Frenched Page 3

  It was just so incredible! The actual Eiffel Tower, right there, huge and monstrous and beautiful, looming above me bigger and bigger as I got closer. No matter how impressive it looks in photographs or movies, nothing compares to actually seeing it in person, watching the sun set behind it. I felt a quick tug of regret that I was seeing it by myself, but only because I knew that later on, no words would ever be enough to describe how gorgeous the light was, how small I felt beneath the arches, how my heart raced when I thought, I’m really in Paris.

  I wanted to climb to the top, but my stomach was growling so fiercely that I couldn’t ignore it. Unwilling to spend any more time indoors, I found a sandwich stand, ordered ham and cheese on half a baguette, and ate it as I walked back toward the tower.

  When I was done, I took a few pictures from the ground before climbing the seven hundred steps to the second floor and taking a lift up to the top. I exited the elevator wild with anticipation and went straight for the railing. When I looked out, I couldn’t help gasping. The guidebooks hadn’t lied—the view of Paris at twilight was breathtaking. And even if I was on my own in the most romantic city in the world, it was still full of beauty and history and culture. I’d take it all in, as much as I could in one week, and I wouldn’t have to worry about what anyone else wanted to do at any moment. There would be no Tucker to rush me through museums because he doesn’t like art, or roll his eyes at seeing yet another cathedral, or yawn his way through an opera. The entire city was at my feet, and it had plenty to offer. To hell with romance!

  Grinning at my new positive attitude, I looked to my left just in time to see a gorgeous young couple take a selfie of themselves kissing with the view behind them. My lips drooped as I turned away.

  No, don’t turn away. Their love did not come at the expense of your own.

  A few deep breaths later, I was fine. I even smiled at them.

  See? You can do this.

  To celebrate making peace with my first adventure as an Independent Woman, I went to the champagne bar, ordered a glass, and made a silent toast. To being in Paris, a dream come true.

  My throat was still tingling from the bubbles when I heard a gasps and murmurs in the crowd behind me. I turned around and saw a young man down on one knee in front of a beautiful girl, whose fingertips were pressed to her lips. Wide-eyed, I watched as the man took a ring box from his coat pocket and opened it up.

  Oh my God. This can’t be happening.

  I glugged my champagne, taking in the scene with bug-eyed disbelief. I mean, really? Just when I decided Paris didn’t have to be all about the romance, a proposal takes place ten feet away from me? I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw her nod happily as he slid the ring on her finger. “Yes!” she cried, and the entire crowd burst into applause and wild cheers as the woman leaned down and kissed her new fiancée.

  Smiling half-heartedly, I set my glass down and slipped through the crowd toward the lift, a lump lodged in my throat where the bubbles had lingered just moments before.

  I tried to perk myself up with a stroll along the Seine, but my Independent Woman positivity had fizzled.

  Everywhere I looked I saw couples in love.

  Fucking everywhere.

  Holding hands on the bridges, sneaking a kiss on cozy street corners, whispering to one another in whatever languages they spoke, exchanging secret smiles, ducking into bars and restaurants, laughing at all the unattached losers in the city—at least that’s what it felt like to me.

  I shuffled aimlessly along the river, which looked brooding and gloomy now that the light had faded. Eventually I meandered down Boulevard St. Germain and into what I guessed was the Latin Quarter. The sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling streets should have cheered me up, but the area was full of young people, and somehow my gaze still went to every clinging couple.

  Damn you, Tucker. That should have been us.

  With every step, anger ran hotter through my veins. A little voice in my head told me I was being stupid, I didn’t really want Tucker here, and I probably looked like an ill-tempered toddler, stomping down the street with my arms crossed and a scowl on my face, but I didn’t care. I was mad at Tucker for jilting me, mad at myself for letting it get to that point, mad at Coco and Erin for making me come here alone, mad at all the couples I’d seen, mad at France, mad at love.

  I was also lost. Uncrossing my arms, I stopped walking and looked around, but I saw no major landmarks or street signs. It was dark, and though I hated the thought of pulling out my map and marking myself as a pathetic tourist, what else could I do? Panic tightened my chest, and I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and calm down before the scenarios my mother had worried about infiltrated my brain.

  OK, that’s it. I need wine.

  I walked one more block and, as luck would have it, found myself passing a building with English words painted on it: The Beaver Bar & Grill. Upon closer inspection of its signage, I discovered it was a Canadian sports bar. Pausing a moment to consider, I decided I wasn’t mad at Canada, beavers, or sports, so I went in and glanced around.

  It was a small place, not noisy or crowded, just a few people sitting along a long wooden bar on the left and a group or two at tables in the rear. Eyeing all the patrons carefully, I looked for couples kissing or whispering or groping each other, anything that might signal an engagement was imminent, but didn’t see much love in the air. Most people seemed to be drinking tall glasses of beer and watching a hockey game on a large television in the back or the one over the bar.

  “You looking for someone?”

  Surprised that I’d been addressed in English, I glanced to my left, where the bartender stood drying a beer glass and watching me with an amused smile. In maybe his late twenties, he had a head full of messy longish curls and a prominent jaw covered with dark scruff.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You had a very determined expression on your face. Are you looking for someone?” He raised his brows as he repeated the question, and I detected only the barest trace of an accent.

  “How did you know I spoke English?”

  One side of his mouth hooked up. “I know an American when I see one.”

  For some reason the comment bugged me. What was so obviously American about me? I wasn’t wearing a Nike t-shirt or white sneakers or a baseball cap. I parked my hands on my hips and blew hair out of my face. “I could be Canadian.”

  “Nah.” He shook his head and set the glass down.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “A Canadian would’ve just answered the question.”

  Bristling a little, I dropped my hands and squared my shoulders. “No, I am not looking for anyone.”

  “Oh. The way you were scavenging the crowd with those big eyes, I thought maybe you were here to catch your boyfriend with somebody else.”

  “I do not have a boyfriend!”

  He held up his hands. “Sorry. Or girlfriend, whatever. I just meant you looked like you knew what you came in for, but it wasn’t a good time.”

  “For your information, that is exactly what I came in for.” I marched over to the closest barstool and sat down with a huff. “And no, I don’t have a girlfriend either. I’m alone. Alone,” I repeated even louder, drawing stares from the few patrons sitting at the bar. One got up and moved to the next stool down, farther away from me. “Is that OK with you?”

  “Love, it’s all OK with me. Why don’t you tell me what you want to drink?”

  “Don’t use that word.”

  “What word?”

  “Love,” I spat.

  “Sorry, I just haven’t learned your name yet.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I don’t care what you call me, I just don’t want to hear any more about love tonight, or see it, or smell it in the goddamn air.”

  He nodded. “That bad, huh?”

  “Yes. That’s what I was doing when I came in, making sure there were no obvious couples in love in here. They’re fucking everywh
ere in this city. You can’t even walk down the street without seeing people hanging all over each other, kissing and hugging and being fucking happy together. It’s like a crime to walk down the street alone.”

  “There’s plenty of people alone here.”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  He shrugged. “Well, Paris is a romantic place.”

  “Paris can kiss my ass.”

  “Why don’t I get you a drink, um…”

  “Mia.”

  “I’m Lucas.” He offered his hand across the bar, and I shook it. ”So what’s your pleasure, Mia?” He smiled and called a greeting in French to some people entering the bar behind me.

  “A plane ticket back to Detroit. I want to go home.”

  “Well. Can’t help you there, but I bet you can grab a flight tomorrow. And since it’s your last night in Paris, let me pour you a glass of wine.”

  “It’s my first night in Paris,” I said miserably. “And my last.”

  His brown eyes went wide. “In that case, the wine’s on me. Hang on.”

  Moving to the far end of the bar, he pulled a wine bottle off a shelf and poured a glass. I watched as he filled a few drink orders for other people, and noticed he spoke French with everyone but me. Although my ear wasn’t expert by any means, he sounded like a native speaker. And yet he also spoke English with a pretty good American accent. I had to admit I was a little curious about him.

  Propping my chin in my hand, I looked him over more carefully. He wasn’t tall or built like Tucker, but he was slender and possibly muscular in a less obvious way. He had a trim waist and a cute butt, shown off nicely in gray pants worn more fitted than Tucker wore his. Too bad he was such a mess above the shoulders, though—that scraggly hair probably hadn’t been washed in days, and even though he had nice full lips, you could barely see them with all the scruff on his face. I thought he could be handsome if he’d invest in a razor and a good haircut.

  My taste in guys is clean-shaven and neatly coiffed with a pretty face, which was Tucker Branch to a T. He was as vain as any woman I knew, worked out daily and spent hours in front of a mirror, but it never bothered me. His careful attention to his appearance meant he cared what I thought; he wanted to look good for me. As the memory of his hard, cut body underneath his gorgeous custom suits infiltrated my brain, I experienced a pang of regret. God, he’s just so good-looking. Those blue eyes. The sculpted abs. The smell of his neck when he’d cover my body with his.

  “Here you go.” Lucas set down a glass of red wine, generously poured. I liked how the outside corners of his brown eyes got a little crinkly when he smiled, but he was no Tucker Branch. I’ll bet he doesn’t smell as good either. But Coco might have liked Lucas; he was more her type. I wondered if he had any tattoos.

  “Thanks.” I offered a small, tight-lipped smile, and he winced.

  “Jesus Christ, Mia. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, yes it can.”

  He leaned forward onto his elbows. “Try me.”

  I took a deep breath. “OK. But wine first.” Lifting the glass to my lips, I took a hefty drink. It was delicious—big and earthy and velvety on my tongue. “This is incredible,” I told him before taking another sip.

  His smile deepened. “I’m glad you like it.”

  After a few more swallows, I set the glass on the bar with a clink, but I didn’t let it go. I stared at my fingers on the stem as I admitted, “This trip to Paris was supposed to be my honeymoon. But my fiancé called off the wedding.”

  Without a word, he walked to the end of the bar, grabbed the wine bottle from the shelf and poured more into my glass, replacing what I’d drunk.

  I looked up at him gratefully. “Thanks. It’s been rough.”

  “I’m sorry. Was it a total shock?”

  I sighed. “Yes and no. If I’d been honest with myself, I think I would’ve realized that things weren’t perfect. But I was so caught up in planning the perfect wedding that I didn’t want to admit the marriage might be a mistake.”

  Lucas nodded, leaning on the bar again. “Did he give you a reason? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s OK.” I paused to drink some more wine before going on. “It’s nothing earth-shattering, really. He said he loved me, but that he wasn’t ready to get married yet.”

  “And you were?”

  “Sure. I mean, I’m twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. I’ve always planned on being married by that age, and, you know…” I lifted my shoulders. “We were in love. We were the perfect couple.”

  “Clearly.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Was he making fun of me? “All I meant was I thought we were a good match at the time. I could totally see our life together.”

  “You had that all planned out too, huh?”

  I didn’t care how good the wine was, Lucas was starting to get on my nerves. While I wondered how to respond, several customers needed his attention and then more people came in the door, keeping him busy for the next twenty minutes. I didn’t mind, though—his last couple remarks had pissed me off. And I had bigger problems than a rude bartender, like what to do with my miserable self for the rest of the week.

  Trying to be positive again, I made a list.

  Things I Like About the Trip So Far

  1) Seeing the Eiffel Tower.

  2) This glass of wine.

  And then I stopped, because I couldn’t even think of a third item for the list. Earlier I’d told my mother that I needed the alone time, but now I wasn’t sure I could handle it. But what could I do? Go home tomorrow and admit to Coco and Erin that I wasn’t as strong as they thought I was?

  How depressing.

  After another gulp of wine, I considered giving in to my mother and letting her fly over here and join me—maybe having someone to see the city with would help me feel less alone. Just as quickly as it came to me, I tossed out that idea, knowing that I could not tolerate my mother’s nervous nagging for a solid week. If Coco or Erin could fly over I would stay, but I knew that was impossible. Coco was running Devine Events on her own while I was gone, and Erin was a teacher. There was no way she could drop everything and come to Paris. But who else was there? My dad?

  I considered it as I rolled the last sip around in my mouth. My dad lived outside Detroit too, and he and I got along great, but he was remarried with young children. For that reason alone, I couldn’t see him taking off for a week, even if he could get time off from his law practice, which wasn’t likely at such short notice. But knowing my dad, who didn’t say anything to me when I told him about Tucker, just held me and let me sob, he’d rearrange anything he could to in order to get here and be with me. I couldn’t do that to him.

  An Imagine Dragons song that Tucker and I had both liked came over the speakers, and I slumped lower on my barstool. That’s it—I’m just gonna go home. This is too painful. And it wasn’t like I’d be out any money. Tucker had called Coco, who let it go to voicemail but played me the message, telling her that he wanted me to take the trip and I could use the credit card he’d given me for any expenses while I was here. He really must have been feeling guilty, because he also said I could stay in the townhouse as long as I needed to. He’d be in Vegas for another week and then he’d stay somewhere else until I moved out.

  God, moving out…

  Tears filled my eyes and I hunted in my bag for a tissue. Lucas returned and wordlessly refilled my glass before being called over to the register by a waitress in a tight t-shirt. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, embarrassed to be blubbering in front of strangers in public.

  But at least I had wine.

  I drank the second glass even faster than the first, but I was still surprised at the buzz I had when it was empty. Maybe French wine had a higher alcohol content or something? I knew nothing about wine; mostly I just knew how to describe what I liked best—big, full reds like this one where the fruit isn’t overwhelming and there’s a hint of something earthy or smoky. Maybe I’ll take a wine c
ourse when I get back. Knowing more about wine would be helpful for work. And Coco had always wanted me to take that gourmet cooking class with her. I could do that as well. In fact, all the time I’d spent planning my wedding, I could now spend doing new things, meeting new people.

  Feeling better now that the decision had been made, I dug my credit card out of my wallet and signaled Lucas that I was ready to go.

  He smiled at me as he approached, and it was so friendly and apologetic, I forgot that I was annoyed with him.

  “Give me one second.” He filled a tall glass with beer from the tap. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Where the hell would I go? I still had no idea how to get back to the hotel from here—I’d have to ask him. A few more minutes passed before Lucas got a break, but by then another bartender had shown up to work.

  “Sorry about that.” Lucas dried his hands on a towel and came back to my end of the bar. “Can I pour you another glass?”

  I bit my lip. “I probably shouldn’t. It’s really good, though. What is it?”

  “It’s a wine from the Rhône Valley, where I’m from.”

  “I wondered if you were French. You speak English so well, you could almost pass for American.”

  “French mom, American dad,” he explained. “I was born here but raised in both places.”

  “Where in the U.S did you live?” Maybe it was the wine, but I was curious about him.

  “In upstate New York mostly, but I live in the city now.”

  I smiled. “I love New York City. But I hate flying, and New York’s a long drive from Detroit.”

  “You hate flying, yet you want to get on another plane first thing in the morning?”

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Shaking my head, I insisted, “Yes, I do. You don’t understand.”

  “Sure I do. Your fiancé called off the wedding and you’re angry and sad or whatever because you’re getting close to your marriage deadline or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time here. You came all this way, even though you hate to fly. There must have been a reason.”