Page 230 of Torrid Passion
I was certain Hayden and Stella would be dying for the scene-by-scene action, but I guess they must be busy. They were jealous and elated when I told them of the big news.
“I know it’s still very early, but where do you want to go for dinner?” Harlow asks, tucking her phone back into her handbag.
“I don’t know,” I grimace. “The problem with Paris is there are too many delicious options. If I knew I couldn’t gain weight, I would eat my way through this city and then I’d keep eating my way through France,” I laugh.
“Ditto. Even after living here for years, there’s still plenty I haven’t discovered.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Since we’re all dressed up, we should leverage the couture,” Harlow says, waving her finger up and down the length of my body. “Not to mention you have to showcase your grandmother’s vintage jacket. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s absolutely stunning.”
“You’re hilarious. Grandma Oralie is so proud. She loved the selfies I texted her earlier.” Still to this day, Mom’s mom has quite the wardrobe and she’s very much a fashion whore. I wonder where I get my love of pretty designer clothes? Mom is the same. “What did you have in mind for dinner?”
“What about L’Espadon at the Ritz Carlton? I just checked and I was able to put my name against a table.”
“You were able to get a table at the last minute? Doesn’t it take weeks, if not months, to get a table there?”
“What can I say? Luck was on my side.”
“I guess so.”
“We have a reservation in an hour and fifteen minutes. That gives us time to play tourist and maybe we can get there early and have a drink at the bar,” she says.
“Five-star dining on a Thursday night…? You don’t joke around.”
“When in Paris…”
I laugh.
“Deal! The Ritz it is!”
“Excellent! Let’s hop on the subway––because a taxi ride from here at this time of the day will be hell on earth––and head to the Pont Notre Dame. From there, we’ll take a taxi to L’Espadon,” she suggests.
“Why are we going there?”
“We can’t come to Paris without a salute to the Notre Dame Cathedral. It would be wrong.”
“So, so very wrong,” I laugh. “Is that why you suggested we bring a change of shoes?”
“Yup. These old streets and the subway stations––with their endless stairs––aren’t made for four-inch heels.”
After the fashion shows, we tucked away our heels in our designer tote bags and slipped into Chanel ballerina flats.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” I say.
“On y va?”
“Allons y!”
We’re off.
It’s about five-thirty and the streets are bursting with Parisians rushing back home after a long day of work. Since this is Paris in late September, the streets are also packed with tourists. Harlow and I weave our way through the crowds until we reach the bridge that crosses the Seine. It links theRive Droitewith theRive Gauche.
“Look at her,” I marvel.
From where we’re standing on the Pont Notre Dame, we’re privy to one of the most stunning views in the city.
“She’s one hell of a cathedral.”
