Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (8 page)

But Mat’s observations were different. They were earnest, personal, and
heartfelt. They were in a league of their own. And she found herself enjoying
them.

Right now, his palms smoothed over her buttocks, stroking every inch.
Luxuriating in his touch, Jeanne forgot about the dull ache in her stomach
until she realized it had gone away. Mat’s breathing was heavy as he fondled
and rubbed her flesh, but he didn’t press his body to hers. She knew he was
waiting for a sign from her, for the tiniest invitation to step up a gear. She
could just shift her legs half an inch apart or roll over on her back and stare
into his eyes—and there’d be no turning back.

Hmm . . . which one would it be?

“Baby, you’re so hot,” he said.

And suddenly, her desire began to seep out of her body, as though his
words had nicked her skin and opened a tiny leak.

He’s no different.

Ludo, her ex with whom she’d been for four years, kept telling her that.
Even as he slept with other women, none of whom were admittedly as hot as she
was. Fred, the cool yuppie she dated after Ludo told her the exact same words.
Until it turned out he’d had a fiancée. And Mat had a girlfriend with whom he
was in a serious relationship . . . He was no longer the
tail-wagging puppy who worshipped the ground she walked on. He had morphed into
an entirely different kind of beast.

And she was no more than an irresistibly hot body to him. Just like to
the others.

“I’m not well,” she said. “The Coke didn’t work. I’m going to take a hot
bath and try to sleep.”

He stopped caressing her, pulled his hand away, and sat there without
doing or saying anything. She rolled out of the bed, walked over to the
bathroom, and locked the door from inside.

“Jeanne,” he said in a gentle voice. “May I please stay here and sleep
next to you? I won’t touch you—you have my word. I just want to be near
you . . . a little longer.”

She didn’t have the nerve to say no.

***

Mat’s voice woke her up. “Jeanne . . .
Oh, Jeanne.”

She opened her eyes and turned to face him.

He was fast asleep on his back, and his
midsection tented the duvet that covered his lower body.

Jeanne couldn’t stifle a smile.

He’d kept his word last night and didn’t make
the slightest attempt to touch her again. They talked for a long time before
falling asleep, and all the while, she basked in the heat of his gaze. Oh, how
tempting it was to give in! All she had to do to allow him to make love to her
was to touch him.

Only she knew better. There would be a price
to pay—a high price. No matter how much it affected Mat, she’d have her
own burden to bear. Her remorse and guilt to live with.

Mat whispered her name again, still asleep.

She felt her body responding to his hunger.
How could it not? The gorgeous male lying next to her craved her in a
desperate, fervent way. The way she’d never been craved by anyone in her whole
life. It was awe-inspiring and incredibly sexy. It was humbling.

He’d traveled all the way from Paris in the
hope of spending the night with her.

But he’d never, not once, hinted he wanted
more than a night.

Jeanne got out of the bed as quietly as she
could and tiptoed to the bathroom. When she came out, Mat was awake. He lay on
his back, his hands clasped under his head, showing off the rippling muscles on
his arms and chest.

She tried to look unperturbed.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“When is your flight back to Paris?”

“Tomorrow morning. Yours?”

“Tonight . . . So what’s the
plan for today?” He gave her a hopeful look.

“I’m to have breakfast with the gang in
thirty minutes. After that, Lena, Rob, and I will do as much sightseeing as we
can squeeze into a day. It’s my first time in Copenhagen.”

I won’t spend the day in bed with you
,
honey
.

For a split second, his face fell.

Then he pasted a bright smile on it. “Say hi
to the queen for me, and to the Little Mermaid.”

He sat up, and Jeanne gawked at the rugged
beauty of his naked torso.

With an effort, she looked away. “Are you
booked in this hotel?”
Shouldn’t you go to your room now?

“Yeah . . . I should be
going . . .” He didn’t move. “I love your pajama shorts. They’re
so . . . short.”

“I hope you’re more eloquent in your campaign
speeches,” she said.

“I’d better be.” He chortled but still made
no attempt to move.

It occurred to Jeanne he might be naked under
the blanket, which could explain his reluctance to get out of the bed.

“Um . . . I’m going back to
the bathroom so you can get dressed,” she said.

His gaze burned into hers. “Are you seeing
anyone?”

“Why is it any of your business?”

“It isn’t. I just . . . I want
to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine . . . and I’m
dating Didier. Well, almost.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. What’s wrong with Didier?”

“What’s
right
with Didier?”

Anger swelled in her chest. “I’ll tell you
what’s right. He wants to be my business partner. He finds me competent, great
at my job, smart. He’s never called me
hot
.” She gave him a hard look.
“It’s refreshing.”

“Jeanne, no matter what he calls you, or
doesn’t
call you, the guy’s a jerk. You can’t go out with him.”

“Says who? What gives you the right to
counsel me on my private life?”

He stared at her, his gray eyes unblinking
and a vein pulsing on his strong neck. Then, suddenly, his gaze grew softer,
almost pleading. “I may have no right, but a woman like you deserves better
than Didier. You . . . a woman like you . . .” He
paused, his face contorting in some sort of inner struggle.

Jeanne held her breath. Was he going to say a
woman like her deserved
him
? Was he about to tell her he wanted more
than one night?

Their gazes locked, hers searching, his
conflicted. In the silence that stretched, her heart thumped. She took a deep
breath in a hopeless attempt to calm herself.

When he finally spoke, his expression was
determined, almost defiant. “I won’t deny feeling a little possessive of you,
no matter how much I fight it. But it’s my problem. It doesn’t change the fact
that Didier isn’t a good match for you.”

She exhaled slowly before replying. “Oh yeah?
And who’s a good match for me? What about you, Mat? Are
you
a good match
for me?”

He said nothing, just held her gaze as a
flush spread over his cheeks.

Jeanne’s nostrils flared. “Or do you expect
me to tie a curled ribbon around my neck and offer myself to you just because
you find me
hot
?” She spat the last word as if it were an insult.

“Jeanne, I’m not sure why you get so riled
up. The way I see it, being hot is . . . awesome.” He paused
before adding, “I’m saying this from personal experience as a former
toad-eyed
nerd who never got a second glance from you . . . until I became
hot
.”

The remark gave her pause. Mat had a point.
Her pouring scorn on hotness was dangerously close to hypocrisy. Which she
abhorred. But then why was she still so upset at his compliment?

In a flash of clarity, it came to her.

“Tell me, Mat,” she said in a much calmer
voice. “Would you describe your wonderful girlfriend as
hot
?”

“No,” he said without hesitation.

“Thought so. Would you call her
beautiful
?”

He sighed and nodded.

“That’s why I get so riled up. It’s not the
compliment itself—it’s the implications.” She stared out the window.

He kept silent.

Expelling her breath in a long exhalation,
she took a few steps toward him and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Let’s say we do it. Say we sleep together.
Would your
beautiful
girlfriend be OK with it?”

Mat shook his head slowly, his face crimson.

“Would you even tell her?”

“No.”

Jeanne spun around and stomped back into the
bathroom. “Get out of my room,” she said, pulling the door behind her.

She paused and added
before slamming the door shut, “And out of my life.”

***

Chapter
Six

March

February rolled into March with no sign of
the winter relenting. Jeanne had never before seen so much snow fall onto the
city and refuse to melt. After a week of denial, the Parisian fashionistas
swapped their elegant footwear for fur-lined moon boots and resigned themselves
to wearing hairdo-ruining knitted hats.

Pierre installed a patio heater next to the
main entrance of
La Bohème
. The early morning “coffee and cigarette”
patrons hailed the initiative as lifesaving.

On the coldest day in Jeanne’s memory, her
parents came from the south to stay with her for three days. On the first day,
Jeanne took them to see an impressionist exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay. They
loved it. The next day she took them to an
avant-garde
art installation
at the Petit Palais. They loved the Petit Palais and hated the installation.

On the third and last day of their visit, she
took them shopping. Through a combination of persuasion, flattery, manipulation
and downright blackmail, the women managed to convince Jeanne’s dad to get rid
of the “perfectly serviceable” coat he’d worn for twenty years and buy a newer,
warmer and much more fashionable one. In the evening, the three of them marked
the historic event with a delicious dinner at
La Bohème
.

When her parents left, Jeanne went back to
her normal life of working double shifts at the bistro, walking around the
apartment in underwear, eating out of a saucepan, and binge-watching her
favorite series at night. But there was something to be said for hanging out
with Mom and Dad. Something related to the amount of love that permeated the
air when those two painfully familiar and infinitely dear people made her
pancakes in the morning and hung on her every word, no matter what she
blathered about.

Two days after they left Daniela walked into
the bistro and asked if Jeanne had a minute for a coffee and a chat.

Must be that SOB boyfriend of hers hitting
her again
.

“Give me five minutes,” she said, gesturing
to Amar to stand in for her.

“I’ve got great news,” Daniela said after
Jeanne placed two espressos on the table and sat across from her.

Jeanne’s raised her eyebrows.

“Nico found a job. It’s a six-month contract,
but if everything goes well, they’ll most certainly renew it.”

“Super,” Jeanne said.

“He’s so excited about it. And he says he’ll
stop drinking.” Daniela paused, sipped some coffee, and then looked into
Jeanne’s eyes. “If he does, our fighting will stop, too.
And . . . the other stuff. I’m sure.”

Jeanne had never seen the concierge looking
so happy. Come to think of it, she’d never seen her looking anything but
somber. “That’s fantastic,” she said.

Daniela beamed and looked around. “It’s
really cozy here. I came by a couple of weeks ago, but they told me you were in
Copenhagen. Did you like it?”

“I only had one day to visit, and the weather
changed every five minutes. But yes, it’s a charming city.”

“Like Paris?”

Jeanne shook her head. “Paris is the
belle
dame
of Europe. Copenhagen is more like . . . a pretty
lass.” She winked. “Have you seen
Enchanted
?”

“Of course! It was my favorite movie when I
was . . . before things went wrong.” Daniela sighed and looked
away.

“Remember Giselle?” Jeanne asked not daring
to question the concierge about her past.

Daniela turned back to Jeanne and attempted a
smile. “So Copenhagen is Amy Adams?”

Jeanne nodded. “And Paris is Grace Kelly.”

Daniela’s smile broadened. “Got any pictures
on your phone?”

“Sure.”

Jeanne tapped the screen until she found her
Copenhagen photos. “OK. This is the Rosenborg Castle. That’s where the queen
keeps the crown jewels, in case you were planning the heist of the century.”

“It’s cute. Like something out of a fairy
tale.”

Yeah. And so was the couple kissing in the
Castle Gardens.
Jeanne winced
remembering how her chest had clenched in pain on seeing them only an hour
after sending Mat away.

She opened another photo. “This is Nyhavn.
According to Lena’s guidebook, it means ‘new harbor,’ which I guess it was back
in the seventeenth century. It’s a bit touristy, but great fun.”

“I love that the houses are painted different
colors,” Daniela said. “If someone tries it here in Paris, the city authorities
will descend on them like a bunch of starved vultures.”