows hard against the small of my back.

God
help me, I want this.

I
crave this.

But
I can’t let it happen.

I
tug at his sleeve. “Hugo.”

There,
I said his name. Why didn’t it bring the expected relief?

He
loosens his hold a little.

I
tug again. “Let go of me.”

He
releases me and steps back.

“You
shouldn’t have,” I say without turning around, my voice barely audible.

“I’m
sorry.”

I
turn to face him. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both of us still
panting, my cheeks burning and his eyes dark and heavy lidded with want.

He
doesn’t look a bit sorry.

I
rack my brain for an explanation that will ring true. “Listen, I cherish our
professional relationship, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Bullshit.”
He gives me a hard look, the hardest I’ve ever seen on him. “Why can’t we be
together and continue working together?”

What
do I say to that? I need an argument that will be more than just credible. It
has to be bulletproof.

I
put my chin up. “Because I don’t want you like that.”

His
mouth contorts into a sneer. “Really?”

“Yes,
really.” I peer into his eyes and fill my voice with all the conviction I’m
capable of. “I only want you as a friend and a business partner. Nothing more.”

*
* *