The Little Bookshop On the Seine (16 page)

Sarah Smith,

Would you allow me to steal you away for one magical day in Paris? Please wear these under something warm, and meet me out the front in an hour. Perhaps, organize someone to cover your shift tomorrow, I have a feeling you won’t get much sleep.

Love always,

Ridge.

I peeked under the pink tissue paper so TJ wouldn’t see, because I knew Ridge, and bet it was some kind of racy undergarment.

“What is it?” he asked craning his neck.

I blushed crimson and shut the box. “It’s…”

TJ donned a wide smile. “French panties, right?”

“Erm.” How the hell did he know that?

He shook his head. “Men. Step one foot in Paris, and it’s always about the underwear.”

I laughed, thrilled that I was a mere hour away from wrapping my arms around Ridge and French kissing him, clichés be damned! Finally, the story was done, and he was here. Would things be the same, after all this time? We’d never been apart for this long, and doubt crept up. Oddly, I was first-date nervous.

“What’re the chances of someone covering my shifts today and tomorrow?”

The dreaded paperwork would build up, but there was no way I was going to miss out on time with Ridge, somehow I had to make it all work. While he slept, I’d catch up.

“Sorry,” he said, averting his eyes. “I have to–”

I remembered Oceane’s warning, not to ask, or dither about it, to just tell people.

With a deep breath, my words fell out in a rush. “Gotta go, TJ. You’re in charge until tomorrow night. Don’t let me down.”

I bit back a smile at the shock registered on his face and flounced off. The only thing on my mind as I raced up the back stairs, was what outfit I’d wear that would match the lacy little surprise Ridge had sent me. And the joy of knowing he was out in the chilly Paris day somewhere close.

Thirty minutes later, dressed in another of my new outfits. I thanked the heavens for Oceane’s jaunt in the boutiques along the Champs-Elysees. With chic clothes on, I felt like I’d cast off a piece of me that was redundant, and replaced it with a brighter, more modern version of myself. My peridot gem blinked under the lights, and I wondered if Anouk from the Little Antique Shop was right, and it was a good omen for matters of the heart.

I managed to stop ogling the new me, and raced downstairs into the hive of the bookstore. TJ whistled appreciatively. “Who is this and what have you done with Sarah?”

I giggled, like a school girl. “I left her back on the Champs-Elysees…”

“Paris agrees with you. And…” he ducked behind the counter. “Another love note has appeared. He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

Anticipation sizzled so hard I thought I’d faint with excitement. He sure knew how to woo a girl.

The note read:

Sarah Smith,

Would you allow me to escort you for a cruise down the river Seine? The champagne is on ice, and the musicians are waiting…

Ridge.

A shriek escaped me.
Calm down, Sarah. Do not start snorting
. Throwing the note on the counter, I ran my hands down the length of my jeans, suddenly nervous because it had been so long since I’d seen Ridge, and what if things had changed?

Beatrice walked in, bringing the icy November winds with her. She pushed her weight on the door to close it, against the gust. “I need to chat,” she said.

“I’m just about to leave,” I said. “Can it wait?”

She frowned. “Not really. How long will you be?”

I grimaced, feeling guilty at the stung look she gave me. “I’ll cover the night shift tomorrow.”

She folded her arms. “Right. Well, it will have to wait then.” She stomped off, angrily. What the hell? The one time she actually wants to chat, and it was right then, the worst timing ever.

“What was all that about?” I asked TJ.

TJ shrugged. “Probably got a headache from all her eye rolling. Who knows, none of us hang out with Queen Bee.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling I should have heard her out. I was torn about whether to go find her and listen, or walk outside into the blustery day, but what if she wanted me to work tonight? Then I’d be stuck here once again, and the romantic day with Ridge wouldn’t happen.

“Go,” TJ said, watching me hesitate. “Before he sails down the Seine without you.”

I snatched the love letter, which TJ had managed to read upside down, and shoved it into my pocket. “I’m going! Argh!” My stomach flipped, and I fidgeted nervously. We’d had a year of these reunions, but this one felt different.

I strolled out into the cool day, winding my scarf as I went, searching for Ridge. There was a small part of me that was worried I wouldn’t recognize him, that when he kissed me or held me it wouldn’t feel the same. It had been so long since I had felt his touch and I wondered, had too much time passed? Then I saw him. Up against a metal railing, he stood, looking every inch the suave sophisticate he was. His face broke into a smile, and he walked towards me. My heart hammered at the sight of him in tight black jeans, a navy knit sweater, and that smooth smile of his. His black hair was mussed from the elements; I wanted to run a hand through it, simply to touch him, and know it wasn’t a dream.
He was here!

He embraced me, his he-scent making me giddy, that particular Ridge smell, woodsy, spicy, and utterly male, and sexy as hell. “Sarah Smith, is this a mirage?”

“I was just thinking the same!” I gazed up at him as he cupped my face, and finally pressed his lips to mine. The thought that this man was mine made me woozy with love for him.

“Your chariot awaits.” He pointed to a boat and sure enough a group of men holding violins and various instruments stood on the deck waiting to serenade us. His protestations of love were always over the top, and shamelessly romantic. “It’s a private cruise, so that I don’t have to fight anyone off when they stumble across you.”

I laughed. “Is that so?” He always made me feel like I was the only girl in the world, and that men would fall at their knees at the sight of me. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but I loved the rush it gave me.

“You are beautiful.” He kissed the top of my head, and then took my hand. “Almost too beautiful for words…Will you join me?”

I nodded. “I’d love to.” Any worries I had about us dissolved when he was by my side. Here he was making grand gestures, and it made the time I spent alone pale into insignificance. Two or three weeks of this would fill up my heart, until it came time for him to leave again.

Ridge helped me across the gangplank and it was hard to watch my footing when all I wanted to do was gawk at him. He’d changed since he’d been away, his face was softer somehow, his eyes bluer, or maybe it was the love-struck daze that hit me, blurring the edges of my mind. Even his hand in mine felt different, truer. I missed him so, and it was almost surreal, sitting together, in the front of the boat, him pulling a throw rug over us as we set sail along the Seine.

Gentle waves lapped at the hull as we made our way towards Ponts des Arts. Ridge wrapped his arms around me, as the musicians played Edith Piaf. Goosebumps broke out over my skin at romance of the songs, musical notes drifting lazily into the ether. It was like the French kept her memory alive, or maybe it was a tourist-pleasing cliché, but either way, the evocative songs tugged on my heart.

“You seem to fit here somehow.” Ridge said, staring into my eyes.

“It’s that kind of place. When I’m wandering, lost and alone, I find something that takes my breath away. I’ve never had that before. I see why people get bitten by the travel bug.” I was easily swept away by the ancient beauty of the city. Was home still where my heart was? Even though I still missed the simplicity of my old life, here, it was like I was someone different, almost French. Or at least, trying my hardest to tread softly, and become one with the place and people.

When I returned home, I imagined Paris would be like an old best friend, full of sweet memories, there to reminisce through rose colored glasses. I could already see myself sitting down with the girls at home recounting a story that was a little shinier on the retelling, more vibrant, colorful, me exaggerating how brave I was, how I tried it all, but the real Paris would always be in my mind, the black and white, the gray days, the sepia of the past, and the fact that I loved the feeling I had wandering through the city, as if it welcomed me.

“Champagne?” Ridge asked.

“Please,” I said, knowing the bubbles would hit my bloodstream and make me more languid, almost liquid in Ridge’s arms. He poured two flutes, and I sipped, taking in the view ahead. As always, throngs of people walked on each side of the Seine. On the right bank known as
La Rive Droite
there was a market set up. Stalls of bric-a-brac, pieces of antique furniture, and clothing spanned along the one side.

Ridge nuzzled the soft skin on my neck, and my eyelids grew heavy. “How long does this boat ride take?” I said playfully, fighting the urge to tell them to turn around and deposit us back at the shop so we could race upstairs.

“An hour.” He laughed. “And then, there’s more…you, my little minx, are going to have to wait an entire day to rip my clothes off.”

I guffawed. “Rip
your
clothes off!”

“It’s obvious, that lusty look in your eyes, you can’t hide it, it’s written all over your face…”

I gave him a shove. “Is that so? Well, I’ve actually got to cover the night shift later.”

His face fell.

“Joke.”

He pulled me closer. “OK, I’m the one dreaming of a naked Sarah, but don’t tell anyone. I’m trying to keep my cool, and do the right thing, showing her how magnificent the city of love can be when you’re actually
in
love.”

“I won’t say a word.” We kissed, his body pressed hard against mine, all thoughts of the view vanished and I wished the moment would last forever. Lost emails, and missed calls didn’t matter so much with Ridge by my side.

Once off the boat we strolled around the uneven cobblestoned streets of Montmartre, coming to the square filled with artists, sitting in front of their easels. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, turning the black of Ridge’s hair silver under the gentle shards of sunlight that fought their way through the fog, casting a soft yellow hue above us, like an ambient glow.

Ridge stopped in front of a sketch, the lashings of smudged pencil brought out a deep sadness in the subject’s eyes. Who was it in the portrait and what had made them so forlorn in this place, yet they’d still sat long enough for their face to be recreated on parchment.

He spoke to the artist in quick-fire French – once again, I was surprised by how adept he was in any situation, from speaking fluently in French and managing not to butcher the silky rhythm of the language, to wandering around the avenues Paris like he’d lived here his whole life.

“OK,” he said turning to me, his eyes lit with wonder. “Sit down, Sarah, and Remy will sketch you.”

My cheeks flamed. It was all well and good wandering around, gawping at other people getting portraits painted or sketched but another thing for me to do it. I’d be under a spotlight and drawing the eyes of passersby, which made me cringe.

Ridge leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Please. I want a keepsake for when I’m not with you.”

I battled with saying no, it wasn’t my thing, and what if the girl on the page wasn’t who I thought I was? But Ridge nodded, and shuffled me around, onto the stool, cupping my face. “Just be you. That’s the girl I love.”

It was hard to argue with that, so I tried not to slouch, and instead wrung my hands together, darting a glance at the artist as he took a seat in front of me, surveying me like he was already imagining me in black and white.

When tourists moseyed by, gazing at me full in the face, I smiled tentatively, and held my breath, hoping each stroke of the pencil would bring me one step closer to springing off the stool, and into a bistro for a glass of wine.

When the picture was done, I eased off the stool afraid to look at it. Ridge’s face lit up, and his smile threatened to swallow him. “Now I’ll have you wherever I am,” he said.

I peeked at the portrait. The artist had captured the love in my eyes, and the difference in my face, from being in Paris. My cheeks were fuller – I blamed the macarons – and I didn’t look so day-dreamy any more. But still, I blushed, being the center of attention as people openly stopped to look from me and back to the portrait.

I thanked the artist profusely, amazed at his level of skill with a pencil, how he could turn a few lines into a reflection of me.

Hand in hand we strolled around Montmartre. We turned and headed for the Sacre Coeur. The old church stood regally on top of the hill, the platform below a perfect vantage point to see the sprawl of Paris. We went to the railing and gazed out, the city a big, bustling maze from here. The Eiffel Tower was monolithic, dwarfing everything around it. It seemed so vivid, with the gray horizon acting as a backdrop to the city, and the mist floating gently above. There was a whole world out there like this, views that took my breath away, and I hoped I’d get to travel more in the future. As hard as it was for me to leave the comfortable routine of my old life – the safety, the regularity of every day – I knew now, seeing this, I wanted more.

Clusters of people took photos, and babbled in accents I couldn’t ascertain. Ridge looped his arm around me and said, “Stunning, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It’s like someone supersized the Eiffel Tower and plonked it down in the city. It’s huge when you’re standing under it, but from here, somehow it seems even bigger.”

“There’s one more thing I want to show you.” Ridge took my hand, and we turned our back to the view. We dashed away, as rain fell harder, and I don’t remember ever feeling so alive.

We wove our way through small laneways, and our breath came out fast as we tried to outrun the weather. Ten minutes later, and what seemed like a lot of exercise for a non-exerciser, we came to a little garden on the Place des Abbesses.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Come closer,” Ridge said, pulling my hand. “It’s
Le mur des je t'aime
.”