Forget (5 page)

My eyes move downward, catching a glimpse of black ink etched into my skin. I decide it’s best to move along, so without asking his name, I slip into the aisle. He grips my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. My back is to his chest. His lips are near my ear again. “
I need to know this beautiful woman. Shy and blushing from head to foot, and making me crazy by biting her pretty lips
. . . That’s what I said before.” His breath is so close to my neck it’s downright sinful. “I hope to see you again, Little Wing,” he says, and then releases me.

I glance over my shoulder and hold his eyes for a beat. This man is every single dirty fantasy I’ve ever had wrapped up into one hot, tempting package. Yeah, he definitely needs a warning label, and it should be tattooed across his damn forehead.

I walk off the train on unsteady legs.

Just keep walking, Brooke. For the love of God, keep walking.

I’m too amped up, finding it hard to focus on anything in particular. I refuse to look at my palm right now. Believe me, I want to, I really fucking want to, but I’m holding back out of fear that I might start licking it like a cat.

Look around, take in the scenery.

Don’t lick your palm in front of strangers.

Eventually, I find my equilibrium. Fresh air and winding cobblestone streets surround me. Le Marais is its own entity of old world charm and modern-day art. It’s magnificent. One minute I’m standing in front of an ivy-covered boulangerie and the next I’m peeking through the front window of a provocative art gallery. I could get lost in these eclectic stores and paved courtyards for hours.

Hunger pangs remind me I haven’t eaten for several hours. I spot an adorable café and sit at a table outside. My hand reaches for the menu but stops when I notice the black ink etched on my palm. I finally let myself take a peek.

There are no words as I stare at his masculine script.

I need to call Dylan. 33 164 22 6913

He left his phone number, along with a note that looks like
I
wrote it as a reminder for myself.
Cocky half-English, half-French bastard.
He even took into account to add the proper country code for my American-based mobile device.

Dylan.
It’s not the name I pictured, but it’s the perfect name for him. He’s charming and beautiful, and I get the feeling he has quite the sense of humor. Dylan is a man whose eyes say
trouble
and
yes
and
more.
His innate charm and beautiful smile are the human version of a Venus flytrap. I’d be locked in his hold before I could even figure out how I got there.

The entire flight to Paris I’d been missing my grandmother, lost in thoughts of her and wondering how I was going to get used to her being gone. Who would I call when I was mad or angry or just needed someone to talk to?

And when I got here, I was immediately overwhelmed with the notion that I shouldn’t be here, vacationing in a foreign city when I’d just lost one of the most important people in my life.

And then I stepped onto the métro and had one of the craziest, weirdest interactions with a man whose presence felt bigger than life.

I don’t know if it’s Paris or Dylan, but I feel like color has been added to my world of dark gray pain. I’ve just watched a sunset, and then seconds later, the sun rose again—its glorious oranges and yellows highlighting the sky took away the ache nestled inside my chest.

Even if it’s momentary, I’m thankful for the reprieve.

Dear Me? Dear Nobody? Dear, I don’t know who the hell I’m talking to . . .

Cheers to the first entry in my journal.

Millie hoped this would be a cathartic release for me, but I’m skeptical.

I’m in Paris and four days have passed in a blur. I miss home. I miss Millie. I miss my sister and nephew. Skyping with Ember and Teddy every morning has helped ease my anxiety and homesickness. They’re either just getting home or still closing up at my sister’s boutique in Venice Beach. And I love how Teddy has been dominating our chats with knock-knock jokes. Chatting with Jamie and Lindsay through texts or brief phone chats has also helped.

I’m happy to report that when I think about Millie, tears prick my eyes only half of the time. I keep imagining what her life was like when she lived here. God, I bet she was a force to be reckoned with back then. No wonder Christophe fell in love with her.

Being in Paris, all by myself, isn’t such a lonely experience. It’s refreshing in a way. Every day is a new adventure filled with delicious tastes, lively sounds, and vibrant culture.

I’ve been traveling most destinations by foot, only using the métro to get from one district to the next. Everywhere I look is a new possibility to explore, a new experience to be had. It’s indescribable, the way this city has charmed me. I’m thoroughly seduced by her. The music, the decadent food, the blooming flowers, and the crooked streets lined with exquisite architecture . . . I want to live and breathe it all.

Audrey Hepburn was right—“Paris is always a good idea.”

I guess it’s time to discover another side of this gorgeous city.

Millie, if you’re reading this, I miss you like crazy, and I’m starting to understand why you loved this city so much.

More later,

-B

Irritated, I toss my journal on the nightstand.

Millie would be disappointed in me. My first entry and all I do is recap my time in Paris. A journal is supposed to be used for your inner thoughts, your true feelings, but I’m a total coward. There is nothing cathartic about writing down the Top Ten Highlights of your day.

Note to journal users: Try to be stronger than me.

Instead of berating myself, I promise to do better next time, focusing my brainpower on something else, something way more fun, like Paris.

Baby steps, Brooke. It’s all about the baby steps.

I find a cozy spot on the terrace connected to my suite. It’s been my routine to start each day with a cup of espresso, a sugary pastry, and looking through
Millie’s bucket list. There is no order in my approach. I simply pick whichever item tickles my fancy. Today, I plan to accomplish lucky number thirteen.

12. Visit Gerard Mulot on Rue de Seine. Order one salted caramel macaroon to eat there and take a box of various flavors back to the hotel. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed and you’ll thank me later for the to-go box.

13. Go to Au Fait in Canal Saint-Martin. It’s an English-inspired pub that has the best Bloody Mary you’ll ever taste. Once you get there, drink at least two, and then ask for Alexandre. He has something for you.

14. Shop at Chanel on Rue Cambon and don’t leave without a bottle of perfume.

I smile after reading numbers twelve and fourteen. The macaroons were the single best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And shopping at the original Chanel store, the so-called mothership, was downright insane. I’ve never considered myself a fashionista, but the mirrored staircase and iconic pictures inside the boutique would make any girl giddy. Since my style revolves around bohemian chic, I didn’t plan on buying anything besides perfume. But I stayed spontaneous, ignoring price tags and my nagging habit of choosing vintage over high-end.

I browsed, tried on, and let my nose sample every perfume. The sweet and floral tones of Chanel’s
Chance
won me over, along with a few other things. I spent far too much, and Lindsay nearly died when I sent her a picture of the pretty, white Chanel bags sitting on my hotel bed. Apparently, there’s a difference when it comes to bags, and Paris is the only city with the coveted white bag adorned with
31 Rue Cambon
in black lettering.

Nerves flutter inside of my stomach as I finish getting ready. I have no idea what a man named Alexandre in a bar called Au Fait would have for me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is such a Millie thing to do. The woman never did anything by the book. Sending me on a bucket-list mission to Paris mere days after her funeral is proof of that.

My reflection in the mirror smiles back at me. I blink out of my daze and put the finishing touches on my makeup—mascara, a hint of blush, and lip gloss. A laugh echoes inside the spacious bathroom as I catch sight of the black ink still etched on my palm.
Dylan.
The mysterious and funny guy I met my first day here. I’ve scrubbed my hand until it’s red and raw without success. He apparently prefers permanent ink. His masculine script is pretty much tattooed onto my palm.

The urge to dial his number is tempting, but I think that man is more trouble than I can handle. Trouble with a capital T. He’s too beautiful, too charming, and way out of my league.

And what in the hell would I do with a man like that? I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. I’m not really a relationship kind of girl either. I’m a “Jamie is my safe place” kind of girl. I think I need to stick with that mindset and forget that Dylan even exists
.

My thoughts roam to Jamie, and I shoot him a quick text.

‘I’m thinking about you and hoping you’re feeling okay today.’

‘I’m good, baby girl. Busy with meetings, but good.’

Honestly, I’m not sure he’d even tell me if he was having a bad day.

‘Promise me you’re taking care of yourself while I’m off gallivanting in Europe.’

‘I promise. All is well in Cali :)How’s Paris? Meet anyone new? Do anything fun?’

‘Paris is amazing. No new people, but definitely lots of amazing food and gorgeous sights.’

‘Send me pictures?’

‘Like you even have to ask . . . ’

‘Chat later? I miss you like crazy, sweetheart, but I’m glad you’re having fun. Love you.’

‘Definitely. And I miss you more. Love you so much x’

I think this is the first time I’ve ever lied to Jamie about anything. Why am I lying to him about something as simple as meeting an attractive guy? It’s not like anything happened, it’s not like it will go anywhere. I have zero plans of calling the number imprinted on my hand.

But guilt eats away at my gut.

I start to dial his number but stop, thinking about the consequences. Jamie has too much on his plate as it is; hearing about some random guy I met in Paris is the last thing he needs.

Sighing heavily, I scrunch product into my hair, letting the strands fall loose and curly down my back. Normally, I straighten it because I hate the way it reminds me of my mother, but today I’m feeling lazy. Plus, this is the longest my locks have been in years, and it’d take hours to tame the wavy mess. Between Millie being sick and my busy work schedule at the label, months have passed since my hair has seen a salon.

My grandmother’s necklace is the last addition to my look. I glance in the mirror, and despite my hate for selfies, I snap a quick pic and send it to my sister. The dress is from her boutique, Wild Spirit.

Ember’s text is immediate.

‘I knew that dress would look amazing on you! And I’m kind of freaked out by how much you look like mom right now.’

She’s right. My curly hair paired with the bohemian dress and slouchy leather boots is eerily similar to the way my mother used to dress when Ember and I were kids. I’m a modern-day throwback to Woodstock.

‘I know. I’m a little creeped out myself.’

‘Don’t sweat it. You look gorgeous. You’re the classy version of our mother. Beautiful, healthy, and drug-free. LOL.’

I laugh, which probably seems like an inappropriate reaction, but in order to survive the kind of childhood Ember and I had, finding humor was and still is a necessity.

‘Drug-free AND zero male suitors in my bed. I’m like the anti-Cassidy Sawyer . . . ’

‘Chastity Sawyer.’

‘Haha! Exactly. God, I love you.’

I think of a question that’s been bugging me, and send another text.

‘Be honest. Are you mad I’m here and you’re not? I feel bad leaving you and Teddy just days after . . . ’

‘Millie tried to get me to go, too, but I refused. I promised her I’d visit Paris once Teddy was a little older and I felt better about leaving him. Plus, I think you needed to experience it by yourself for the first time, without the accompaniment of a precocious 4 yr old. And I love you, more. Kiss Paris for me ;)’