Page 30 of Sinful Escape

But I didn’t walk very far before my stomach started growling. My legs had a mind of their own and within fifteen minutes, I sat at the century-old Café Verlet.

The quaint little coffee shop was nearly a hundred years old and had somehow managed to retain its old-world charm. Exactly why I liked it. Even some of the décor and crockery were original, but that wasn’t the only reason I popped in whenever I could.

They offered thirty-two varieties of coffee from all over the world. I’d tried them all.

My coffee choice for today was Kona Extra Fancy. The coffee bean, which was reportedly grown on the slopes of the Mauna Loa volcano in Hawaii, had a rich taste of chocolate, blackcurrant, and licorice. It almost meant it didn’t need a sweet treat to go with it. Almost.

After all the energy I’d exhausted this morning, I needed a sugar fix.

I ordered a mille-feuille fraise. The thick vanilla cream and sweet juicy strawberries sandwiched between layers of caramelized flaky pastry was a treat to die for. Exactly what I needed to get my mind off my horny little bits.

Sipping my coffee, I gazed around the tiny café. Everybody looked to be utterly smitten with the person they were coupled with, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. The woman across from me was snuggling into her partner’s neck, and I couldn’t decide if she was asleep or was a vampire about to draw blood. I hoped it was the latter; I could use the distraction.

Paris was reputed to be the city of love, but for fuck’s sake, could they not keep it to the bedroom?

My hypocrisy had me giggling into my coffee. I couldn’t even keep it in the bedroom. Nope, the kitchen chopping block was my new boudoir of choice. Apparently.

My world had gone mad.

Andre, the waiter, delivered my pastry and I attacked it with the gusto necessary to escape my rampant thoughts. I was sure he’d be disgusted at the number of crumbs he’d comb up when he cleared my plate away.

With my stomach happy, I left the café and headed toward the hostel. I crossed the Pont des Arts bridge that for many years had held thousands of padlocks that couples had attached to the wrought iron in a pathetic attempt to display their eternal love for each other.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Love was a cruel illusion. Just like in romance novels, it was fiction.

Despite criticizing romance novels, I intended to spend the next three hours curled up in bed with my book.

Oh, shit. My stomach sank. My book was at Château de Vin et d'antiquités.

Glancing along the shops that lined the street, I prayed a bookstore would miraculously appear. It didn’t. I was surrounded by dress shops, shoe shops, bag shops. Jewelry. Perfume. Lingerie. The overpriced and trivial accessories were as useless as belly button fluff.

My feet were glued to the pavement as I stewed over what to do. If I didn’t occupy my mind, my thoughts would slip right back to Pierre’s hands on my girls.

A black dress in the window beside me caught my eye. It was on a mannequin with a twelve-year-old girl’s body and mammoth breasts that defied gravity.

Holy headlines! I had never seen a mannequin with my body shape before. Or dresses that were made to fit it.

“Bonjour, puis-je vous aider.”

I hadn’t noticed the woman on the step of the shop. “Bonjour.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She indicated to the outfit.

“Yes, it is.”

The woman’s eyelashes, thick, black, and long, fluttered enough to make me wonder if she was having a seizure. “Would you like to try the dress on?”

Frowning, I couldn’t decide if she was desperate for a laugh or desperate for a sale. “Oh, no thanks.”

“It would fit you perfectly. Please, allow me to show you.” She opened her palm, guiding me toward the entrance.

Deciding to embrace the unexpected distraction, I headed into the store. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, I blinked at the sparse selection of clothing lining the walls. This was not the type of store I usually frequented. Most of my clothes were purchased from my local discount store, where nearly everything was made in China.

The saleswoman had luscious wavy black hair. And as she selected the mannequin’s black dress from the rack, I admired both her gorgeous locks and her perfect hourglass figure. Some women had perfect everything.

And then there was me.

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