Honeymoon in Paris (14 page)

And, if I was being honest, I loved the idea of keeping my own space for just a little while longer. Luc’s tiny two-bedroom apartment in Vieux Lyon was charming, but with two adults and an extremely hyper four-year-old, it was beyond cramped. How would I squeeze all of my clothes into that minuscule closet of his?

More important, how would I continue paying the rent on my apartment if I didn’t have a job?

Opening my laptop, I signed into my e-mail and proceeded to refresh it obsessively over the next two hours, hoping for a message from the New York contact I’d emailed the day before: Beth Harding, an editor at
Bella Magazine.
I’d written two articles for her in the past year, and I was praying she’d be able to offer me something more substantial than the occasional article.

I interspersed my ten thousand refreshes with a job search for language teaching positions in Lyon. But, as my e-mail remained empty of new messages and my job search turned up a big, fat nothing, I resorted to a Google search on Brigitte Beaumont and the Boucher family.

Loads of photos and article links filled the page. As I scrolled through them, I discovered what I already knew I would find: more tasteless coverage on my night with the Boucher brothers, on Brigitte and Luc’s supposed “reunion,” and Brigitte and Vincent’s relationship turmoil.

As I clicked on one of the articles, a photo I did
not
expect to find made me understand why the papers thought Luc and Brigitte were back together.

If I’d taken this photo, I would’ve made the same statement.

Luc and Brigitte were sitting outside, having a drink at La Cave des Voyageurs, a wine bar just down the street from our apartment in Vieux Lyon. I immediately recognized the location because that bar had been one of Luc’s favorite places to take me since we’d gotten back together.

Yesterday, Luc had told me that Brigitte had taken the train down to Lyon just that morning to see Adeline. This picture had clearly been taken at night, though. Had Luc lied to me? Could Brigitte have left the film premiere party early on Saturday evening, ditched Vincent, and taken the train down to Lyon late that night to see Luc?

In the photo, Brigitte had her impossibly thin legs crossed toward Luc, one spiky heel resting against his leg, and her dainty hand touching his arm.

Nothing about Brigitte’s demeanor surprised me in the least. It was the same slutty, evil, overly forward performance I’d witnessed when we’d met.

It was the look on Luc’s face that made a giant knot form in my stomach.

He was smiling. Smiling his sweet, loving smile. Dimple and all. Right at Brigitte.

On the last night of
our
honeymoon.

Where was the feverish, sick Adeline while her two divorced parents were out enjoying a lovely evening with wine, flirtation, and laughs?

I pulled out my cell phone and realized I’d put it on silent. There were two missed calls from Luc already.

He’d probably seen the photo and was calling to explain.

I threw the phone back into my purse and decided to let him sweat this one out a little bit. Besides, I was too upset to have a coherent discussion.

I slammed my laptop shut, stormed out of my apartment, and went to the only place that would calm me down at a time like this.

Endless racks of lacy French lingerie welcomed me as I walked into Chez Isabelle.

As I’d learned from the past year living in France, the French were masters of cuisine,
café
,
pâtisseries
, art, charm, romance… and as I’d more recently discovered, they were also incredibly skilled at making the most beautiful pieces of lingerie I’d ever laid eyes upon.

“
Bonjour
,
Charlotte,”
a female voice called out to me as I lost myself in the never-ending rows of silky satin and lace.

It was Isabelle—the owner of this heavenly store. With her wavy, sandy-blond locks that stretched all the way down her back, her vivacious curves—which she
never
hid—and her sparkling sapphire eyes, she was even more gorgeous than the lingerie she sold.

And while I wasn’t here to add to my own collection—especially not after my recent loss of income—the sight of a grinning Isabelle surrounded by beautifully cut nighties and bras somehow gave me a small amount of comfort.

It was the little things in life.

“
Bonjour, Isabelle
,” I said with a smile.

We were on a first-name basis because of the excessive amount of times I’d visited the store since Luc and I had gotten back together over a month ago. And after a few lengthy dressing room chats, Isabelle and I had discovered we had much more in common
than our shared affinity for lingerie. For starters, we’d both been cheated on more times than we could count
and
both of our parents had recently divorced.

“You’ll never guess who called me today,” she said with a click of her tongue. Isabelle’s father was British, so she spoke perfect English in addition to her elegant French.

“Oh, I bet I can,” I said. “Your slimy, cheating ex?”

She lifted a brow. “How’d you know?”

“Cheaters—they’re all the same,” I said with a wave of my hand. “He wants you back?”

She nodded, placing a hand on her hip. “
Begged
me. It was the most pathetic speech I’ve ever heard… and I’ve heard
a lot
of them.”

“I hope you didn’t give him the time of day.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I shut him up real fast when I told him that the sex with my new man is the best I’ve ever had.”

“Are you sure we weren’t sisters separated at birth?” I said. “I did the exact same thing last year to my cheating ex.”

“Feels extraordinary, doesn’t it?” Isabelle said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

I grinned as I lifted a transparent black slip from the rack. “It does. Sometimes a little revenge is necessary.”

“Taking your lunch break to shop?” she asked.

I glanced at the price tag and sighed. “It’s more of a
permanent
lunch break, if you know what I mean.”

“Did something happen with your teaching job?” Isabelle asked, concern sweeping through those big blue eyes.

I filled her in on my jobless status while I proceeded to pile her latest collections over my arm. “I shouldn’t be shopping at a time like this, but it’s not for me. I need to buy a few pieces for my girlfriends. I got them into a bit of a mess this week, and I have to do something to make it up to them. Although, if their boyfriends break up with them, I don’t know how much they’ll be needing new lingerie.”

Isabelle added a saucy violet bra to my rapidly growing pile. “A girl
always
needs new lingerie, regardless of her relationship status.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough few days, my dear. How about forgetting your troubles and playing lingerie model for an hour or two? Most of these pieces just arrived yesterday, so I haven’t had the chance to see them on anyone yet.…” Isabelle paused while her gaze combed the length of my body. “And you’re just the woman to do it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Isabelle grabbed my shoulders, turned me around, and prodded me toward the dressing room.

“I’m not taking no for an answer, Charlotte. I saw the papers yesterday. You are clearly in need of some lingerie therapy. And while you’re trying these on, I want to hear
everything.
”

Fifteen pieces of lingerie and an hour of venting later, Isabelle’s normally twinkling eyes had taken on a curious expression, and she’d gone silent.

Finally, after a few moments, she spoke. “That’s quite the story,” she said softly before turning toward the front of the store. “Would you excuse me? I need to go make a call.”

A whiff of Isabelle’s flowery perfume lingered in the chic dressing room as I thought about the bizarre look on her face. I hadn’t known her
that
long… maybe I’d shared too much. Perhaps Isabelle wasn’t feeling too sympathetic to my outrageous story, considering my voluntary involvement with the Boucher brothers. I slipped off the bra and changed back into my clothes. Even though we’d already confided quite a bit in one another, perhaps airing my dirty laundry hadn’t been the best plan. Plus, she was working—something I needed to be doing.

I plucked up the two pieces I’d chosen for Fiona and Lexi, then headed to the counter, but Isabelle was nowhere to be found. A door at the back of the store was cracked open, and Isabelle’s tense voice filtered out. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, and not
wanting to be nosy, I pulled out my own phone and checked once more to see if I’d received any e-mails from
Bella Magazine.
I really needed a shot at that job.

But instead, I found a text in French from Nicolas.

Saw the papers yesterday. We need to talk. Please call when you can.

Sighing, I deleted the text. I genuinely liked Nicolas, and from the little I’d spoken with him, I could tell he was different from his shady, fame-hungry brother and father. He seemed sincere, and I wished Luc would just talk with him to set things straight and find out what Nicolas had to say about Luc’s father. But after Marcel
and
Luc’s warning to stay out of their family feud, I knew the last thing I should do was return Nicolas’ call.

On the other hand, maybe he could shed some light on what exactly had happened during our night of champagne-induced debauchery at his brother’s house.

Isabelle’s sharp tone was still traveling from the back room, so I figured now was as good a time as any to get the scoop from my new famous actor friend.

Nicolas picked up on the first ring. “Charlotte?”

This time was much easier knowing Nicolas was on the phone, and I wouldn’t have to see him in all his gorgeousness and be reminded of that brazen piano sex scene.

“Hi, Nicolas. I just got your text. What’s up?” I asked in French.

“I understand I am probably the last person you want to speak to after the photos that have been released, but I’ll be in Lyon next week, and I was wondering if we could meet.”

Anxiety knotted up my stomach. Things with Luc were already bad enough. Meeting with Nicolas would only exasperate an already dramatic start to our marriage.

“Is it something we can just talk about over the phone?” I asked.

“No, I have something I need to give you. In person. It’s important, Charlotte. I wouldn’t have gotten in touch otherwise.”

“Okay, but we need to meet somewhere the paparazzi won’t follow you. Having my life mocked by the tabloids isn’t really helping out my blissful honeymoon period.”

He laughed. “Of course. I’ll be at the bar at La Cour des Loges Hôtel in Vieux Lyon next Friday at seven
P.M.
I’ll be sitting in the back, having a drink by myself. I know the owners, so they’ll make sure no one bothers us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you can trust me.”

I wondered how many times Luc had said those words in the past twenty-four hours. I only hoped Nicolas would follow through with his promise.

“Okay, I’ll see you there,” I said.

“
Merci,
Charlotte
. À demain
.”

“See you tomorrow, Nicolas.”

As I hung up, I was startled to find Isabelle standing at the counter, that mischievous gleam back in her eye.

“Hot date with one of the sexy Boucher brothers?” she asked with a raise of her brow.

“Oh, no. Just some unfinished business from this weekend apparently. I’m not really sure what in the hell is going on to be honest.”

“Welcome to the party,” she said with a laugh. “Sorry about running off like that earlier.” Isabelle threw a lock of her shiny blond hair over her shoulder. How did she get her hair to look that perfect every day? Maybe she had a professional stylist hiding in that back room too.

“No worries,” I told her with a smile. “Sorry for venting so much. I didn’t mean to take up your time. I’m sure you have work to do.”

Isabelle waved my apology away with her hand and laughed. “Absolutely not! I wanted to hear all of the juicy details. I just
remembered that my daughter’s ride from school had canceled this morning, and I had to call to rearrange. That’s all.”

“You never mentioned you had a daughter,” I said as Isabelle began ringing up the lingerie.

“I have three of them,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Keeps life interesting, especially since their father has nothing to do with us.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. Like I told you, I do have a special man in my life at the moment, and things are getting quite serious.”

“That’s wonderful. But still, my ridiculous tabloid problems must seem so trivial to you.”

Isabelle wrapped Fiona’s night-blue slip in her signature pink tissue paper. “Not at all. With the loss of your job, a husband who’s keeping secrets, and a crazy ex-wife in the mix, your problems sound anything but trivial.” She tied a thick pink ribbon around Fiona’s gift package, then lifted her gaze to mine. “I want you to know you can always talk to me about anything, Charlotte. It’s been difficult keeping friends with everything I have to do for my daughters, but I really like talking with you.”