Page 45 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
His jeans were soon on and done up. They were getting good at this now. She picked up his discarded T-shirt with its shredded arm. ‘It’s fine, it just looks a bit punky.’
‘Kind of matches the shackles,’ he said, as they pulled it over his head and manoeuvred his arms into the sleeves. The left arm hung open.
‘I like the look; it’s very avant-garde. My turn,’ she said, leading them back to the bedroom. She found knickers, a short stretchy skirt with no buttons or zips, and a strapless top. ‘Pashmina,’ she said, and pulled out a soft grey wool wrap which they draped round her shoulders. With his help, she put on socks then a pair of flat boots. ‘And we’re almost done!’ she announced. ‘Can you pass me my hairbrush?’
‘Can I brush your hair? Did I mention I love your hair?’
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation as he ran the brush from scalp to tip. Dan had never done this; she’d never before had a man (other than David at Huddersfield Hairport) brush her hair.
Back in the living area the food was still on the table where they’d left it last night. ‘Would you like that bread, cheese and tea now?’ she said. She was hungry; he must be even more so. ‘When did you last eat? Um … apart from cake.’ She felt her cheeks burning.
He smiled. ‘What time do the cafés open?’
‘Probably eight, mostly.’ The clock on the oven showed seven-thirty.
‘Let’s eat out,’ he said. ‘Coffee and croissants.’
‘You’re on.’
‘I’ll–’
‘– pay me back. I know.’
These little references to future events she knew would never happen made Chloe sad. Only an hour or two, maybe three if she was lucky, to go, then she’d never see Joel again.
Chapter Fourteen
Theascenseurlanded with a neck-jarring thump, and then they were out on the street in the soft grey dawn. It was quiet on the Rue de Chemin Vert; there were few people around this early. They set off walking south, towards the river, automatically turning their wrists so they were holding hands.
‘Do you know the way?’ he said. ‘Getting anywhere without Google maps is always a challenge.’
‘Yes, I often do this at weekends – straight down here to the Place de la Bastille, then we can follow the canal to the Seine. It’s a nice walk, and there should be a café or two open at the square.’ She glanced at their wrists. ‘We can grab an outside table, sit close, and eat and drink one-handed. Easy!’
This morning she was filled with love for quiet, pretty Paris as the rising sun twinkled between the buildings, warming the air.
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting under the red awning of a café overlooking the Place de la Bastille’s soaring blue-green centrepiece.
‘Is that you up there?’ said Joel, looking at the statue way up high on top of the column. The Spirit of Freedom was catching the light as the sun peeped above the buildings, making its golden wings shine. ‘My French angel?’
‘Pft,’ she said. ‘I thought your brother was the poetic one?’
‘I have my moments. I’m gagging for a coffee. Where’s thegar-kon?’
Englishmen. They were so passive-aggressive when it came to Frenchmen.
‘For that, you can order,’ she said. ‘Coffee with milk, and a croissant for me please.’ That was too easy. ‘And a freshly squeezed orange juice. And perhaps apain au chocolatto share?’
A waiter in a smart apron appeared – ‘Oui?’ – and she smiled at him, then looked at Joel, waiting.
‘Um.Café au lait. Deux.’ He held up two fingers. ‘Deux croissants. Un pain de chocolate.’ He held up one finger. ‘Et un jus d’orange. Freshly squeezed,s’il vous plaît.’ He mimed squeezing an orange. Chloe swallowed a smile. He was too cute.
The simple breakfast was delicious. It was the same breakfast she always had when she treated herself, but today it tasted twice as nice – no, fifty times as nice – as they sat chatting, about France, about their jobs, their histories, her dreams of designing gardens, like a couple on a first date that was going exceptionally well.
‘It’s like we’re doing everything backwards,’ said Chloe.
‘Yep,’ said Joel, ‘normally the shackling together part comes last.’
Their breakfast finished they carried on, and as the sun climbed higher in the pale blue sky they reached the Seine, strolling along the leafy riverbank opposite the Île Saint Louis, its old walls and buildings the colour of sun-infused honey. Stall holders were setting up their displays of books, paintings, and all the Parisian knickknacks Chloe loved to browse on her days off. The path led beneath picturesque stone bridges; they passed thin Parisians on their morning runs, and smart ladies taking very small dogs for walks.
