Page 7 of Pampered in Paris

I know her lips are soft and she’s full of passion.

I know that I want to learn everything about her that I can.

And I know that I may be falling in love.

Chapter 4

Anne

After Alexandre leaves,I continue to wander around the gardens near the museum. My day passes in a mix of people watching, trying a restaurant Violet recommended, and looking at my plans for the rest of the week. I don’t have set plans for Monday, so agreeing to meet with Alexandre was easy.

Just because he got called in to work doesn’t mean he’s like my ex-husband and a total workaholic. Besides, we just met; it’s not as if he can take off work last minute. When I make it back to my rental, I decide to enjoy some wine and a hot bath. I chose this rental, not for the view, but for the amenities. I could have picked a place with a view of the Eiffel Tower, but this one has a large tub that seemed perfect for long days full of touristy things. Plus, the owner keeps the place stocked with bath salts, candles, and everything else you’d need to pamper yourself and relax. I let the warm bubbles ease my chaotic thoughts. When I’m out of the bath and two glasses into the bottle of red wine, I check my phone.

Alexandre: Sorry again for today. If it’s not too soon, can you meet me at Monceau Park at noon tomorrow? There’s a metro stop right there.

Normally I’d think tomorrowistoo soon, but I’m here for two weeks. With his work schedule, when else will I get a chance to go out with him? While the park isn’t a place that’s on my list of Paris hits, it’s still an afternoon with Alexandre.

Anne: I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?

Alexandre: Wear something you don’t mind picnicking in, but I have the rest covered.

Anne: Okay, see you then.

I check my phone for other messages and emails. My mother texted me asking if I heard anything from my sister about getting an interview with her company for when I return to Maine. Unfortunately, the relaxing mood from my wine and bath combo fades. When it comes to mothers butting in, relaxation is nonexistent. I want to live my life according to myself, not my family’s standards. I try my best to push the thoughts aside. I won’t let her bring me down while I’m in Paris. I’ll reply tomorrow. For now, I set my alarm and plug in my phone.

After a restless sleep,I am ready to meet Alexandre at the park. I opted to wear shorts and a loose linen blouse today. My tote bag is packed with typical travel goods: sunglasses, sunscreen, a portable charger in case my phone dies from taking too many photos, and a few essentials like my wallet and keys. I know Alexandre said I didn’t need to bring anything, but I did pack a small bag of chocolates I bought near the Louvre the other day. They’re tiny, fruity dark chocolates shaped like fish. I thought that since he works atLe Petit Poisson, it’d make a cute gift. I hope he likes them.

Hopefully he doesn’t think it’s too cheesy.

The metro is easy to navigate. I get off at the right stop and head to the entrance to meet him. I enjoy people watching as I wait for Alexandre. He comes from around the corner, and my brain instantly stops working. He looks like a rugged artist, with his tousled hair and stubble, dressed in worn jeans and black t-shirt. He has a large backpack and a small cooler in hand.

He greets me in French and with the two cheek kisses. I’m not sure what he murmurs afterhello, but it sounds like music that you want to keep listening to all day.

I could get used to this.

I beam as I reply with a simple, “Bonjour.”

Alexandre leads me to an open grassy area in the park. Other couples and families are enjoying the warm weather and sunshine, too. Several people have picnic blankets and small spreads out. We pick a nice spot and Alexandre lays out a blanket. I help him set up the food he’s brought and everything feels very natural between us, as if we’ve spent months together and not mere days.

“You’ve thought of everything” I say as I take in the food he’s brought for the picnic. There are four kinds of cheese, salami, prosciutto, a tiny container of grapes and one of almonds, a baguette that has already been cut up into small pieces, butter, and of course, champagne.

“I wanted you to have an authentic Parisienne picnic. Let me make you a small plate.”

I watch his hands as he slices cheese and layers them and the meat onto pieces of baguette for me. I notice some small lines of discoloration on his hands, probably from working in kitchen spaces. I haven’t been in the industry for long, but I know most food service workers get scars or burns from the fast-paced environment. In fact, a handful of the guys at the conference had a scar or two on their arms that they said were from working in restaurants.

“Do you have any scars from being a chef?” I ask as he hands me the plate.

“But of course!” His accent is heavy on the vowels as he exclaims, “They’re a true mark of becoming a head chef. Each one is a reminder of something dumb I did in the kitchen. All good learning experiences.”

He starts to show me some and tells me anecdotes from his early days working his way up the kitchen. I munch on the food and enjoy his stories. I could listen to him for hours, even if it was just reciting the dictionary. I love the way the lines around his eyes crinkle as he speaks, his hands gesturing as he tells me about his knife mistakes.

“Have you always lived in Paris?” I ask him, before sipping on the champagne. The bubbles are crisp and there’s a slight hint of apples. It’s perfect with the cheese.

I wish Alexandre would cook for me.

I try to refocus on his words as I imagine us together in a kitchen, cooking together. We’d be dancing around, trying to stay out of each other’s way, but finding ourselves bumping into each other. Maybe one of us would linger. A soft caress here and a light smooch here. Maybe we’d end up making out on a kitchen island. Or getting naked on a couch. His bare ass on full display, our limbs entangled as we explore each other’s bodies.

Pull it together.

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