Revealing Us (Inside Out #3)(25)

“Please,” he groans. “Don’t let them.”

“You’re on loan only,” I assure him.

“Fill that closet,” Chris orders. “Make me feel like you want me for my money.”

I laugh. “I do. You didn’t know that?”

“I thought you wanted me for my body.”

“Actually it’s the Harley.”

“Now you’re just feeding my other obsession.” I hear someone speak in the background. “I can still tell them ‘no’ and come home.”

Home. Our home. I like that. “Don’t. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Be careful, and text me when you get back to the house so I know you’re safe.”

I open my mouth to make a “Yes, Master” joke I’ve made on several occasions, but snap it shut. The memory of Rebecca calling Mark that is just too fresh. Instead, I simply agree.

“He’s a Harley guy?” There is an excited lift to Chantal’s voice. While I’ve been on the phone she’s been inspecting the rows and rows of books, many of which are interesting art and travel editions.



“Chris loves his Harleys,” I conirm, and it’s my turn to ofer a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And I love him on them.”

Chantal sighs and walks back to the couch to perch on the edge of a cushion next to me. “There’s something about a guy on a Harley. I think it’s the whole ‘bad boy who’s so good but destined to break your heart’ fantasy. Which doesn’t sound like much of a fantasy when you put the broken heart part in the picture, but it is. It so is.”

My gut tightens with that same damn memory of Chris showing up on his Harley after our breakup. It’s a destructive memory and I will it to stop showing up. “Sometimes it’s the ones who look the least dangerous who really are,” I warn her, thinking of Mark in his perfectly itted suits and with his perfectly chiseled body. “The suave, debonair ones.”

Her eyes ill with longing. “I’d like to get my heart broken by both kinds at least once. But since I have no men in my life, I think we should go eat lunch and inish with macarons. Then we shop.”

Her na?ve welcoming of heartache is again so like Ella that for a moment I can only stare at her, and when I recover, lunch and shopping are the last things on my mind. “Would you know where one would get a marriage license?”

“Sure. City Hall. Are you getting married?”

Am I going to marry Chris? “I . . . No. Well, not right now.”

“But maybe?”

I have to digest this question for a moment. Chris and I haven’t talked about it any further, but I ind myself smiling at the idea. “I’d say a very strong maybe, that leans toward yes.” I 94

don’t let myself think about how painful it would be to embrace forever with Chris and have him shut me out again.

Chantal grins. “So hot Harley men don’t always break your heart, huh?”

“No, they don’t.” At least not intentionally. “But that doesn’t mean you should go chasing them. They aren’t all like Chris.”

“I know. I’ve never met him, but my mom says he’s special.

She’s gotten to know him through Katie and John and a series of charity events.” Chantal pulls her laptop from her briefcase.

“Speaking of Chris, I think he might need to be with you if you’re iling for a marriage license.”

“It’s not my wedding I’m interested in right now. I’m looking for a friend I lost touch with, who came here to get married. I thought the licensing oice would be a good place to start to ind her. What do you think?”

“You have to have a legal ceremony at City Hall before a religious one can take place, so if she got married here, a record would be there.”

Hope ills me. I may be one step closer to inding Ella.

I don’t like crowds. I think it comes from a childhood of being trapped in my house under my father’s lock and key. Sitting in a tiny café across from City Hall with Chantal, I feel like the fel-low patrons around us are sardines in the same can. My unease started when we climbed into a taxi to head toward City Hall.

Maybe it’s just eating out for the irst time in Paris without Chris that bothers me.

I stare at the menu, which is all in French, so I can’t understand it any more than I can understand the many conversations going on around me. “I’m assuming you chose this place to give me a lesson in ordering of French menus?”

“Actually, I brought you for the macarons. They’re famous for them here.” She looks hesitant and then reluctantly adds, “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but most of the restaurants will have French-only menus.”

Oh. No. But of course they do.

“Don’t look so distressed,” Chantal says quickly. “A few streets from your house is the Champs-élysées. Since it’s a tourist hot spot, many of the restaurants there will have English on the menu. You’ll also ind a McDonald’s and a couple of Starbucks there.”

Just hearing that two American hot spots sit near my new home sends a rush of relief through me, yet the uneasy feeling hangs on. The nape of my neck tingles and I glance around, looking for suspicious characters. My progress is halted when my gaze catches on a waitress mixing up condiments with raw hamburger at the table directly to my left.