Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (5 page)

The tenth arrondissement,
Enclos-St-Laurent, was, my estate agent assured me, an up-and-coming
neighborhood. Having lived there just shy of six weeks, I was slowly becoming
enamored. Plenty of shops on Rue de Paradis and interesting towpaths to wander
along the Quais de Valmy and Canal St-Martin provided abundant distraction.

It was along Canal St-Martin that I slowly made my way home.
From time to time, I stopped to gaze in shop windows and let myself be
distracted by people swirling about me. The great thing about meandering: it
gave a girl time to ponder thoughts that needed to be thunk. Mikkel had been on
my mind a lot lately.
Guilt
. I hadn’t registered the anniversary of his
death for the first time in seven years. Instead, I had been on a beach in
Bali. As I walked along, the Frenchman from the restaurant who, upon closer
reflection, looked nothing like Keanu Reeves, popped into my head, causing me
to feel worse. He had left me tongue-tied.

Usually soothed by the visual rhythm of trees, streetlights,
and benches alongside the canal or the open-topped canal boats, festive with
twinkly lights, I felt the need to go somewhere populated, somewhere I could be
distracted. I had stopped in Le Delly a time or two with friends, and the
bartenders were friendly.
Can I go there alone?
I’d never done it
before, but I wanted the company of strangers.

I soon found myself sitting on a red barstool, snugged
between the wall and the bar. The guy next to me was busily chatting up a
woman, so I was safe. I ordered a Stinger and received a funny look from the
bartender. I looked up the recipe on my phone and gave him the proportions of
Cognac, Campari, and maple syrup. The conversation around me was happy and
distracting. I eavesdropped on the conversation beside me, and it was clear the
guy was pulling out all his best lines. The object of his desire was slowly
leaning into him, batting her eyelashes. By the time I had consumed a couple of
drinks, he had successfully slid his stool much closer to hers. I found myself
grinning idiotically at their happiness.

“May I buy you another?”

A finger pointed at my empty glass.
Christ, when had I
finished it?
I raised my gaze to the finger’s owner.
Keanu
. “Well,
this is odd.”
Smooth opening line!
I was about to decline when he raised
two fingers to the barkeeper
.

“It is. For many reasons.”

“So what brings you here?” I flinched at the utter triteness
of my question.

He grinned in response. “I’m new to the neighborhood. I
heard this was a good place, so…”

“This is gonna sound strange, but I just moved here, too.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really. Otherwise, one of us is stalking the other, and I’m
not stalking you. Are you stalking me?”

The drinks arrived, interrupting him before he answered me.

“May I?” The couple beside me had disappeared, leaving their
barstools free.

“Sure.”

I really didn’t want or need another drink, but it felt rude
not to accept it. I took a small sip, but when I tried to put it on the coaster
resting on the bar, it proved challenging. A clear sign I was getting drunk or was
drunk already. “What do you think?” I waved my arm around the room,
accidentally hitting the shoulder of the man sitting at the table near me.
“Sorry,” I apologized.

“American?”

“What?” I searched the room, looking for what he was talking
about.

“You’re American.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You spoke in English.”

Embarrassed by my unnecessary search, I blushed while I said,
“That would do it!”

When he eyed me from the top of my head to the tips of my
shoes, I laughed nervously. I hadn’t been so blatantly checked out in a long
time. The alcohol helped me keep eye contact. I liked his dark brown eyes,
which crinkled in the corners. I was instantly convinced he smiled often.

“My friend thought you look like Keanu Reeves
.”
Drunk!

“I am sorry to disappoint you. I am
Sébastien
Langevin, not the American actor. But I am flattered.”

Taking in not only his good looks
but also his very expensive suit, I appreciated that, while he looked
sophisticated, he easily fit this casual world. I heard him ask if I was
disappointed he wasn’t either as I stared at him. “No. Not disappointed at
all.” I drank a healthy gulp and tried to hide a burp behind my hand, but he
noticed and grinned at me.

“Mademoiselle, you know my name,
but I don’t know yours.”

“Kathleen Ehlers.”

“
Enchanté
.”

“So, Monsieur Langevin… I believe
I am drunk.”

“It would seem so.”

“I need the toilet.”

He stood up suddenly, gallantly
helping me get there. It occurred to me that he thought I was going to get
sick. I reassured him that wasn’t the case and that he and his nice suit were
safe. He thanked me for my candor, which made me immediately regret my honesty.
“Sorry.”

He pushed the door open for me and
gently nudged me in. “I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

“You will?”

***

The lapel
of his cashmere coat felt so soft under my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

He stroked my hair back from my
face. “Mademoiselle, do not apologize. At least you didn’t get sick.”

I smiled at his effort to make me
feel better. On the walk to my apartment, I had told him about Mikkel and my
feelings of guilt. I knew I should move away from him and go inside, but my
head was spinning, and I was embarrassed at having barfed my emotional baggage
all over his designer shoes.

“Remember, a shot of olive oil,
two aspirin, and two large glasses of water.”

“Sounds like an awful cocktail.”

He chuckled at my juvenile attempt
at humor. The vibration through his coat sounded nice.

“All right. I’ll let go. The world
has stopped spinning.” I took a step back. “Thanks for making sure I got home
safely… and for listening. I hope I wasn’t too obnoxious.”

He tucked some loose hair behind
my ear. “Not at all, Kathleen. I hope to see you again.”

Knowing when to take an exit, I
pushed open the door to my building and waved. “It’s a small neighborhood. I
hope so, too.”

WHEN I MANAGED
to peel my
eyes open, I prayed my head would explode, nullifying the agony that ricocheted
from eyeballs to toenails.
Christ! How much did I have to drink?
Keeping
my eyes squinted against the piercing rays of sunlight, I searched my
nightstand and found the clock. 1:30.

What the hell?
A bottle of olive oil was there, too, beside a large glass
of water. The time it took for my eyes to shift between the oil and water was
the amount of time it took for me to remember sharing my secrets with
Sébastien.
Oh my god!
I’d never told anyone.
Why?

I was lost in thought, trying to
answer “why,” when the doorbell rang.
Now what?
I threw back the goose
down duvet, and cold air hit my skin. When the buzzer rang again, I’d managed
to plant my feet on the floor and survived. When the buzzer rang again, I had
made it upright. “All right, all right, I’m coming,” I called to the unknown
person three stories below. “Yes?” I groused, after finally finding the
intercom button.

“It’s Sébastien.”

I slumped away from the intercom,
letting go of the button. “What the hell is he doing here?” Pushing the button,
I sought an answer. “Yes?”

A deep chuckle rang throughout my
apartment. “You don’t remember asking me to come over, do you?”

My parched mouth, my gritty eyes,
and my rollicking stomach were taking up too much of my attention for me to
search my memory. “
S
orry. No. Come on up. I’ll leave the door open.
Third floor. Enter at your own risk!”

I released the button and set
about shuffling down the hallway to the bathroom. Halfway there, I realized I
had forgotten to open the door. I shuffled back and pushed open the oversized
front door. It, too, was in desperate need of refinishing. I made my way to the
bedroom to grab my robe and crack open the window.

In the bathroom, while
simultaneously scrubbing my teeth and gagging, I heard his deep voice call out,
“Kathleen?”

“In the bathroom, I’ll be out in a
minute. Sorry I’m late.”
Late for what?
I ran through as much as I could
remember from the night before while I splashed cold water on my face—trying to
revive myself—and brushed my hair, before throwing on my robe. I didn’t
normally greet men like this, but whatever.

Timidly, I opened the door and
walked around the corner to find him leaning against the window frame, looking
out to the street below. Seeing my apartment through someone else’s eyes, in
this state, was uncomfortable. Fortunately, dealing with my hangover distracted
me from that. I cleared my throat to let him know I was there. Turning around,
he threw a sympathetic look my way. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful. Thank you for helping me
get home last night.”

He walked toward me slowly. “My
first chance at rescuing a damsel in distress in quite some time.” He took my
hands and inspected me closely. “Have you had any water?”

I went to shake my head, but that set
me off balance, and I found myself grateful he was there to keep me upright. He
looked around my chaotic apartment and searched for a place for me to sit.

I pointed to an odd-shaped heap
under a paint-splattered drop cloth. “Dining room chairs.” He unearthed one and
set me on it before going to get me water. It was only after I had drained two
glasses that he relented.

“I don’t mean to sound rude,
especially given how kind you’ve been to me in the last twenty-four hours, but
why are you here?”

“You asked me to help sort out
your apartment.” When my mouth shot open to apologize, he waved me off. “Don’t
worry, I was fairly convinced you wouldn’t remember, but since I didn’t have
your phone number, I didn’t want to risk not showing up, in case you did remember.”

I nodded. “Thanks. Sorry! I’m
generally not this much of a mess.” I pressed my palm to my forehead, willing
the pounding to disappear.

“You need some time to recover.
I’ll go and come back to help later,” he offered.

Shaking my head, I looked up at him
and, amidst the nausea, found myself realizing he was so much more handsome
than I remembered. His dark brown hair was brushed back off his forehead,
gentle waves threatening to flop forward at any moment. Every inch of his face,
from his smooth, broad forehead to his square jawline, begged to be kissed. I
found myself wondering what it would feel like to trail my fingertips over the
planes of his face, the thick line of eyelashes, his dense stubble. I was so
lost in staring at him that it took him clearing his throat for me to realize
what I was doing. I felt myself blush, and heat began rolling off my body.
“Sorry!” I eeked. In my embarrassment, I struggled to my feet. I needed
reprieve. And to get dressed.

He spoke to my retreating back. “I
could go and get something to eat and bring it back.”

Though my stomach revolted, I knew
food would help. I thanked him. “That would be nice. Anything would be fine.”

***

When he
returned with a bag and two coffees, I was dressed and feeling a little better.
“Where did you get these?” He pulled a delectable assortment of pastries out of
the bag. All the
boulangerie’s
I knew were closed on Sunday.

“I bought them yesterday, from Du
Pain et Des Idées, a boulangerie not too far from here. Have you been?” I shook
my head while eyeing a raspberry-filled mouna.

With coffee and pastries in hand,
we dragged chairs in front of the living room windows. At first, I felt
awkward, but he seemed relaxed, so I perched my feet on the windowsill, letting
the late summer sun wrap me up in its warm rays. He scooted his chair closer to
mine, so we shared a puddle of sunlight but didn’t say a word. We just sat
eating in companionable silence.

Feeling revived, I looked around
my apartment. “As you can see, there’s a lot to be done. Are you sure you want
to help?”

He surveyed the scaffolding
erected between the kitchen and living room, paint cans of varying color
stacked neatly next to it, the partially removed wallpaper in the hall that led
to the bedrooms, and the piles of drop cloths and tools.

Instead of answering, he asked,
“This is what you do for fun? One too many men stepped on your feet while
dancing?”

“Something like that.” I smiled at
the image. “Would you like a tour? Frankly, most rooms are a mess.”

“I would, and you can tell me your
plans.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem.
My creative well has dried up. I want to try something new. What, though? I
have no idea.”

He followed me as I led the way to
my bedroom, the furthest point from the front door and the most reasonable
place to start. It was unconsciously done, and the moment we stood inside the
intimate domain that smelled of sleep, I wondered what he might be thinking.

The room was the palest lavender.
I hesitatingly explained, “The color reminds me of unopened flower buds in the
lavender fields outside Aix-en-Provence.”

I watched him take in the space. To
me, it was an utterly feminine room—my rumpled bedding, my delicately
embroidered white nightgown and blue bathrobe hanging on a silver hook behind
the door. He looked so masculine standing inside it.

He cleared his throat and walked
to the silver-framed photographs scattered across the top of my chest of
drawers. He squatted down and ran his hand over the surface. “Shells?”

“Yes! I bought it in a shop just a
few streets over. I loved the texture.”

Rising, he picked up a framed
photograph of me and my mother, taken the day I graduated from Oxford. “You
look just like her, except your mouth. Your father’s?”

“I suppose.”

I walked out of the room, hoping
he’d follow, and pushed open the door to the second bedroom. My closet. My
pride and joy. A room carefully organized with racks of clothes, shoes, and
accessories.

He was stunned at first and then
declared, “Every woman’s dream.”

As he peeked in the room, I
thought,
He certainly is
.

When his eyes landed on my
lingering stare, I felt my cheeks flush as I quickly averted my focus.
That’s
twice he’s caught me staring. You’re not twelve, Kathleen.
“I think I can
move furniture around, if you’re still willing.”

“Absolutely. Where else could I
possibly wish to be?”

There was an intensity in his eyes
that caused me to blush a third time. I wouldn’t say that I prided myself on
being aloof, but that is more my normal state of being, so having my feathers
ruffled three times in such a short time was an odd experience for me. He was
definitely affecting my libido, which again was not something normal for me. I
wanted to walk up to him and wrap myself around him, experience the sensation
of molding my body to his. I wanted to walk up to him and kiss him. Instead, I
took a deep breath and led the way to the wreckage that was my living room.

***

While I
swept the floors, he began removing the drop cloths from the furniture. We
created a seating area first. For fun, I threw a paint-splattered drop cloth on
the floor in the middle of the living room, and then we placed a large rustic
wooden coffee table on top of it. On either side, we placed my two white
leather couches with glass cubes for end tables.

Stepping back, we surveyed the
space. He asked, “Where do you find these pieces? Very creative idea. I like
it.”

I admitted my passion for
repurposing furniture. “Well, the cubes came from an old nightclub that was being
gutted in Montmartre. The coffee table I bought when I was in Provence. Someone
was having an estate sale. I like treasure hunting. My couches, I bought those
at France Canapé Marais, with my first paycheck.”

“Eclectic! It is very much you.
Fantastique!
”
He squeezed my shoulder and gave me warm smile.

“I think those blobs over there
are lamps. Would you mind pulling out a few while I try to hide this mess?” I
pointed at a stack of paint cans.

“Of course.”

I began building a buffet area
with some wood planks and saw horses. I tucked the paint cans underneath and
threw another clean drop cloth over the top.

“Are you expecting guests?”

I nodded. “Old friends from
college will be in town next week. A chance to catch up.”

“Perhaps you will invite the hired
help another time?” His interest in returning made my heart flip.

Grinning, I answered,
“Absolutely.”
I began tugging tarps off the dining room table.

He rushed over. “Let me help.”

A lump in my throat suddenly
appeared. I felt emotionally overwhelmed by the fact that I wanted him here,
that I wanted to, carefully, open myself to something beyond work and
relationships. I swallowed hard, pushing the lump down.

Together, we lifted the wrought
iron table base and centered it under the hideously ugly ceiling lamp. He
looked at the circular tabletop I’d built out of refinished floor boards and
raised an eyebrow. “Clever.”

Not really.
But I enjoyed the compliment. When we slid the six chairs
around it, as much as could be done was done.

Three hours had passed, and my
stomach had repeatedly rumbled. “May I buy you dinner?” I asked, breathless
from exertion and his proximity.

He took in our dusty clothes.
“Like this?”

“I can be ready in an hour. How
about you?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be
back at 7:00.”