Kissed in Paris (35 page)

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing. I mean, just that . . . nothing,” I bumbled, my eyes avoiding his gaze, my heart plummeting to a place I didn’t want it to go.

He laughed, then gave me a smile that melted my insides, right down to the core. “You know, I am going to miss you when you leave tomorrow.”

Heat slithered through my body as he tightened his arms around my waist, pulling me in until our noses touched.

I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t move. I just swayed back and forth in his arms, his penetrating brown eyes burning right through me, our lips so close I could’ve fainted.

Julien cupped my chin in his palm, then lifted my face to meet his.

And before I had a chance to reason or to rationalize, Julien’s soft, full lips were on mine.

I closed my eyes as I leaned into his kiss, the stubble on his face brushing against my skin, his breath hot and heavy, his hands now gripping my waist. And just when I expected him to pull away and to whisper in my ear that this was all for show, that he didn’t really mean it, his lips pressed harder, more forcefully into mine. His hands trailed up from my waist to my shoulders, and finally he laced them around the back of my neck as he pushed his firm body into my pulsating chest, making me throb, making me ache in places I hadn’t felt in years . . . or maybe ever.

Our lips parted, but he kept his hands intertwined around my neck, our noses still touching, his gaze buried in mine.

“Are you still thinking?” Julien whispered.

I shook my head, unable to speak.

But I
was
thinking. I was thinking about how that had been the most electrifying kiss I’d ever had. And that when I flew home the next day to commit to a lifetime with Paul, I would never experience anything like this ever again.

But to be more specific, that I would never experience any
one
like Julien again. Because for all of the reasons I’d loved Paul, he was Julien’s polar opposite.

Julien opened his mouth to say something but I lifted my fingers to his lips. “Shhh.” I pressed my cheek into his, our bodies still moving in synch as a slow song now filled our ears. I didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Because whatever it was, I knew I couldn’t handle it right now.

We danced in silence amidst the company of Julien’s family, the swirly pink sky fading to a deep night blue, clusters of twinkling stars surrounding the boasting full moon overhead. And there it was again—the lavender and the rosemary.

I wondered if my mom was here, with me, right at that moment. And if she was, would she tell me to fly home the next day and marry Paul?

Or would she tell me to trust this overwhelming feeling in my gut that I didn’t quite understand yet, and stay here, in Julien’s arms, for as long as I could.

Twenty-one

The dance had ended, Julien’s family members had left, and the wind had picked up, bringing with it a chill that snapped me back to reality.

What had I just done? I was
engaged
. I’d been with Paul for eight years, and before I arrived in France three days ago, I’d never so much as flirted with another guy. Now here I was, dancing with this ex-con and kissing him.
Kissing him!
And in front of his entire family no less.

Engaged or not though, I couldn’t deny the fact that I felt something brewing inside of me. Something I’d never felt before, not in all my years with Paul, or ever. Something that I hoped I could ignore when I flew home the next day and attempted to salvage my future marriage.

But as I walked into the kitchen and watched the way Julien’s broad shoulders flexed as he picked up a gigantic pot and scrubbed it clean, then felt my insides melting when he flipped around and looked at me with that heavy, lust-filled daze still swimming around in his massive brown eyes, I knew
he
wasn’t going to be easy to forget.

“Can I help?” I offered.

“Camille and I will take care of everything. Go relax.”

“Are you sure?”

Julien shooed me toward the doorway, resting his hand on my lower back and sending tingles up my spine. “Go,” he said. “Relax.”

Just as I was turning around to leave, trying to calm my nerves and act normal after everything that had just happened, I caught Camille glaring at me. She didn’t say a word, but instead narrowed her eyes, then swiveled around and began scrubbing a platter so furiously I thought it would break in half.

I shuddered. Camille knew the truth. She knew I was engaged. She knew Julien and I weren’t really together and that we’d just lied to her entire family. And she clearly wasn’t happy about it. I couldn’t blame her. If someone did this to my family, I’d be furious too.

She
didn’t
know that I’d called the police and given them Claude’s license plate number,
or
that Julien had used his last favor from Guillaume on me. And as I walked out of the kitchen and headed toward the stairs, I realized Julien had been right about not telling Camille or his mother about my run-in with the law today. No need to complicate the already insane situation any further.

Just as I was half-way up the creaky staircase, Julien’s mother called my name. “Chloe, is that you?”

I turned back around and found her resting on the couch in the living room, sipping a glass of water and looking through a dusty photo album.

“Come sit with me,” she instructed, patting the cushion next to her.

She had such a kind air about her with those warm brown eyes and that sweet, light voice that I couldn’t help but feel a massive pang of guilt for lying to her. I reminded myself that I would be gone the next day, and that Julien would handle everything with his family. It wasn’t my job.

But still, I’d lied to her. And just because I’d spent the past three days lying didn’t make me any happier to be doing it.

She smiled gently as I sat down beside her. “Since I first saw you last night, I thought to myself, there is something about this girl. Something familiar. I could not figure it out, but I knew it right here.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Do you ever get this feeling?”

I nodded and smiled, having no clue where she was going with this.

“So, I thought about it all day. Even at the hospital, I was thinking about this, about you. Wondering why I feel as though I have seen you before. But when I watched you dancing with Julien tonight, it came to me. Here, look.” She tapped her finger on one of the photographs in the album that rested on her lap.

I leaned forward, wondering what Julien’s mother was getting at. But my breath refused to exhale when I saw
her
.

Her green eyes danced for the camera. Her long, wavy, auburn hair blew in the breeze, the rolling hills of the vineyard just beyond her. She smiled blissfully, looking young and happy, as if life was hers to capture. As if nothing could stop her.

She was my mother, just as I remembered her when I was a little girl.

And when I noticed the woman standing next to my mom in the photograph—her short frame, wispy dark hair, big brown eyes and a sweet grin on her face—I realized it was Julien’s mother.

“The woman in the photograph is your mother, no?” Julien’s mom asked, breaking me from my trance.

I lifted my eyes to hers, my breath still on hold, my heart speeding up. “Yes, that’s my mom.”

And then it all came flooding back to me. My mom’s conversation with me right before she’d died giving birth to my youngest sister. Her trip to France. The woman she’d met, who she’d named my baby sister after.

“Is your name Magali?” I asked, still not able to wrap my head around the fact that my mother was standing in an old photograph with Julien’s mother, at this very vineyard. That
this
could be the Magali she’d spoken of that day by the Potomac River, when she’d held my hand and told me that
sometimes a girl just needs to spread her wings
.

Julien’s mother nodded. “Yes, I am Magali. Did she tell you about me?”

“Yes, she did. And she named my baby sister after you. Before she . . .”

Julien’s mom covered my hand with hers. “I know,
chérie
. I know about your mother’s passing.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a couple of salty tears spring to my eyes. I glanced back down at the photograph. “I can’t believe this is her. I can’t believe she was
here
, at this vineyard, with you. That
you
are the Magali she told me about.”

Julien’s mother removed the photograph from the album and handed it to me. “This is for you.”

“Thank you,” I said as one of the tears rolled down my cheek. I continued staring at the photograph in disbelief, overwhelmed at the sight of my beautiful mother so long ago, at
Julien’s home
.

“Your mother was one of the kindest, sweetest women I have ever met. We had an instant, how do you say? Connection? Yes, a connection. We became friends the minute she visited the vineyard. And she loved it here, you know. She said this vineyard was one of the most beautiful places she had ever been. She loved the wine too . . . yes, if I remember correctly, we drank a lot of wine during her stay here.” She chuckled to herself.

“My mom stayed here, in this house?”

“Yes, at this time, Julien’s father and I used to take guests. Your mother was the last person to stay with us before I had Julien.”

I looked back down to the photo in my hand, and I hadn’t noticed it before, but there it was. A tiny bump protruding from Magali’s stomach. “You were pregnant with Julien when this photo was taken?”

“Yes.” She patted her stomach. “It is hard to believe it has been over thirty-four years since this day at the vineyard. Your mother and I, we wrote letters to each other after she left France. I heard about her marriage to your father, and all about you.” Her eyes lit up then as if she’d remembered something else. “You know, I still have them. The letters.”

“Really?” My hands shook at the thought of touching a letter my mom had written so long ago.

“Yes, I had forgotten about them. About our letters. It has been so many years. But I think I know exactly where they are. Come, I will show you.”

I followed Julien’s mother back into a small office where she opened up a rickety filing cabinet and pulled out an old shoebox. She sifted through it for a few moments, when finally she produced an old, folded piece of paper and smiled.

“
Voilà.
” She handed the letter over to me. “There are more in here, I know it.” As she kept digging through the box, I took a deep breath and gazed down at the letter.

My mother’s loopy handwriting popped right off the page, just as it always had, making me remember her soft, pale hands and her warm, bubbly personality.

Dear Magali,

Ça va? Okay, I know I’m terrible, but that is still the extent of my French. I’m so glad you speak English, otherwise our beautiful friendship wouldn’t be the same. I’m writing to tell you that just three weeks ago, I gave birth to my precious Chloe. I never knew I could love anyone so much until I set eyes on her. She is an angel, Magali. I hope you get to meet her someday. You were right, being a mother is the greatest gift I could ever imagine.

I hope your little Julien is doing well, and I look forward to the day when I can bring my baby girl to your magical vineyard, my favorite place in all the world, and she and Julien can play together (while we enjoy a bottle of your amazing wine, of course!).

Bisous to you and Jacques, and à bientôt,