The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (7 page)

Damn
it, if only I had the guts to have this conversation with her in real life, and
not just in my head! I’d make her see me for who I am, for the evil genius that
I am, and she’d stop complaining about my infrequent phone calls and rare
visits.

She’d
send Diane to live with her uncle in Montreal, forbidding her from setting foot
in Paris.

And
she’d advise Hugo to stay away from me.

*
* *

Eleven

“You’re
sure you’re going to be OK?” Diane asks for the third time.

She
stops in the doorway, one foot still inside, and turns around to give me a
sympathetic look.

“Of
course I will.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I
don’t know… because you had nightmares all night?”

Crap.
“How did you know?”

“You
screamed.”

Of
course I did. I dreamed of Hugo dying in my arms.

“I
dreamed of you taking root in my apartment.” I sigh theatrically. “And I don’t
mean this as a metaphor. Your toes morphed into tentaclelike branches, squeezed
through the cracks in the floorboards, and wrapped themselves around the
concrete structure underneath.”

Diane
cocks her head. “Really?”

Double
crap
. What if
she interprets my clowning as a hint that I want her to move out?

“Oh,
yeah.” I say, bugging my eyes out at her. “Wouldn’t
you
scream in my
place?”

Diane
beams at me. “I love you, too, Chloe.”

Right.

I’m
not sure if I’m relieved or alarmed by her incongruous response. Or both. But
above all, it’s just
so
Diane.

“I’ll
sleep over at Clotilde’s,” she adds in the same breath, as if this was somehow
related to her previous remark.

“Wow,”
I say. “I didn’t realize you two had grown so tight in just a few weeks.”

“She’s
fun.” Diane blows me a kiss. “Call me if you’d rather not be alone tonight, all
right?”

“Yes,
Mommy,” I say in a squeaky nasal voice before she pulls the door shut behind
her.

OK,
I better get cracking.

I
look around my apartment, drawing a mental list of everything that needs to be
taken care of on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Diane did the laundry and
scrubbed the bathroom yesterday. This leaves me with the dishes, cleaning the
floor, balcony gardening, grocery shopping, bills, and three sets of drawings
and specifications for potential clients.

Now
that we’re done with
La Bohème
and ready to begin our new project
tomorrow, it would be good to line up a few more for next year. Doing this when
I started out two years ago would’ve been pointless. No matter how thoroughly I
tried to plan things, my inexperience sabotaged my good intentions, and every
job I took on ended up needing additional funding and time.

As
the dishwasher begins to rumble, I shudder at the embarrassing memories from
that first year. And it wasn’t just me who botched things up—everyone I
hired sucked just as much as I did. Or more.

The
first electrician I worked with liked to disappear “for family reasons” at the
most critical time in the project and reappear a week or two later looking
suspiciously tanned. The plumber must have faked his license because I knew
more about pipe slopes than he did. Neither of them had any inclination toward
learning new skills, so I always had to look for additional hands for tasks
such as painting and carpentry.

I
open the French windows and step out on to my tiny balcony. This is my number
one favorite spot in the whole apartment. Because of the population density and
height limits, most Parisian balconies look into their neighbors’ interiors.
Mine is at the top of the tallest building on the block, and even though I
can’t see any landmark monuments from here, I can watch the roofs of the
buildings around me.

And,
boy, do I love watching the roofs of Paris!

It’s
a real shame that the weather makes my urban paradise unfit for use half of the
year. But today is blissfully mild, what with the Greenlandic cold wave finally
gone. This means I’m going to take a break from
Game of Thrones
and do
some cozy reading outside tonight. It would do me a world of good to wrap a
wool throw around my shoulders, sink into a floor cushion, eyeball the roofs,
and then lose myself in a book.

My
balcony being too small, I had to choose between plants and a table with
chairs. I went for plants, figuring I could use floor cushions in lieu of
chairs and a tray for a table. The best of both worlds. Come to think of it,
that’s what architecture is all about—reconciling function and beauty
within a given space.

I
kneel down and tend to a sturdy rosemary bush, then to a sprawling jasmine, and
finally to a sickly little olive tree. I bought them in spring, and so far they
have resisted a balcony garden’s killer duet of heat and wind.

Be
strong, my darlings.
Winter is coming
.

And
I should definitely stop watching
Game of Thrones
for a while.

OK,
next up—vacuum cleaning.

As
I maneuver the humming implement around my bed, I realize it was exactly a year
ago that a fellow architect referred René to me. Oh, the joy of finally working
with a real professional! A few weeks later, Hugo reentered my life, and the
three of us soon became a well-oiled machine. We’re so efficient at what we do
that I’ve begun to dream about the next step—evolving from a design-build
firm into a “fix and flip” developer a few years down the road.

Which
brings me face to face with the question I’ve been dodging since Thursday
night.

Can
Hugo and I continue as before?

After
the first incident and Hugo’s relaxed attitude the following morning, I thought
we could. I really thought we’d just sweep it all under the carpet and keep
pretending it hadn’t happened for as long as it would take us to believe our
own lie.

But
then Hugo slipped within twenty-four hours of the initial transgression.
We
slipped
.
I may not have been the mastermind, but I sure did more than freeze up when he
touched me. What
was
my role, exactly? Hmm… You could say I was an
accomplice. You could even say I was an accessory, all too happy to take part in
the crime.

But
let’s stick to the facts. They’re pretty straightforward, underneath the fluff.
He wants me. I want him. It can’t happen. I can’t have an affair with Hugo and
then end it as I’ve done with other men.

And
why’s that, Chloe?

I
turn off the vacuum cleaner and sit down, letting the answer float into my
conscious mind and drape itself in words and sentences.

If
we have sex, he might fall in love with me and suffer the wrath of the
merciless gods. And I can’t let it happen for a very simple, very selfish
reason.

I
love him.

I’ve
loved him for a year now, since he showed up in Paris. No, that’s not true. I
loved him before—in high school or perhaps even since the day I plonked
myself on the chair next to his in sixth grade.

It’s
always been him, only him.

So
there, the secret I’ve kept so well from my classmates, friends, family, Hugo,
and even myself, is finally out. The Devil’s spawn Chloe Germain has an
incurable crush on all-around good guy Hugo Bonnet.

This
is bad.

And
there’s nothing I can do to fix it.

My
head drops to my chest, and I struggle with the temptation to bang it on the
coffee table.
Team Loki, my foot.

So
where do I go from here?

With
a ragged sigh that leaves me drained, I grab my backpack and head out to shop
for groceries. But more than milk and eggs, my mind needs a distraction—a
reprieve from its fruitless efforts. As I trudge back home, my backpack full
and my head empty, I spot a familiar shape behind a tree across from the
entrance to my building. It’s Fabien. When I backtrack to take a better look,
there’s no one.

I
step into the foyer and close the door behind me.

The
next ten minutes are dedicated to pondering which alternative is
worse—Fabien stalking me or me going nuts and imagining things like
Alcinda’s husband. It’s not just the apparitions. I’ve been finding unsealed
envelopes in my mail and getting obscene phone calls from an unknown number. A
couple of days ago, I freaked out because someone left a wilted red rose on my
doorstep.

I
wonder if it was Fabien’s doing or my wacky neighbor’s idea of a Halloween
joke.

These
thoughts are far from pleasant, but I prefer mulling over my sanity to thinking
about the situation with Hugo.

My
door buzzer rings.

I
freeze for a moment, before telling myself that at least this solves one of my
dilemmas. Fabien
is
stalking me; I’m not being paranoid. And instead of
standing here, I should answer the call and tell the idiot to stop what he’s
doing or else I’ll report him to the police.

I
rush to the door and pick up the receiver.

A
deep, velvety
bonjorn
hits the pit of my stomach before my brain gets a
chance to process the Provençal greeting.

The
man at the other end of the intercom isn’t Fabien.

It’s
Hugo.

*
* *

Twelve

“I
hope this isn’t a bad time,” Hugo says.

I
summon all the cool I’m capable of. “That depends.”

“I
need to talk to you about something.” He pauses before adding, “Something
important.”

I
buzz him in.

This
conversation needs to happen. It may ruin our friendship and, eventually, our
professional relationship, too, but there’s no avoiding it. After the events in
the basement of
La Bohème
and at Manon’s party, the cat is out of the
bag, meowing its head off, and showing no intention of stopping.

I
need to deal with this.

As
soon as he steps in, Hugo hands me a glossy white box tied up with a red ribbon.

“You’re
trying to bribe me,” I say, taking the box.

I
know what’s inside without having to open it—my favorite macarons.

“This
isn’t a bribe,” he says. “It’s an apology.”

I
cock my head. “For groping me or for maiming my dance partner?”

“I
didn’t maim him,” he protests.

“But
you could have, potentially.” I head to the kitchen, waving to him to follow
me. “Well, at least you aren’t denying the first accusation.”

“I
am.”

I
spin around. “
Ah bon?
”

He
nods.

“OK.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then what are you apologizing for?”

He
takes a deep breath. “Being such a… chicken.”

“I
don’t understand.”

“I’ll
explain.”

I
sigh and resume my march to the kitchen. I don’t look at Hugo while I unwrap
the box, make coffee, pile two steaming cups and the macarons on a tray, and
carry it out to the balcony. After that, I dart to the living room to fetch two
floor cushions but no blankets. It’s so warm that we won’t need them.

When
I return to the kitchen, I finally glance at Hugo, who hasn’t said a word while
I bustled about. He’s leaning against the wall and watching me in all his
Herculean glory.

“Ready
to
explain
?” I ask, motioning to the balcony.

He
nods. “But before I do, I have a message to relay. My parents would like to
invite you to their thirtieth wedding anniversary next Saturday.”

“That’s
very kind of them, but I—”

“They
won’t take no for an answer.”

“I’m
flattered, I really am, but… I haven’t been in touch with your mom and dad
since I left Nîmes.”

He
grins. “This isn’t an altruistic gesture. Now that they’ve made peace with my
change of career, they want to ingratiate themselves with my new boss.”

I
arch an eyebrow at “boss.”

“Business
partner,” he corrects himself. “Please say you’ll come. It means a lot to
them.”

I
doubt that.

Hugo’s
mom and dad have always been kind to me, but I really don’t think my presence
at their anniversary would mean a lot to
them
. My dear boy, we both know
whose
idea this invitation is and
who
won’t take no for an
answer.

Oh
well, I do owe Claire and Charles a visit, so if I’m to travel south it may as
well be next weekend. I’ll spend Friday night and most of Saturday with Claire,
stop by the Bonnets’ party to wish them thirty more happy years, and then go
over to Marseille on Sunday to visit Charles.

“OK,”
I say. “Please tell Yvette and Hervé I’ll be there.”

We
step through the French window and sit down on the cushions, tailor style. I
pick up a green macaron from the box. It could be pistachio or green tea, and I
love both flavors, so it’s a smart choice. As I bite into it, the delicate
cookie crumbles and melts in my mouth, coating my taste buds in its heavenly
essence.

Pistachio.

Yum
.

Hugo
sips his coffee, his gaze traveling across the roofs around us. The view is
particularly impressive this time of day when slanting sunrays permeate nearly every
roofing material, deepening its color. Only steel sheets bounce the rays in
dazzling bouquets of light.

I’m
suddenly filled with a ridiculous sense of pride as if Hugo were admiring a
canvas I’d painted. Which reminds me that I should show him Diane’s photographs
of these roofs. They’re not just beautiful—they’re poetic.

He’ll
love them.

I
point to the roofscape. “The advantage of living in an ugly modern high-rise in
Paris is that you can enjoy this view.”

He
nods and points to my plants. “So this is your secret garden?”

“You
could say that, yes.” I pick up a vanilla macaron recognizable by its telltale
black dots. “I come here to read or just do nothing. It’s my happy place.”

“I
envy you a little,” he says. “I’ve never learned to feel happy on my own.”

Oh
you would, buddy, if that meant saving lives!

“Where
there’s will, there’s a way.” I say in a preachifying tone, patting his upper
arm. “Your happiness is in your hands.”

“Right.”
He attempts to stifle a smile, but his lips won’t cooperate. They never do when
something cracks him up. “Now that you mention the hands, I realize I
am
capable of solo happiness when I apply them to my…”

He
looks down at his fly.

“Oh,
please!” I roll my eyes, suppressing the laugh that ripples in my chest.

“I’m
sorry.” He schools his features into a serious expression. “Tell me about the
roofs. Those two are zinc, right?”

I
nod. “As are most Paris roofs, thanks to Napoleon’s architects. They were far
from stupid, by the way. Zinc is cheap, resistant, waterproof, and easy to fold
and cut.”

“I
know.” He gives me a wink. “I’ve tried.”

I
point to a steep roof with dormer windows. “This one is slate. Beautiful, don’t
you think?”

He
studies the slate roof for a moment. “A friend of mine lives in an attic
apartment like that one. I avoid hanging at his place in summer.”

“He
should hire us to redo his ceiling insulation.”

“I’ve
told him the same thing.” He shrugs. “But his landlord has other priorities.”

“Landlords!”
I sigh. “Anyway, slate is my favorite roofing material. In case you were
wondering.”

“Note
taken.” He picks up a chocolate macaron. “Mine is red tile, like on that
crooked house to the right.” He beams, pointing his chin to the house. “In case
you were wondering.”

For
a moment, I just drink in that toothy, disarming smile of his and then watch
him eat his macaron, his eyes shut with pleasure.

When
he opens them and looks at me, I wake up from my trance, remembering that we’re
having a conversation and it’s my turn to say something.

Right
.

“It’s
the oldest building in this neighborhood,” I say. “A survivor of Haussmann’s
ambition.”

“And
the green roof behind it?”

“Copper.”

He
nods. “I thought so.”

I
reach for another macaron, but Hugo catches my hand in his.

Stay
calm, Chloe.

Slowly,
I lift my eyes and give him a questioning look.

“I’m
going to deliver my apology now,” he says. “So I need some moral support.”

Cheeky
bastard.

I
consider withdrawing my hand, but then I change my mind. There’s no harm in
letting him hold it for a few moments. I’m just being friendly here. The exquisite
pleasure of his touch has nothing to do with it, obviously.

Hugo
focuses on the macarons as if counting them.

“So?”
I ask after a long moment. “Let’s hear it.”

He
lifts his eyes from the box. “I’m sorry for not calling your bluff.”

I
blink. “Huh?”

“That
night in the basement, remember how you said you didn’t want me?”

I
nod.

“It’s
bullshit, Chloe.” His gaze drills into mine, defiant. “I don’t believe you.”

I’m
too dumbfounded to speak.

His
lips curl. “Your bluff may have worked when we were sixteen, but not at
twenty-five.”

“What
the—”

“Chloe.”
He sounds like a parent reasoning with a child. “I’m not a highbrow, but I’m
not a half-wit either. And even if I were, I still would’ve ended up noticing
how you check me out every time you think I’m not looking. And how you touch my
arm all the time. It’s been going on for a year.”

“I…
You…” My mouth opens and shuts unproductively as I rack my brain for a good
riposte.

He
grins. “You want me,
pichune
. You want me really bad, and you know it.”

Incendiary,
sarcastic words finally roll out of my brain—only to get stuck in my
mouth, crowding and jostling one another. My lips just won’t open up to let
them out.

He
gives my hand a squeeze. “And now you know that I know it, too.”

I
let out a deep sigh—and give up. I should have objected earlier, cut him
off midsentence or stormed out instead of just staring at him like an idiot.
Blanket denial at this point it would be an insult to his intelligence. It
might put an end to our friendship. And to his presence in my life.

I
look down, completely at a loss for words.

“Will
you tell me what the
real
reason is?” he asks softly. “For old times’
sake, can you be honest and tell me why you’re denying us something we both
want?”

Should
I?

Can
I tell him what I haven’t told anyone? Should I share my deepest, darkest
secret? I can only imagine the relief unburdening myself would bring.

I
crave that relief.

Oh,
what the hell.

And
just like that, I tell him about my Midas touch—all of it, in every
painful detail. All those tragedies because of me. All those good people
punished for getting closer to me than was safe for them, and for caring more
than I deserved.

As
I speak, I try to keep my tone neutral as if I was recounting a movie and not
pulling out a disjointed skeleton from my closet and reassembling it bone by
bone.

Hugo
says nothing, just stares at me with his brows bunched up.

When
there’s nothing more to say, I stop and stare back.

He
smiles.

Does
he think it’s funny?

Oh,
crap.
Telling
him was such a mistake!

I
lift my chin. “You think I’m crazy?”

“Of
course not.” He sounds sincere.

“Then
why are you smiling?”

“Relief.”
He eyes me for a moment, greedy. “I’m just immensely relieved it’s not what I
expected.”

“What
did you expect?”

He
shrugs. “The classic scenario. You’re seeing someone, he’s married, so it’s
hush-hush, but you love him, and he’ll get a divorce… one day. That sort of
thing.”

“Oh.”

“So,
yeah, I’m relieved. And no, I don’t think you’re crazy,
pichune
.” He
touches my cheek. “With all the shit you’ve been through, I can totally see how
you’d think you’re cursed.”

I
narrow my eyes. “But?”

It’s
tempting to lean my head into his palm, but I pull back instead.

He
shifts slightly. “There’s no
but
.”

“Your
eyes are screaming there’s a
but
.”

He
hesitates.

Oh,
come on, for heaven’s sake!

I
could tell him I already know what his
but
is about.
He doesn’t
believe in curses.
Because what sensible person would, right?

Hugo
takes a deep breath. “OK, here’s the
but
. You’re too cocksure to believe
I’ll fall in love with you as soon as we have sex.”

My
mouth falls open.

He
laughs.

As
always, his laughter is too contagious not to smile back. “You won’t?”

He
shakes his head. “Nope.”

“You
sure?”

He
bends his head in a slow, confident nod and begins to stroke my hand that he
never let go of. My brain launches into the now familiar liquefying process.
Hugo’s thumb joins in the sweet torture, drawing delicious little circles on
the heel of my palm.

So
good.

It
gets even better when he slides his thumb to my wrist, rubbing softly.

I
want to say,
OK, let’s do it—if you’re sure you’ll be safe.

But
what if he’s wrong? What if he does fall in love?

I
yank my hand from his grip and stand up. “I need a moment to think.”