Page 16 of A Lot to Unpack
The way he says my name makes me melt – ironic, given how chilly my lower half is underneath the coat. October in Paris is not the time to be bottomless.
‘Well, first things first, I’m going to buy a new skirt,’ I half joke, although that might not be a terrible idea, because I only brought the one fancy outfit with me, and I can’t exactly visit a fancy restaurant in my travelling or work clothes. ‘And then, well, I’m seeing the sights. I’m here to write an article about why Paris is a great place to visit for a getaway, so I’m going to explore, find somewhere nice for dinner and… yeah.’
Yeah, I just came up with that. Well, I can’t exactly tell him why I’m really here, can I? On call, for something that I might not even be called on for – for my assistant job at a dating app. It sounds made up. I want him to think I’m cool and chic like he is.
‘Alone?’ he blurts in disbelief.
‘Yeah, well, I’m single, so…’
‘Non, non, non,’ he replies. ‘We can’t have that. Come, I know a beautiful boutique. We will get you a new skirt, and then I will show you the sights, and I will take you for dinner – let me show you the romance Paris has to offer. What do you say?’
‘Oui,’ I blurt, unable to hide the mild breathlessness I’m feeling, because wow. This man has game – and somehow he’s fallen into my lap, semi-literally, and I’m swooning. ‘Yes, I’d love that.’
Best to clarify, lest my French be as clumsy as myself.
‘Come,’ he insists.
Honestly? I think I might. It’s the accent.
7
There are certain obligations when it comes to exploring Paris for the first time, and I feel like Henri has given me a tour money can’t buy – or that money could buy, even, because it’s like he’s pulled our itinerary straight from a guidebook.
I would ask how I got so lucky, finding someone to show me the sights, but I could ask that question in more of a general way because Henri is a certified dreamboat. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s French – and he’s drop-dead gorgeous. To look at, he isn’t the typical Frenchman you would conjure up – not that I’m one for stereotypes; then again, I’m a single Englishwoman in her thirties who just got her skirt caught in a revolving door. He’s tall and broad with blown-back sandy blond hair. He’s dressed effortlessly smart in a blue suit, and he has his jacket back now because he helped me buy a skirt. Yes, he shopped with me – he even picked out a skirt for me. He even tried to pay for it. I didn’t let him but he said he wanted to because it was his fault that when he saved me, he regretted that he couldn’t save my skirt too. How bloody French is that?
We’ve been everywhere. The Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, then onto Montmartre to see Sacré-Cœur – and,of course, The Louvre is a non-negotiable destination. From there we went for dinner at the most charming bistro, where I consumed so, so much cheese – I had the best toasts de chèvre (that’s fancy cheese on toast to you and me) and Crêpes Suzette au Grand Marnier (really hope I’m not butchering the pronunciation) for dessert – the boozy pancakes of my dreams.
Now we’re strolling along the edge of the Jardin des Tuileries, because sadly it’s closed now, but our hotel isn’t far.
After Ben, and his wankery antics, I didn’t think I would ever have a good time with a man ever again – and that I certainly wouldn’t find one who wouldn’t give me the dreaded ick. Since deciding that I was never going to settle for any icks ever again, it always feels like a matter of time before I spot one, but maybe, just maybe Henri could be different?
‘Thank you for such an amazing evening,’ I tell him sincerely. ‘Not just for saving me, but for showing me the sights. I’ll bet not many people get their own personal genuine French tour guide to show them around, buy them clothes, take them out for dinner – it’s like a French fairytale.’
Henri laughs.
‘You deserve – how do you say? – a hot date,’ he tells me.
‘Well, you are one seriously hot date,’ I confirm. ‘Ten out of ten. No notes.’
Finally, outside the hotel, we pause on the pavement. Even though we’re obviously both going inside, this still feels like a natural place to say goodnight.
Unless…
I notice Henri lick his lips, like he’s gearing up for something, his eyes darting between my lips and my eyes until he leans in and takes me in his arms, pulling me close, planting his lips on mine and… wow. Wow, wow, wow. He kisses French too, in case you were wondering, his tongue flicking mine lightly before going in for the kill, turning it into something more passionate.
Eventually, we separate, if only to breathe, and ooh la la.
Henri glances in the direction of the revolving doors.
‘I see they’ve removed your skirt,’ he points out.
‘So they have,’ I reply, giggling awkwardly.
‘Perhaps, if you might like to come to my room, I could remove this one…’
Henri lightly grazes the back of his hand from my stomach down to my skirt, lingering between my legs for a split second. Not enough for anyone to realise what’s going on, but spelling out exactly what he has in mind for me.
Pulling the trigger on moving on, in that way, is not something I have excelled at thus far – why am I being coy? To put it plainly, I haven’t slept with anyone since Ben, and I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like I’m planning on living a life of celibacy, it’s just that it’s never felt right.
