Page 36 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
‘Cake,’ she repeated. ‘Well yes, I suppose you have beenquitea good boy, since I took you in hand.’
He shook his head, smiling.
And suddenly the prospect of spreading herself out on the bed, on her snowy white sheets – all that space – was even more tempting than having him deep inside her in the shower.
‘Where’s the towels?’ he asked.
Ah. She’d forgotten about those. She grabbed the hand towel and set about roughly drying them both, before opening the bathroom door and leading him over to the small airing cupboard.
Before long they were dry and wrapped in fluffy towels, his tucked in at the waist, hers beneath her arms. She gave his hair a rub with another towel, then her own curls, leaving them spiralling down her back.
‘Let’s see what’s in the fridge,’ she said. Luckily she’d stocked up yesterday, buying comfort food in anticipation of the second-saddest evening of her life so far.
Well, that didn’t turn out as expected!
The local food shops – the boulangerie, the pâtisserie, the chocolaterie, and all the other-eriesthat helped make this part of Paris so special – offered plenty of top-notch sad-girl options.
She passed him French cheeses, butter, a pot of pâté, then a baguette, bought only this morning. He laid everything on the blue wooden table which, together with its two matching chairs, the sofa and a small coffee table, took up all the space in the living area.
He eyed the wine in the fridge door.
‘No more alcohol,’ she said. ‘We’ll make tea.’
‘But not now,’ he said. ‘Tea later. Where’s the cake?’
‘Here,’ she said, passing over a white cardboard box containing twomille-feuilles. Two, because one was never enough when there was a broken heart to be soothed.
He put the box down on the table and opened the lid. ‘Cream slices,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘Perfect.’
‘Mille-feuilles,’ she said, as a shiver ran through her. ‘It means a thousand leaves. As in the thinnest, most delicate layers of pastry on the planet. Isn’t French so much lovelier than English? I mean,mille-feuilles …’(the words slid out softly and smoothly, like a length of silk), ‘orcream slice,’ (she fired the words out in a London accent).
‘Gaat-eaux,’ he said in a sexy French accent. ‘Orcake.’
‘See?’ she said. Everything soundssomuch betterenFrançais.’
‘Bollocks. Boll-eaux.’
She laughed. ‘Shouldn’t we have the baguette andfromagefirst?’
‘I don’t remember cheese being part of the deal,’ he said, picking up the box of cakes. ‘And in fact, camembert is best served at room temperature, so we should let it rest a while. Cream, on the other hand, should be eaten straight from the fridge.’
‘Do we need a plate?’ she asked.
‘No. Now for chrissakes, Chloe, take me to bed.’
Chapter Eleven
She led him through to the bedroom, shutting the door when Patapouf attempted to follow. A muffled, outraged meow came from the other side.
‘He’s so entitled,’ she said, then called, ‘Sorry,Monsieur Pussycat, there’s someone even cuter than you here tonight.’
‘NowI’mthe cat that got the cream,’ said Joel, looking out of the window. That full moon was still hanging over the city, and the room was a silvery monochrome. There was no need to turn on the light.
‘It’s like that view in theAristocats,’ he said, and he hummedEverybody Wants to be a Cat …
From beyond the door, another faint meow.
‘Oh, how much did I love that film when I was a kid?’ said Chloe. ‘Paris is maybe the only city that outdoes its own film versions.’
