Kissed in Paris (37 page)

I stood with my lips parted, unable to speak, unable to move. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. Not even Paul.

“So just answer the question,” he said. “Do you love him?’

I wanted to tell him that yes, I loved my fiancé. And that kissing Julien earlier tonight and letting myself get carried away again just now was all just a big mistake. A fling we would both forget about as soon as I stepped foot on the train the next morning and left France for good.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“I’m going home tomorrow. I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” he said.

“What? You want me to cancel my wedding? To break up with the man I’ve been with for eight years for someone I’ve only known for a couple of days? For someone who has spent the majority of his life lying and stealing from people to make a living?” I regretted the words as soon as they’d left my lips. Julien wasn’t that person anymore, and I knew that. But it didn’t matter. I was engaged, and I was going home. I couldn’t consider whatever it was Julien wanted to me do.

I forced myself to keep the coldness in my eyes, even though inside I was crumbling.

“I love Paul,” I said, my voice shaking. “And I’m marrying him this weekend.”

Julien flinched, his eyes searching mine.

But when I held firm and didn’t take back what I’d just said, Julien’s brown gaze turned bitter, the corners of his mouth falling.

“Fine,” he said. He turned his back to me, leaving me alone amongst the vines, my hands trembling, blood coursing through my veins.

And as I watched his broad shoulders disappear from under the moonlight, I realized that Julien was right.

I did have a choice.

I just hoped I was making the right one.

Twenty-two

I woke alone in Julien’s bed the next morning. I’d lain awake for what felt like hours the night before, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the things Julien had said to me, about my mother, about Paul. Hoping that when I arrived home, I would forget about everything that had happened at the vineyard, be able to salvage my engagement, and move on with the life I’d always planned for.

But as I climbed out of bed, my head throbbing from all the wine—and from all the drama—the day before, my stomach dropped as soon as I noticed that Julien’s side of the bed still hadn’t been touched.

I headed toward the shower, determined to wash off Julien’s intoxicating scent, which still lingered on my skin, a reminder of his touch . . . and of how I’d enjoyed it. And as I stood underneath the stream of steaming hot water, I closed my eyes and told myself that I was making the right choice. That Paul was the man I loved. That marrying him and keeping my life plan intact was the right thing to do. I just had to get through one last car ride with Julien, and then I would be free of everything that had happened over the past few days.

And relief would surely come after I said goodbye to Julien for good.

After toweling off, changing into the clothes Julien had bought for me, and using his thin black comb to work through my long, wavy hair, I opened the bathroom door to find Julien sitting shirtless on his bed, slamming his cell phone shut and mumbling furiously under his breath.

When we met eyes, he clamped his mouth shut, a heavy silence settling between us in the small bedroom. The passionate spark in his eyes had disappeared. All that remained was anger.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, immediately realizing what a stupid question that was. Of course things weren’t okay. He probably wished I would walk the thirty miles to the train station so he didn’t have to look at me for another second.

He stood and threw the phone onto the desk so hard I was surprised it didn’t break. “Yes, everything is fine.”

In silence, I packed up the shopping bag of items I’d collected over the past few days—new clothes, lingerie, letters and the photograph of my mother. But when Julien slammed his closet door shut and muttered something under his breath, I stopped. “What’s going on? Did something just happen?”

“It is nothing.” He threw a dark gray T-shirt over his head and grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the desk.

“Well it’s obviously something. What’s going on?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about. Just get ready so we can leave for the train station.” His voice was so cold and hard, I almost didn’t recognize it.

“Does it have to do with me leaving today? With the passport or anything?”

“No,” he snapped, his eyes full of rage. “Your passport is fine. Everything for you is fine. Guillaume called. Claude’s been arrested.”

My initial urge was to jump up and down—that heartless thief was finally going to get what he deserved. But when Julien’s jaw tightened and I noticed the way his eyes weren’t
only
filled with anger, but also with worry and sadness, I remembered the painting.

I sat down on the bed, letting the clothes fall into a heap at my feet. If I hadn’t called the police with Claude’s license plate number, this wouldn’t have happened. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“Don’t apologize,” he snapped, pacing back and forth in front of the window, wringing his hands together. “You have nothing to do with this.”

“Did Guillaume say anything about the painting? Are they looking for it?”

He stopped pacing and glared at me. “Like I said, you have nothing to do with this anymore. It is my problem to deal with. I will be waiting outside whenever you are ready.”

Julien’s harsh tone made me flinch. And as I sat alone on his bed, watching him storm out of the bedroom, my heart sank. If Julien didn’t find that painting, his family was going to be ruined. And I’d always know
I
played a part in that.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I’d hurt Julien. While three days ago, his feelings wouldn’t have mattered to me in the least, now, after everything we’d been through together, and especially after yesterday, I did care. I cared more than I wanted to admit to myself, or to him.

But there was nothing I could do anymore. He was right—it wasn’t any of my business. I’d chosen Paul, so what right did I have to probe into his family’s problems? I’d done enough damage.

I finished packing up my bag, then walked outside where Julien was sitting on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette.

“I’m ready,” I said, wishing he wouldn’t turn around. Wishing I didn’t have to face him again.

He smashed his cigarette into an ashtray and stood without saying a word.

The only sounds accompanying our awkward walk to the car were the crunching of our shoes on the gravel, the birds singing their merry little tune, and the whooshing of the leaves overhead as the wind picked up.

With my hand on the car door, I took one last look at the vineyard. But before I allowed myself to feel all of the mixed emotions that threatened to engulf me as I left this gorgeous place, this place my own mother had loved, this place where I had officially cheated on my fiancé, I squeezed my eyes closed and reminded myself that it didn’t matter what I was feeling or what had happened here because it was time to go home and face the music. And things would feel right again when I arrived in DC and worked things out with Paul. I knew they would.

My stomach tightened as I climbed into the car with Julien, and as he started up the engine without looking at me, without saying a word, I rolled down the window and turned my head completely away from him. I didn’t want to think about the way it made me feel to be sitting so close to him, not talking, not bickering, not seeing his dimple press into his scruffy cheek each time he smiled.

When I thought about the fact that this silent, uncomfortable car ride would be the last time I would ever see Julien, the last chance I’d ever have to speak to him, a knot the size of a golf ball formed in my throat. I didn’t want to end it like this. But there was nothing left to say.

A half an hour later, Julien swerved the car into a parking spot on a crowded street in Lyon. He pointed out the window. “There is the station. You are okay to go in on your own?”

I nodded, feeling my heart sink. “Thank you for finding a way to get me home.” I searched his brown eyes for the warmth I’d found in them the night before.

But that warmth, that spark, that passion—it had all disappeared.

I rested my hand on the door handle and told myself to just get up and walk away. It was time to go home. Julien was finished with me, and rightfully so. I’d rejected him. And he had more important problems to deal with.

Plus he’d lied to me. Claude hadn’t
infiltrated the police. And Julien wasn’t a government agent. He was an ex-con. A man who
used
to be exactly like Claude.

It was time for me to go home to my stable, anti-drama fiancé.

So I tore my eyes from Julien’s, opened the door and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, wishing I didn’t feel like my heart was tearing in half. Because, after all,
I
was the one who was choosing to leave.

I stood at the car door, motionless, my feet like lead on concrete. “Goodbye, Julien,” I said softly.

“Bye, Chloe,” he said, the tone of his voice just gentle enough to make me want to tell him how much I knew I was going to miss him.

But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t say anything.

Instead, I closed the car door, turned around and walked away from him, trying to convince myself that once I got home, once I saw Paul, I would know I’d made the right decision.

***

Later, as the train pulled away from the station, I watched a couple on the platform kissing each other goodbye until they became just specks through the window. Just like one of Julien’s paintings.

When they finally disappeared from my sight, my stomach turned and my heart ached. I wanted to run to the front of the train and tell them to stop and go back.

As much as I knew I should want to go home right now, I couldn’t deny the overwhelming feeling in my gut telling me that I didn’t want to leave Julien. I didn’t want my time in France to be over.

But whatever had begun with Julien back at the vineyard was over now.

And as the train rumbled down the tracks, speeding away from Julien so rapidly, so abruptly that I could hardly breathe, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the next big thing—going home.

My breath failed me at the thought of seeing Paul, of trying to work things out with him after everything that had happened . . . after I’d let myself have feelings for and even
kiss
another man. Oh, God, just remembering Julien’s lips, his hands, his . . . Okay, I had to stop.

Focus, Chloe. Focus.

I needed a game-plan. I needed to figure things out
before
my plane landed in DC, otherwise the chaos would surely spiral and end in complete disaster.

The problem was, I was so utterly confused—about Paul, about Julien, about my mother, about
everything
—that I didn’t even know where to start.

So, I just didn’t. I didn’t start. Instead I spent the entire two hour train ride staring out the window, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, its rays beaming down on the lush, rolling French countryside. I didn’t think about the fact that I didn’t like where this train was taking me, that I felt sick at the thought of facing Paul, that I felt more worried about how Julien would get the painting back than how I was planning on handling things when I got home.

Instead I forced myself to think of nothing. Because I knew that in twelve hours, when Paul put the events of the past four days under a microscope and dissected them to the point of exhaustion—the way he always did with his cases at the firm—the peace and the calm that I’d found at Julien’s vineyard, and in this French countryside just beyond my window, would be lost.