Page 20 of Sinful Escape

I’d been coming to this restaurant once a month for two years, and depending on my mood, sometimes I browsed the abundant antiques, sometimes I read my book. Sometimes a little of both. Tonight, I planned on getting lost in my current romance novel.

Pierre stepped from behind the wall that led to the kitchen. A broad smile enhanced his already suave good looks. He was six and a half feet of male charisma and knew exactly how to use it. As he swaggered toward me, he ran his hand through his lush, almost black hair. He had just a touch of salt and pepper at his temples, but it was a wonder he wasn’t completely gray with the flock of ex-wives he had.

He reached for my hand and pressed his soft lips against the back of my palm. “Daisy, you look beautiful tonight.”

He was lying, but it was a little game we played each month. He flirted with me, I pretended to accept his compliments. Then he’d generally leave me alone with my book.

“Same as usual?” Pierre draped a white linen napkin over my bare legs.

“Oui, s'il vous plaît.” Since becoming a European tour guide, I’ve learned a little French, German, and Italian. Not enough to have in-depth conversations, but enough to know the difference between ordering a cocktail and ordering a colonoscopy.

Pierre didn’t need to ask for my order. He always cooked my favorite meal, even though that dish had long ago been removed from the menu. It truly made me feel special. He made me feel special.

He made everyone feel special, though. He’d mentioned that the majority of his patrons were wealthy women with both time and money to spare.

Pierre strolled away, and after a quick glance at his glorious derriere, I turned my attention out the window. My view down Avenue de Saint-Gwendolyn was the epitome of French elegance. Quaint little shops offered everything from apparel to homewares, restaurants were adorned with twinkling lights, and both ornamental street lanterns and professionally pruned trees lined the avenue.

They were everything my childhood homes weren’t . . . enticing.

Château de Vin et d'antiquités had initially attracted my attention because it had no diners. It allowed me to avoid mystified stares from people who clearly couldn’t understand the pleasure of dining alone.

A couple walked arm in arm outside my window and stopped to study the menu posted by the front door. As they explored the limited meal options, I studied them. She was about my age, I guess, he maybe a little older. The way they had their arms around each other convinced me they weren’t new lovers. They looked comfortable in each other’s embrace. No, it was more than that. They were in love.

I snapped my eyes away, plucked my book from my bag, flipped open to the page I’d secured with an Eiffel Tower-shaped bookmark, and turned my nose from the world around me to the bedroom scene about to unfold on the pages before me.

Pierre appeared with a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne. “For you, mademoiselle.”

“Merci beaucoup.” Expensive champagne was one of my vices. Actually, it was my only vice. This one glass cost more than I earned in three hours. But I didn’t care. It was worth every cent. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to spend money on. I didn’t have a mortgage or a car. Work paid for my cell phone and my living-away-from-home costs. During the ten or so days when I was at home, I rarely ate out, and I stocked my fridge with basic necessities. I had a tidy sum in my bank account that surprised me.

Pierre poured my champagne into an elegant eighteenth-century antique crystal glass, then he slinked away, leaving me to my beverage and my book.

After savoring a few sips, enjoying the delicate bubbles and exquisite taste, I picked up my novel again. Two sheaths of paper slipped out and fell onto the linen cloth. My visa letter and my company’s reply. I resisted touching them. I’d completely forgotten I’d secured them in there. I put my book down with a sigh, reached for my boss’s letter, and unfolded it.

Even though I could recall it word for word, I read the letter for the twentieth time.

Dear Ms. Chayne,

We refer to your request to extend your contract with Vacation Dreamz so you can renew your European work visa for a further twelve months. You are a valued employee who consistently maintains excellent feedback from clients. But, whilst we will be sorry to see you go, we must comply with company policy to only hire people between twenty-one and thirty years of age, so we remain true to the theme of our business. Accordingly, we have no choice but to decline your request.

Blah. Blah. Fucking blah.

I reached for my glass and gulped a mouthful. The date I’d be forced to leave Europe was the seventh of January. Mother’s birthday. I haven’t spoken to her since she borrowed money from me four years ago. Whilst I knew I’d never see those two thousand dollars again, I’d foolishly hoped that she would keep her promise that time. She hadn’t.

When I accepted this job with Vacation Dreamz and they gave me a new phone and new number, it was my chance to sever ties with my mother completely.

I’d be happy if I never spoke with her again.

I folded the letters together and flicked them across the table.

It’s been nearly three years since I arrived in Europe, yet I’d rarely considered what I’d do when my visa expired. But I did know that I’d rather live in a tent in Siberia than return to Australia.

No matter where I went, I’d be starting over again. I’d already done that more times than most people did in a whole lifetime.

Maybe I could go to a tropical island and read copious amounts of books, and in between meeting new book boyfriends, I could sip cocktails and swim. Except my fair skin and the sun were life-long enemies. And I couldn’t swim. Sure, I could float on my back. With my bolt-on airbags, I’d be impossible to drown. But swim? Freestyle was impossible when my tits made it their mission to occupy my armpits. I looked more like a drunk attempting to breakdance while drowning. And breaststroke? Let’s just say I give it a whole new meaning.

Who was I kidding? I didn’t want to leave Europe. I love it here. History lurked around every stone-lined corner. A new language was just a drive away. And the abundant cuisines were an adventure.

There was still so much to see.

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