Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(22)

When his crème br?lée arrives, along with my coffee, Dominic dives into his sweet treat with gusto, humming as he eats. “This is magnificent. This is stupendous. This is incredible.”

I sip my coffee as he murmurs odes to his dessert.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” He shoves another forkful into his mouth.

“No, but I’m glad you like it.”

We hold off on the business talk for another moment while he devours the remainder of his dessert. He plows through it, then sets down his fork. “I appreciate the offer, Elise. But I’m going to decline. I took a job with the Thompson Group. But thank you for lunch. I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”

As the punchline to the joke that’s on me, he drops his napkin theatrically on the table and leaves.



*

I’m fuming. Curse words in French and English and even the touch of Spanish I learned in college blister my tongue as I swear silently and fish out my business Amex to pay for his meal, resentment raging in every pore.

I fasten on a fake smile when the ma?tre d’ says goodbye, then I march down the avenue, pissed at how Dominic set me up, pissed at myself for sensing he was going to pull this crap, but still giving him the chance.

I growl in anger. This needs to end. I need all my mistakes behind me.

Screw Dominic. Screw him and his free lunch. I don’t need him. I’ll be my own damn analyst. I’ll show him, and John Thompson too.

I walk, and I walk, and I walk, my heels clicking like bullets, until I hear the familiar sound of water trickling musically, and I inhale the comforting smell of damp stone.

I’ve done it again. I’ve wandered to the Fontaine des Mers at the Place de la Concorde. I square my shoulders and breathe deeply.

This was where I was scheduled to meet Eduardo the last time I never saw him. I waited an hour, calling and texting. Annoyance at him being late turned into worry over his safety, and that soon morphed into anguish the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

The police called. His motorcycle had crashed. He was pronounced dead on arrival at a hospital an hour away. Devastation had flowed through every cell in my body, and I’d heaved with pain and tears for days and days.

That’s where my story with him should’ve ended. The simple but terrible grief of losing a spouse. A widow at the ripe old age of thirty-two. A whirlwind six-month marriage that ended far too soon.

But I didn’t even have the chance to grieve properly.

At his funeral, I met another bereaved woman. Her name was Diana, and she was also a grieving widow. His other widow. He’d been married to her at the same time as me, and Diana didn’t know, either, that he’d left behind two wives. Two fools.

I raise my gaze to the water, watching it patter from the small bowl to the big one in a ceaseless rhythm.

I watch and wait for the clobbering.

For the pain to slam into me, like a cruel wave.

It doesn’t come.

In its place, I feel something new. Resolve.

I don’t have to play the fool. Not with men like Dominic, or men like Eduardo. I won’t let someone have the upper hand again.

I grab my sunglasses and shield my eyes as I walk away from the fountain, stronger, so much stronger than I was that day more than two years ago.

And I’m going to be smarter too from now on.

I return to work, power through my projects during the rest of the afternoon, and head home. A shower washes away the remnants of the day, as I scrub off the lingering frustration from lunch.

I slip on my red skirt, then peruse my bureau with all the little bottles of scents, trailing my fingers along the cool black wood. I stop at an empty crystal bottle that catches the fading light from the early evening sun, reflecting it like a prism. It’s Marchesa Parfum d’Extase, and it was a gift. A gift from many, and I cherished it.

I love it for what it represents. I hate it for what it represents. It haunts me now, even though I’ve poured it out and bleached the bottle.

Breathing deeply, I turn away, choosing none of the scents. Choosing a new path.

A fresh start to embark on this tryst for what it is—a neat, organized affair with a delicious man. There’s nothing messy about Christian. Nothing risky. He’s built for sin, yet safe for my heart.

As I head downstairs, I repeat my new watchword. Resolve.

I hereby resolve to play it smart and to make sure I don’t ever get too close again.





14





Elise





When I arrive at the tea salon on the left bank, with its extravagant gold script on the windows, I think of my grandmother. The last time my brother and his family visited, my grandmother caught the train from Provence, stayed the weekend at the Ritz, and spent her days taking my brother and his children to all the sweet shops in Paris, from my friend Veronica’s candy store to this salon, known for its fine selection of teas, hot chocolate, and madeleines. I can picture her clearly—her soft gray hair, her crow’s feet, and her regal but loving smile as she lifted her fine white teacup while my nieces nibbled on madeleines.

The image makes me both smile and laugh, because it reminds me of how elegant this establishment is in all its fin de siècle glory, from the marble-topped counter display to the gilded mirrors. This is Paris of yesteryear, and it’s so discordant with the thoroughly modern man I find holding court at a corner table, a crisp white cloth laid over the surface. He’s so casual and cool, in a sky-blue button-down shirt, a hint of stubble on his chin, and that sweep of blond hair across his head.