Page 4 of Falling for Paris
The sisters spent their lives travelling as kids of an airline pilot but while Kat reveled in it, Tori was weary of the process. She loved exploring, but she dreaded flying.
“My luggage didn’t make it from Washington, DC to Paris, by the way. The airline called to confirm thatit’s been located, whatever that means.”
“Look at the bright side, though: shopping in Paris! You’ll have to give me dibs on your finds when you return.”
“I’m a few sizes bigger than you,” Tori corrected. “But don’t worry, I’ve got your taste down pat. You know, for a truly fancy consultant,” she piped, giving Kat a glimpse of the shirt she bought at the airport when informed her luggage was missing. Kat groaned.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” Tori didn’t hate theJ’aime Parisshirt. She wasn’t above cheap and tacky souvenirs if they made her smile.
“Everything. Did they say when your luggage is getting delivered?”
“No. It better get here before the cooking class.” The day after tomorrow was the beginning of her two-week-long fancy cooking course withEcole Supérieure de la Gastronomie de Lyon.Her knives, that she packed with more care than any of her clothes, were irreplaceable.
“I’m starving, so I’ll let you go. Tell Celina I’m fine and will call her this week.” The middle Espinoza sister was busy raising her twin boys though she expected an update too. The three siblings didn’t go a week without virtual face time.
“Will do! Have a blast, Tori.”
“Thanks, Kat.”
“Hey, one last thing.”
“What?”
“I’m glad you’re travelling again.” A world of concern was in her sister’s tone, but Tori kept the conversation light.
“Tell that to my luggage. Gotta go. I love you.”
“Back at ya.”
Travel weary and starving, Tori strolled the neighborhood she would call her own for a while. She was drawn to a bistro that advertised a simpleprix fixedinner. Waiting for her first course, she relaxed and took in her surroundings. She smiled vaguely at anyone who looked her way: the slim hostess with her spiky pink hair, the courteous waiter with a permanent grin, couples by the window, and the guy at the end of the bar.
Returning the man’s attention was tactical error number one. The second misstep was the shirt that announced she was a foreigner in Paris with no companions and even lesser taste in clothes. The man at the end of the bar barely waited for her to finish her salad before he moseyed over to offer a drink and his company.
Tori still had the entrée and dessert to come. She figured she might as well practice her French. Noel—or was it Nigel?—was pleasant enough. At first.
He was a gallery owner or some kind of acquisition person for rich people. To be honest, the language barrier made it hard to decipher the nuances of his elaborate description of art and assets and whatever. He might have already confessed to money laundering and she’d still be nodding absentmindedly.
He had ordered some canapés as she ate her meal, but mostly he was chugging wine like it was lemonade on a summer day.
“I’m quite tired,” she announced after a bite of an uninspired custard flan. “It was very nice to meet you.”
She gestured for the check, which the studious waiter immediately brought over. The man grabbed it from her and announced, “Victoria, please allow me. You’ve been such a pleasure. Do you have dining plans for tomorrow evening?”
His brows rolled and his words slurred as he continued. “And perhaps we should exchange numbers now, yes? To make arrangements for the Louvre? My friend will need a few days’ notice to accommodate us.”
He had offered to use his “contacts” for her to skip the line at the famous art museum. It would take a lot more than a free meal and a queue jump for her to give her number to a stranger. She was already counting out the euros to put on the table when he went straight for her knee, cupping it and telegraphing his need.
Tori could abide by pretentious pricks and money-laundering gallery owners, but a spoiled brat who didn’t know boundaries? No way.
James, her ex-husband, was that kind of brat. She recognized the signs of his irredeemable selfishness too late. At some point, she must have found this form of male attention palatable. She’d stayed married for years, after all. Now? It was tiring. Not for the first time, Tori noted that men’s needs wereexhausting.
Tori’s deep-set eyes had the effect of making her seem perpetually drowsy. But at the moment, her eyes felt weighted. The need to go to sleep was stronger than even her annoyance, which was a testament to her level of exhaustion.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she switched to English, glancing at his palm on her knee. He had already expressed his ability to speak in her native language if she preferred.
He squeezed her knee before moving the heavy palm a few inches up her thigh. “C’est mieux ma chérie?” Did he just ask if things were better because he wasgroping?
It was truly the stupidest question at the worst time because tonight was the first night of a month-long vacation in which Tori had zero fucks to give.
