Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (14 page)

“It’s been a while since your speeches moved or inspired anyone. Your
statements lost their punch and your campaign went from hot to lukewarm.”

“I didn’t realize . . . I don’t know what to
say . . .”

Cecile narrowed her eyes. “I do. It’s all b
ecause
of that woman, that barmaid of yours. She took too much of your energy, too
much space in your shriveled brain.”

Oh God. She knew.

“I’ve heard you say her name in your sleep,”
Cécile continued. “Night after night since last fall. Accompanied by a
monumental hard-on.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve known
all this time?”

“Do you think I’m dumb? I
chose
to
close my eyes because I believed in your future. I’d invested so much in
it . . . I didn’t want to hold up your ascent.” She smirked.
“But instead of going up, you rolled down. You slipped from the leader I
thought you’d become back to your old wacky ways.”

He stared at her, a vein pulsing on his neck.

Cécile’s shoulders fell and her gaze turned
melancholy. She touched his chest. “All this muscle you’ve gained and all these
stylish clothes I’ve picked for you aren’t enough to fool people, Mat. Because
people, they know a loser when they see one.”

She dropped her hand and brushed past him.
“I’m going out for a walk. Can’t stand to look at you right now.”

He remained planted in the middle of the
kitchen for a long while, processing the conversation, adjusting to the new
reality. Then he shook his head, as if waking up from a trance, marched into
the living room, and began to browse his music collection until he found what
he was looking for. It was a new Cyril song about a life-ruining obsession.
He’d heard it on the radio a few days ago and purchased it immediately. Because
had he possessed any talent for music, he could have written it.

Mat removed his tie,
sat on the floor next to his designer stereo, and played the song.

I’m ablaze drowning in the ocean,

I’m adrift pacing in my room,

In my heart only one emotion—

Every

night I

crave

you,

Like a crazed wolf howling at the moon.

You’re under my skin—

tattooed.

***

Chapter Ten

July

Thank God, Claude came into work in the morning, ending his sick leave
and Thierry’s stint at
La Bohème
.
Relieved beyond measure, Jeanne made up her mind to restore peace with Didier.
She’d propose a truce as soon as the lunch service was over. It wasn’t in the
interest of either of them to bicker and poison the atmosphere at the bistro.
Instead, they should agree to pressure Pierre to make his decision and put an
end to this unhealthy rivalry.

She placed two freshly brewed espressos on a tray and handed it to Manon.
After she filled some pitchers with water and lined them on the counter, she
surveyed the room for Didier.

Speak of the devil.

The headwaiter walked right past her, stopping at the table of a young
couple engrossed in their conversation, hands entwined across the table.

“Are you ready to order now?” Didier asked with barely disguised
annoyance.

“I’m so sorry. We got sidetracked.” The young woman nervously flipped
through the menu and turned to her boyfriend. “How about paella?”

“Nah . . . I’d rather have a couscous,” the young man
said.

“How do you feel about sushi?” Didier asked sweetly. “I highly recommend
it.”

The couple exchanged enthusiastic nods, and the man said, “Wonderful
idea! We’ll go for sushi then.”

Didier smiled pleasantly. “What makes you think we have any?”

“But you just said—” the woman began.

“I gave you my opinion about sushi, which is a great dish. I thought we
were exchanging views on foreign foods.” Didier brushed an invisible speck off
the sleeve of his shirt and gave the couple a look of misunderstood innocence.

The young man puffed out his chest. “Rubbish. You misled us deliberately.”

Didier picked up one of the menus and held it in front of the man’s face.
“Had monsieur bothered to read our menu, he would’ve noticed that it lists none
of the dishes we’ve just discussed. And, in any case, someone your age should
know what kind of food to expect in a bistro.”

He paused for added drama, then placed the menu on the table
,
and turned to leave. “Wave when you’re
ready to order.”

He strode toward the bar, propped an elbow on the counter across from
Jeanne
,
and said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Good for you.” Jeanne gave him a bright smile.

“I’m serious, Jeanne. These past months have shown me we can’t be a
functional couple. But after the way you handled Thierry, I doubt we can even
be business partners.”

“We can’t. I’ve come to the same conclusion,”
Jeanne said.

Didier shook his head. “I’m sorry for you.
You’re going to regret not having seized your chance.”

“What makes you so sure you’ll have the
bistro?”

Didier shrugged. “Pierre is a sensible man.”

“Exactly,” Jeanne said, giving him a defiant
look.

“You won’t get
La Bohème
,
Jeanne. If I were you, I’d start adjusting to the idea.”

She glowered at him.

“I’ll be happy to let you keep your current
job,” Didier said. “You’re a fine barista and a decent bartender. But you’ll
have to ditch your opinions and do as I say.”

Jeanne gave him a doe-eyed look. “You’re too
generous, Didier. Truly, you are. But I’m afraid I’m quite incapable of doing
as you say. So . . .”

“I see . . . You want all or
nothing.”

She nodded.

“You’ll have nothing,” he said.

It was Jeanne’s turn to shrug. “That’s OK, as
long as I get to keep my opinions.”

Didier rolled his eyes and walked away.

You’ll have nothing.

Didier’s remark reverberated in her head,
chilling the blood in her veins. On a self-destructive impulse, she imagined
herself in the near future and shuddered at the bleakness of what she saw.
Didier had
La Bohème
.
Cécile had Mat.

She had nothing.

Fortunately, her indomitable optimism finally
kicked in.
Cut this self-indulgent crap.

She still had a chance—a solid
chance—with the bistro. As for Mat, well, he was deeply convinced the
thing
between them was purely physical.

What if he was right? What if
she was
deluding herself, mistaking attraction for feelings, and lust for love?

She’d called him a fool for thinking they
could purge their “systems” of their obsession if they went all the way. But
what if he was right? Could she admit for a second they were crazed because the
fruit was forbidden? Yes, they’d kissed and fooled around, and it only made
things worse. But maybe it was because they never made love, never found
release together.

Could sex set them free?

Could Mat have been
right about it, and she—a fool?

***

Later in the afternoon, Amanda stopped by for a coffee. She was as well
groomed and dressed as ever, but her gaze was uncharacteristically dull.

“What brings you here at this time of the day?” Jeanne asked, after they
exchanged a cheek kiss.

“Just needed a break. And a good coffee. Can’t stand the gunk that comes
from our coffee machine anymore.”

“A
noisette
,
as usual?”

Amanda nodded.

Jeanne began to prepare Amanda’s coffee, expecting the customary flood of
witty banter. When none came, she glanced at Amanda over her shoulder. “What’s
wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You’re unusually subdued.”

“I’m touched by your concern, but don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“Boy trouble?”

“No boy, no trouble.”

“Work trouble?”

Amanda shook her head. “Still queen of the hill.”

Jeanne handed Amanda her coffee. “Your majesty.”

Amanda smirked. “What about you? I’ve seen you staring into the void
recently—several times. You never used to do that before. It’s about a
boy and I must know who.”

“Curiosity killed the queen.”

“Oh come on, Jeanne. Give me something. I’ve had a really tough week, if
you must know.”

Jeanne raised her brows.

“I’ve worked around the clock and am completely unplugged from the office
grapevine. Now I’m running out of juice. I need info that’s not related to work.”

“Shall I get you my copy of
Le Monde
?” Jeanne asked. “Or you could
watch some TV.”

“Officially, I don’t own a television. It’s considered too lowlife in
certain circles. And I only read
Le Figaro
and
The Economist
.
”

Amanda took a sip from her cup. “Ooh, the bliss . . . Have
I mentioned you make the best coffee in Paris?”

“On several occasions.”

“Do I know him?”

Jeanne blinked, a little disoriented by the sudden question, then shook
her head. “I’m not telling.”

“Oh my God. It means I do! Let’s see . . . Didier?” Amanda
studied Jeanne’s face. “No. OK. The chef? Nah, he’s too old and not your type.
Oh no! Please don’t tell me it’s Amar! He’s young enough to be your son.”

Jeanne snorted. “He’s only six years our junior. So there’s no way he
could be my son. Anyway, it’s not him.”

Amanda’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She placed her cup on the
counter, cleared her throat and leaned in. “I know who it is. I should’ve
guessed immediately. I remember how he stared at you during my promotion bash.
I just didn’t think you’d fall for a guy who’s already
taken . . .”

Jeanne looked away.

Amanda shook her head. “I’ve been in Cécile’s shoes, as you may remember,
and I can tell you it sucks.”

“I know.” Jeanne rinsed a glass and put it on the drying rack. “I’ve been
in her shoes
,
too, with Ludo. I left
him in the end.”

“So you’re hoping Cécile will dump Mat? Or he’ll dump her for you?”

Jeanne wiped her hands on her apron and refused to answer Amanda’s
questions or look at her.

“Get real, my dear. Those two are in a symbiotic relationship that goes
beyond sentiments. Besides . . .” Amanda’s voice trailed off and
she fixed her gaze on her cup.

“What?”

“Never mind. If I say it, I’ll risk our friendship . . .
and I can’t afford losing a friend right now.”

Jeanne flattened her hand on the counter. “I swear on this authentic
copper I won’t cut you off, no matter what you say.”

“OK.” Amanda gave her a long sympathetic look. “You’re a lovely, funny,
sexy woman. But you’re no match to Cécile. She’s in a different league, Jeanne.
And so is Mat.”

The next morning, Jeanne got out of bed with
a plan hatched during the sleepless night. Quite possibly a stupid plan that
would make things only worse, but she hated feeling helpless. So, any plan was
better than none.

First, she’d corner Pierre and demand a
decision. She might give him three days—a week tops, but no
more—lest she explode from not knowing.

Second, she’d call Mat and tell him she had
changed her mind. If she really was nothing more than a hot chick to him, then
she’d act like one. She wanted him, and she would have him. There was the scary
scenario wherein the “curative” sex worked only for him, while she’d end up
lovesick and heartbroken because she was a hot chick with a gooey heart.

But she refused to dwell on it now.

She was going for broke, and she’d deal with
the consequences later.

Hmm . . . all things
considered, she’d start with the second part of her plan.

Jeanne grabbed her phone and scrolled to his
number.

There.

“Jeanne?” He sounded baffled.

“Hi. What’s up?”

“I lost the elections last week.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll make it next
time.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of them spoke for a few tense
moments.

“Why did you call me?” Mat asked.

“I changed my mind about . . .
your idea. I want to do it.”

“Jeanne, I . . .”

She waited but he didn’t finish his sentence.
“I’m willing to allow that you might be right about . . .
lancing the abscess. Maybe
I’m
the fool, and not you.”

“Believe me, the only fool here is me,” he
said.

“Will you come to Paris and see me one of
these days?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I made a discovery after my defeat, Jeanne.
I realized I’m weaker than I’d like to think. On top of being a fool, as we’ve
already established
.
”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve never had a one-night stand in my
life . . . I’ve never desired a woman only for her body. And
you . . . you’re amazing in every way, Jeanne. If I sleep with
you, I’ll want more.”

Then do it, for Christ’s sake!
She wanted to shout.

“I’m so sorry. About everything. I wish I
could turn back the clock and leave Rob’s engagement party
earlier . . .”