Page 28 of Meet Me in Paris

I shifted in my chair. I’d expected the memories of Mom to fade here, the only place I’d ever been without her. But instead, she constantly hovered in the back of my mind, reminding me of the places we could have seen together, the memories we could have made had her stomach not started hurting badly enough to double her over in pain that night.

And the future . . . I couldn’t imagine it. Not at home, not here, not anywhere. The dreaming mechanism in my brain had been turned off and padlocked. Grandpa’s inheritance didn’t bring me joy like it did my sisters because money had never been a dream of mine. A means of survival and nothing more.

“Both, I suppose,” I finally said. “I’d be happy thinking about neither and simply enjoying the moment.”

Claude nodded in approval. “Then Paris is where you belong.”

The second apartment proved smaller and boxy, with walls everywhere and low ceilings but modern fixtures. Built in the 1700s, he said. I loved the historical elements, but I couldn’t see myself here either. “Closer, but maybe a little less history.”

“You want a blend of the two, yes?”

“Exactly.”

“I wish to skip the third appointment, then, and show you my neighborhood. It may be exactly what you’re looking for.”

We drove about ten minutes in the direction of the Eiffel Tower and stopped when a street dead-ended. To my surprise, the driver didn’t turn the car around but pulled into a wrought-iron gate that opened as the car drew near.

“My townhouse,” Claude announced. “Very charming.”

It certainly was. The wordtownhousemade me instantly think of several homes that shared walls, all crammed next to each other. But I quickly found that wasn’t the case with his. I immediately liked the historical feel of the adorable brick home. “We’re going inside?”

“There are no homes for lease in my area right now, but if you like this one, I will find something similar.”

Interesting. An agent would never take a client to their house in the States, or at least so casually. A European thing, perhaps?

Or maybe he’s being a guy and thinking of excuses to get you into his apartment.

That’s what Hunter would assume if he knew about this. Then again, Hunter ran around with other women yet resented any man who dared speak to me in a public place, like a restaurant. He didn’t have a say. Claude’s driver would be waiting in the car, and I had my phone. If I meant to live in Paris as a lone single woman, I needed to do brave things.

After we parked, Claude led me through the garden, which showcased expensive landscape lighting and mature trees that made me feel as if we’d left Paris altogether.

“It’s beautiful at night too,” Claude said before leading us inside. “I hope you will have the chance to see it sometime.”

A small entryway greeted us, and I had to ease around him so he could close the door. Tidy historical tile and a small, curved staircase filled the entire room.

“Wow,” I breathed, looking up to find that the staircase extended three entire stories and I could see all the way up. My worries faded. This really was exceptional.

“My renovations opened it up,” Claude explained. “Let me show you the living area.”

A sitting room with a TV and expensive furniture flanked a modern kitchen with a long, skinny table with rounded edges that mirrored the shape of an island beneath a glass, bubble-shaped chandelier that reminded me of champagne. This movie-worthy area was meant for entertaining. Perfect. Clean. Far fancier than Hunter’s place.

Even so, this home lacked something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“It’s decorated so beautifully,” I offered, noting the original marble fireplace that contrasted with the modern sofa. “Not too much but not too little.”

“A designer knows he has achieved perfection,” Claudequoted, “not when there is nothing left to add but nothing left to take away. That’s Antoine de Saint-Exupery.”

Perfection. It was the only word for it. The house looked exactly like its owner—not a flaw or hair out of place. Impossibly perfect, with a precise blend of historical elements and modern sensibilities.

Claude let me wander his home. I climbed the carpeted staircase and admired the music room, library, and guest bedrooms. The home spanned not three floors but four—and the entire fourth floor served as his penthouse suite, with skylights and windows that looked over the garden. He even had his own balcony.

“So tasteful,” I said, letting my eyes skip over his bed as I looked around the room. In a moment, I realized that I stood next to a stranger in his own bedroom and we were completely alone.

Claude seemed to have a similar thought because I turned to find him examining me in a way that made my cheeks burn.

“Your home is beautiful,” I said, scrambling for something to say. “If you weren’t already staying here, I would buy it in a heartbeat.”

“As my client, you may stay as long as you like. It is why I have guest rooms. Sometimes it takes months for Americans to get their paperwork in place, and it is expensive to stay in hotels.”

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