Moving Target (Target #3)(7)
I want to go with her. I want to kidnap her. Take her to my house in and chain her to my bed. At least she’d be safe.
I scrub my hand over my face before pulling on a pair of loose pants. “I’ll escort you.”
“Fine.” Her jaw works, as if she’d like to say more but doesn’t. “You know… I barely know anything about you, but the weird, funny, and sad thing is that I want to get to know you more. I want to know why you eat pizza backwards. Why you constantly scan a room or sit with your back to the wall. I want to know why you tug on your ear when you catch yourself sharing more than you think you should.” She touches my chest. Her hand is cold, so cold that I put mine over it. “I want to know why you’d try to warm me up when all you’re doing is sending me away and breaking my heart.”
“You’re too young.”
“You’re too pessimistic.”
“Which is why this would never work,” she says, but it heart isn’t in it. Any fool can see it because I am the biggest fool of all and I can watch as her heart breaks into pieces that I’ll never be able to repair.
“Exactly.” I kiss her forehead, her mouth tempting me, but I don’t give in. “Make sure the man you end up with is a good one. That he cherishes you, protects you, and makes you smile.”
“That’s a good one. Wow. I am so out of league.” She smiles sadly, tears falling onto her cheeks. “I really need to go. By myself or I’ll just embarrass of both by grabbing your leg and refusing to let go.”
I bark out a laugh.
“There he is.” She touches my face and I close my eyes.
When I open them, the door closes behind her.
3
Chloe
Seven years later…
Things I’ve conquered in the past three days:
Spent the night in a proper English bed and breakfast.
Took a picture with a palace guard while making a super goofy face.
Unfortunately, he didn’t crack a smile.
Fortunately, that is not on my list.
Carefully, I draw a line through items seven and eight on my bucket list before tucking it away in my pants pocket. My heart pinches a little as I do so, but only because Mario’s not with me.
“Thank you,” I say to the server as she pours another cup of tea. I add three lumps of sugar and a dash of milk.
The dining car of the train that is whisking me away to Paris from London is mostly empty since I’m taking tea later than the traditional time.
A good thing I think, since I won’t be required to make small talk right now. Normally, I’m a fan of small talk, big talk… any talk at all. Well, as long as it doesn’t have to do with cancer or death. For two years to this very day, my life has been cancer free. Death free too.
“I’ll probably go to hell for that.” But I think Mario would laugh. Heck, he’s probably laughing with St. Peter right now while they have a big Texas BBQ.
Gazing out the window, the scenery becomes a blur, then morphs into a hospital room. I can see Mario lying very still in bed, with tubes and monitors sticking out of his frail body. I can see the nurses and doctors rushing in as his body crashes. I stand there to helpless to do more than cry.
I shake the memories away. I refuse to remember Mario like that. I think of him taking me dancing, of how strong and vital he felt as I held him. I think of how he held me when I had my heart shattered into pieces so small that I couldn’t find them all.
He said I owed it to myself for marrying him, for staying with him when his own family refused to be at his side while he wasted away from cancer.
A man had once told me to be with the one who made laugh, who cherished me, and protected me. That was Mario. Always Mario. And it was why I married him after he found out he was dying.
He claimed I made his life worth living for just a little bit longer.
So tonight, I’ll find a stranger to dance with under the Eifel Tower, even if it kills me. Figuratively, of course.
That evening, I put on a sexy red dress that was obviously cut for a more daring woman. The slit is thigh high and it reveals more than it conceals as I walk under the Eifel Tower. My hair is swept up, off my neck into a heavy bun with about a million bobby pins.
I feel ridiculous. Who dresses like this to walk around Paris?
A night breeze brings in the heady perfume of flowers. Music fills the air.
It’s a night made for seduction, for dancing, for celebrating.
My bucket list is carefully folded and secured in a hidden pocket in the liner of my dress, along with a credit card and hotel key. My passport is back at the main desk of the hotel, but I don’t need it to explore the city.
Quite a few men whistle, making kissing noises, and shout unintelligible things at me while I walk. I wrap my arms around my middle, wishing I’d though to bring a light wrap. While my boob aren’t huge, they aren’t exactly small and the dress highlights them like nobody’s business, making them everyone’s business.
A small part of me, so tiny that I almost forgot she existed, wishes that Dima would miraculously appear. That he would be the man I danced with under the Eiffle Tower. That he would apologize for everything and—
I have got to stop watching Hallmark movies.
“Mademoiselle,” a dark haired man with even darker eyes murmurs as he walks up to me. There’s a confidence in his step, something about him that reminds me of that one wild weekend I had in the City. Of Dima.