Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

We walk underneath the city and take the metro to our first stop—a fancy restaurant in the heart of Paris. Destin's words, not mine. I follow Jules' lead as he walks up concrete steps and onto a street I have yet to explore. The city looks even more alive at night. Staring at the gleaming lights and speeding scooters makes me forget that I'm exhausted. My tired feet don't care that we have to walk a few more blocks before we get to sit down.

I'm in Paris.

The more we walk, the more I can smell it.

It makes my stomach curdle.

I have to say something.

"Why do I smell urine?" I ask.

The three of them laugh.

"You get used to it," Val comments.

The four of us turn a corner, and I look up at the brilliant bright building. It looks like past and present all meet along the walls. Grand arches hold the columns that stand at each corner of the rectangular structure taking up half the block, and near the roof I make out a few statues etched into the stone—symbols of the renaissance.

All the windows in front are outlined with stone trim and more lights. Giant clay pots of manicured tulips sit near the double doors leading inside. When Destin heads toward them, I feel like I should have stopped on my way to buy a fancier dress.

"There aren't many public toilets in the city," Jules says quietly, answering my question. I wrinkle my nose.

"So that's an excuse to pee in the street?"

Jules shrugs. Maybe he's done it himself?

He won't admit it if he has.

"Think of it this way," he continues. The four of us enter the restaurant and wait to be seated. I see a long bar and hear loud music coming from inside. It seems more like a nightclub that serves food than a fancy restaurant. "How many tourists would you say visit the Eiffel Tower every year?"

"I don't know. Millions?"

"How many toilets do you think are there?" he asks.

Destin and Val break away from their conversation and stare at us curiously.

"Are you really talking about toilets right now?" Val says, glaring at her brother. "Really, Jules. This is a classy place."

"Ignore my sister," he replies. "She has a skewed understanding of what the word classy actually means."

I cover my mouth, holding in a laugh. I guess I'm not the only one in awe of the number of straps and peepholes that can fit onto
one
dress. Val flicks her light brown hair and focuses on Destin. She rubs the side of his arm and giggles as he whispers something in her ear. When both of them are smiling, they do seem like a perfect match.

"You were saying." I wait to hear Jules' response about public bathrooms.

"Yes. I mean
oui
." When he transitions to French it sounds authentic. "There is one toilet for all to share." He pauses for dramatic effect.

"You're joking."

"Oui, it's true." He chuckles. "Last time I was there, the toilet was out of order so I guess the correct answer would be zero."

"I don't believe you." I smile as we are led to our table, which turns out to be more of a mini lounge. It has a rounded sofa and a coffee table to put our drinks.

"Okay, maybe the gift shop has one too." He waits for me to sit down before joining me.

"Your English," I comment. I lean closer to him so he can hear me over the music. "It's really good."

"My mother is Canadian, and my father is French."

Destin and Val claim the opposite end of the crescent couch. The pair of them lean into each other and don't waste a second before they begin making out like hormonal teenagers.

"Why are we even here again?" I joke. I look down at my heels to avoid the sight of Destin's tongue slipping into Val's mouth. Whatever kind of food they serve here, I'm not sure I'll be eating.

"Valentine didn't want me to spend my first night back reading a book," Jules replies. A waitress places a round of sparkling waters at our table, ignoring the make-out sesh going on right next to her. She's probably used to that sort of thing. "Personally, I think the evening was off to a good start. That is before those two started going at it."

"I don't get them." I take a sip of my drink, my stomach rumbling. "If I ever walked into my ex-boyfriend's office and made a scene because he forgot our anniversary, he would come home and murder me."

"That's why he's your ex-boyfriend." He raises his glass.

"So what would you have done if you were Destin?"

"Wonder if I deserved it," he answers. "Sometimes it takes an extreme gesture to address an extreme problem. We moved to Paris when we were very young and just learning French. Destin was always there for my sister. He helped her learn French, and she helped him learn English. And then he accepted a position at Le Croissant and basically disappeared."

"Well, Chef Gautier
is
the best of the best."

"So everybody says." He takes a deep breath and cringes, accidentally looking at his sister as her hands brush inside Destin's blazer. "Do you want to get out of here? I know a place down the street that serves real food."

"On one condition," I say.

"Name it."

"You take me to see the lights on the Eiffel Tower."

"Done," he responds without hesitation.

"Well then…" I stand up, clutching my purse. "Let me use the powder room, or whatever it is you say here, before we go."

He chuckles as I attempt to navigate my way to the restrooms. I see a sign for them on the far corner of the lounge. I carefully walk past more sleek sitting areas like ours and a shiny dance floor with flashing lights. When I reach the line for the women's room, I shake my head.

A hand touches my shoulder.

"Come on," Val mumbles, grabbing my arm. We cut to the front of the line, and I notice that the toilets and sinks are housed in two separate rooms. Val pulls me toward an open vanity and begins checking her eye makeup.

"Um thanks but—"

"I have my eye on you," she cuts in, glancing at me through the mirror. She takes out a tube of lipstick. "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. You American girls are all the same."

"I'm sorry?"

Val puts a fresh coat of lipstick on and smacks her lips together. She runs her fingers through her long locks and adjusts a few of the straps on her dress. She turns and glares at me with eyes not quite as piercing as her brothers and pulls out a cigarette.

"Stay away from Destin," she warns me.

"We work together." I put my hands on my hips.

"You're an intern," she points out. "And he's taken."

"Obviously."

She waits, looking me up and down. She sucks in her cheeks when I say nothing more. Is she expecting me to apologize for something? Make a scene for everyone waiting in line? She can do that herself.

'Well?" she finally says.

"Well, what? Nothing's going on between us, and nothing ever will."

"Are you saying there's something wrong with Destin, because I know loads of women who would—"

"Val!" I pat her shoulder. "Valentine. Whatever you like to be called. You need to relax, okay?"

"But—" She points her finger at me.

"You and Destin are in love," I say. "I barely know either of you, and I can see that."

"Really?" Her face softens. She slowly relaxes her fists and tucks a strand of hair behind her ears revealing a row of silver studs running up her ear. "You really think we look good together?"

"He talks about you all the time," I lie.
He would talk about you all the time if he wasn't too busy with brunch orders
.

"Sure he does." Val's poignant posture slumps slightly. She isn't as intimidating when her claws aren't out.

"I'm serious." I gulp, wondering if mentioning the engagement ring in Destin's pocket will help him or hurt him. "I mean, do you love
him
?"

"He has my heart," she says quietly. "He always has, and that's the problem."

"Destin is an excellent pastry chef, you know. You should be proud."

"Sometimes I feel sick when I pass by that bakery," she admits. "He's never home anymore."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

She shakes her head.

"Not really. I told him he has to cut back or find another job. You should have seen his face, Poppy. It was like I threw a puppy out the window or something."

"I'm sure you two can work out some sort of compromise," I suggest. "Not that I have much experience in that department, but I hear it works."

"Compromise," she huffs. "I have a hard enough time getting him to close the door when he pees."

"Just enjoy your evening together. You never know what the night has in store."

Jules and I have the same definition of good food.

We stand looking up at the Eiffel Tower as it begins to sparkle. The tower looks like it's made of gold and in between the iron lattice are flickering silver lights. I feel like I'm stargazing Parisian-style. Jules took me to a crepe place that was still open, and I wasted too much time trying to figure out what I wanted. I decided on one with bananas, almonds, and chocolate drizzled on top. Our crepes are folded so that they form multiple layers of thin pancake with warm, sugary filling in between. A handheld version to eat on the go. I take a huge bite, and my mouth waters from the sweet banana, nutty almond crunch, and gratifying ooze of dark chocolate.

"It's good, right?" Jules comments. "Now this is Paris."

"How often do you come home?"

"Not very often." He takes a bite of his crepe filled with lemon custard. "My work keeps me in Switzerland."

"What kind of work?"

"I don't want to bore you," he answers.

"It beats watching your sister play tonsil hockey."

"Finance." He grins and takes another bite of his crepe.

"Ooo," I respond. "You got me there." I glance back at the Eiffel Tower like it's my first time seeing it. My eyes start at the very top and move down, stopping at the sparkle at each level of iron. Underneath are a few scattered tourists, and rich foliage that casts shadows on the walkways. Jules and I walk closer until it is difficult to look up to the very top. My warm crepe feels cozy in my hand as an evening breeze rushes by and gives me goose bumps.

My eyes wander to a single figure leaning against a closed food stand. The way the figure blends in with the shadows, staying so still, throws me off. I take a deep breath and shake off my nerves. Even the smallest of things make me jumpy now, especially after one of the instructors at Calle Pastry Academy tried to kill me last year. I instinctively clutch my purse tighter.

"Are you alright?" Jules studies me from head to toe. "You look a little pale."

"It's cold out here," I lie. It's the first excuse I can think of to explain my weird behavior, but Jules takes it as an invitation to get touchy. He slyly puts his arm around my shoulders. I don't mind. Jules is an attractive guy. One that I might actually go for if I thought it would go anywhere. I'm a Portland girl living in Georgia, and he spends his days lounging in Zürich. In his mind I'm sure I'm just a Paris fling.

I'm tired of flings.

Though I would pay Jules money to pose as my fiancé just to see the look on my mom's face. A guy like him is not what she's expecting from me these days. If she thinks settling for a cheater like my ex-boyfriend Locke, due to my
advancing age,
is acceptable then Jules would knock the false eyelashes right off her eyelids—the ones she always denies wearing because her lashes are naturally full. I'm almost thirty. My ovaries aren't enjoying retirement just yet.

"I'm guessing you have an early start tomorrow," Jules says.

"Those éclairs aren't going to bake themselves."

"I'll have to taste one." He leads me through a group of sightseers and back toward the nearest metro entrance.

"Come early," I suggest. "Especially if you want the classic chocolate ganache with vanilla bean custard. Parisians really love their chocolate. I guess the same can also be said for Americans."

"I've been to America once," Jules responds. He slows his stride until we're walking in sync. Another breeze shakes a leafy tree ahead of us, and his hand squeezes my shoulder. "Only to New York."

"What did you think of it?"

"It's busy," he answers. "A lot like here. I would've liked to see more country."

"If you want fields of green and friendlier faces, go to the South."

"Maybe I will one day."

Unless the evening ends in me being splashed with sewer water, this is turning out to be the most successful blind date I've been on. Much better than Jake Grunger my sophomore year of college. My neighbor made the mistake of thinking that I was into guys with mutton chops or, in her words,
fashionable sideburns
. He spent the whole date talking about improv club, and bragging that he once had the private cell phone number of the guy who played Data in the movie
The
Goonies
…before his brother broke his phone.

As we stroll farther away from a surreal piece of history, I look over my shoulder one last time at the sparkles in the distance. My chest feels heavy. My toes curl in my shoes, and I feel like throwing my gourmet crepe in the nearest trash bin.

The figure I noticed underneath the Eiffel Tower is moving.

It's following me.