Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (2 page)

“Why, the region has a couple of
excellent—”

“Cheeses,” he cut in. “They may know a thing
or two about cheese over there, but not much about wine.”

“Whereas in Normandy, I’m told, wine
education begins in the nursery.” Jeanne gave him a wink. “Jokes aside, you’re
discerning for a
green
politician.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment, coming from a
professional waitress.”

“I’m no longer a waitress,” she said.

“What are you then?”

“A barista by day and bartender by night. Oh,
and bit of a sommelier
,
too.”

“Wow—a one-woman band. Sounds like
you’re working double shifts.”

“On most days.” She emptied her glass. “I’m
hoping to take this place over when Pierre retires.”

“More?” He asked, and after her nod, refilled
both their glasses. “I remember him. An easygoing chap with a beer belly,
right?”

She nodded.

“What about the headwaiter?” he asked.

“Didier? Still there, still the headwaiter.
Also interested in buying the bistro, by the way.”

“Well, I hope it goes to you and not to that
jerk
.
” Mat banged his fist on the table. “He never missed an
opportunity to show how much he despised me and most of the other customers.”

“He’s not that bad. He’s just internalized his
first mentor’s attitude a bit too well.”

“Hey, guys.” Lena approached their table.
“We’ll be heading home soon. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Jeanne looked around. Everyone had already
left except Mat, Lena
,
and Rob. The rest of the bistro staff was gone, too.

“Thanks again, Jeanne, for helping us put
this together,” Rob said.

“It was my pleasure.” Jeanne stood to say
good-bye.

“I hope you’re not staying to clean up the
mess,” Lena said as they hugged. “Remember your promise to forget you’re
hosting this party, and behave like a regular guest? A
special
guest—my maid of honor and my best friend!”

“I’ve kept my word so far, and I intend to
stick to it. I’m going to finish my drink, close the place, and go home.
Scout’s honor.”

Rob grinned, hugging her in his turn. “Says
the former Goth.”

“Oh well, Goth’s honor then. Come on, off
with you now.” Jeanne nudged him toward the door.

“What about you, Mat? Need a lift to your
dad’s place?” Rob asked.

“No, thanks—I’ll walk. Besides, I won’t
leave as long as there’s a drop left in here.” He pointed to the last bottle of
Château-Grillet
.

Jeanne raised her brows. Why wasn’t Mat
leaving with Lena and Rob? He’d just told her he had a girlfriend who meant the
world to him. This was very confusing.

After Lena and Rob left, Mat picked up the
bottle. “Shall we finish it?”

She held her glass for him to fill. Her
cheeks felt warm, and all her muscles were blissfully relaxed.

“I’ve often wondered if you’d changed over
the past three years,” Mat said.

“And?”

“Well, the hair’s no longer blue and the lip
piercing’s gone. But other than that, you’re the same.”

As he spoke, his deep, velvety baritone
enveloped her, caressed her, added depth to the scorching heat of his gaze.
They sat a good two feet from each other, and yet she felt as though he was
stroking her. Her skin prickled and a heavy awareness began to build in the pit
of her stomach.

“You, on the other hand, are thoroughly
transformed,” she said.

“I guess I’m one of those guys whose puberty
is so delayed it kicks in at twenty-five.”

She shook her head, summoning her no-nonsense
persona. “OK, I can buy some of it. The hair is easy to crop. The
muscles—I suppose you took to weight lifting?”

He nodded.

“And this whole”—she pointed at his
chest—“
Vikingy
virility thing . . . hormonal
change?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Must be. By
the way, a lot of people in Normandy have Viking ancestry.”

“OK. But what about the eyes? Plastic
surgery?”

“What do you mean?” He gave her a perplexed
look. “Why would I need plastic surgery on my eyes?”

“Your eyes used to make me think of a toad.”

He frowned for a second, and then burst into
laughter.

“It wasn’t my eyes; it was my cheap
eyeglasses. I’m farsighted, which means I need a plus prescription.” He pointed
to his elegant glasses. “These ones are thinner and hi-tech, so they don’t
magnify my eyes. See?” He drew closer until his face was only a few inches from
hers.

Jeanne told herself to draw back, but her
body refused to obey. She glanced at his eyes as he had requested and tumbled
headlong into their stormy depths. Her breathing grew ragged, and she quivered
as her body began to ache for his kiss, for his touch—for any form of
physical contact with him.

How weird,
she thought,
to burn like this for someone I barely
noticed three years ago. Someone who’s no longer free.

Mat’s world spun like a top, round and round, faster and faster, until it
concentrated into a single spot.
 . 
.
which happened to be a luscious female mouth. Jeanne’s mouth. In a last bid for
sanity, he reminded himself that he wasn’t a philanderer, that he’d never
looked at another woman since he’d been with Cécile. But when the tip of
Jeanne’s tongue darted to moisten her lips, he didn’t stand a chance.

The crush that he’d thought long gone was alive and kicking.

Right where it hurt.

A primal hunger surged in him, thickening the blood in his veins,
assaulting his senses and robbing him of his free will. There was no fighting
it. It knocked him down and pinned him to the ground until he gave in, helpless
before its vigor.

As if hypnotized, he brought his hand to Jeanne’s face and traced his
thumb across her lower lip. He moved slowly, pressing lightly enough not to
hurt her, but with sufficient force to miss nothing of the texture, warmth, and
fullness of her lip.

Her chest heaved as she closed her eyes.

“God,” he rasped, hardly recognizing his own voice. “You have no idea how
often I’ve dreamed of doing this. I’m crazy about your lips, Jeanne. Even
without the piercing.”

When his thumb reached the corner of her mouth, he trailed it across her
upper lip, savoring every sensation and growing so aroused it hurt. It was much
too soon when he completed the circle, but no force on Earth could make him
break the contact or make him stop touching her. His thumb slid down to her
chin, his palm cupping her cheek. Oh, the sweetness of her, the long-forbidden
treat he was finally about to sample. It was heavenly. It made him want more.

His gaze traveled down her graceful neck framed by auburn hair
,
to her shoulders. He bent down and began
to cover them in hot kisses as his hands wandered across her back, bared by the
figure-hugging dress she wore. And what a clever dress it was—specially
designed to drive him out of his mind. Its skirt reached the middle of her thighs,
revealing most of her shapely legs. Its seemingly demure neckline skimmed her
collarbone and then plunged in the back, descending all the way down to the two
sweet dimples in the small of her back. Which was exactly where his hand was
going
. . 
. until she
opened her eyes and pulled back.

“This is wrong,” she said.

He stared at her, disoriented.

She sighed. “I’ve been here before, Mat, and I got burned. I
can’t . . . I won’t . . . fool around with a man
who’s taken.”

He swallowed hard and released her. As his heartbeat slowed and his
breathing evened out, his speech capacity returned.

And so did reason.

“You’re right. I’m so sorry, Jeanne.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.

He gave her another long look. “Let me walk you home.”

She shook her head. “I live five blocks down the street.
Really . . . Just go.”

She spun around and rushed away, leaving him no
choice but to grab his jacket and bolt out the door.

***

“And then she told me I was too old and too
ugly for her.” José smoothed the long-gone hair on his shiny skull.

“Her loss.” Jeanne shrugged. “Are you coming
back for lunch today?”

He shook his head. “I have another date this
afternoon, in the park. I’m tired of paying for drinks and dinners only to hear
I’m too ugly.”

“Honey, you’re not ugly, and don’t give up
yet. You started this Internet dating thing only a month ago.” She wrung out
the dishrag and wiped the copper surface of the bar.

José was a regular at
La Bohème
. A
newly retired
vieux garçon,
he was
a little chubby and seriously
grumpy. But Jeanne didn’t mind his ranting, especially on days when she didn’t
want to be alone.

And on this beautiful Sunday morning she
needed company more than ever. The brunch crowd would provide a welcome
distraction, but it was still too early. So thank God for José whose stories
took her mind off what had happened last night.

“What’s the name of today’s date?” she asked.

“Clementine. I know—terribly
old-fashioned, which makes me think she probably lied about her age.”

Jeanne smiled. “You’ll find out soon enough.
Besides, would it be so terrible to date someone your age or older?”

“Hmm,” José said. He took a sip of his brew.
“Your coffee’s better than the previous gal’s.”

“You’ve already told me that. And don’t think
I didn’t notice how you changed the topic.” She turned away to empty the filter
basket. “But thanks—I’m flattered.”

Somebody else spoke from José’s right. “Can I
have one, too, since it’s so good?”

Mat
.

She hadn’t seen him come in. Why was he here?

“Espresso?” she asked without turning to look
at him.

“A double, please,” he said.

As she began preparing his coffee, she
sneaked a peek at him. He looked even hotter than last night. No expensive
suits today—just a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue V-necked sweater
over a white T-shirt. He propped his elbows on the counter, a tiny smile
wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

Jeanne looked away, flabbergasted. One quick
glance at him had been enough to make her pulse quicken and her hands grow
moist. How was this possible? After all, she had happily snubbed this same
person a few years ago. Granted, he was more masculine now than in those days.
A
lot
more masculine, what with those biceps and pectorals he hadn’t
showed the slightest inclination for in the past. Besides, his general demeanor
was more confident. Even his voice was deeper. Sexier.

But people couldn’t change so completely,
could they? Somewhere deep inside this gorgeous male was hiding a mild, nerdy
guy with unruly hair and eyes like a toad’s. If she could only spot one or two
telltale signs of that guy, she’d be able to shake this spell and forget about
his existence.

“I’ll be off. See you tomorrow, Jeanne.” José
paid for his coffee and plodded away.

“A regular?” Mat asked.

“Nine o’clock every morning,” Jeanne said,
placing his steaming espresso on the counter.

“Are mornings a busy time?”

“Not really. A half dozen builders and
drivers who come for an espresso and a cigarette outside. Another half dozen
white collars pop in for various blends and croissants to go, and then José and
a gang of moms.”

“What do the moms order?” Mat asked, looking
vastly entertained for some mysterious reason.

“Café crème or tea.”

“And after they leave?”

Jeanne shrugged. “I make myself a nice strong
coffee and read my paper.”

“Still loyal to
Le Monde
?”

She nodded, absurdly pleased that he
remembered.

“What about the cig that always went with the
coffee?” he asked.

“A thing of the past.”

“So you gave up smoking then?”

“It’s been two years now.” She smiled. “I
quit after Lena started emailing me horrible photos of blackened lungs. Daily.”

“I quit, too, thanks to Cécile.”

He looked down at his cup, and Jeanne
suddenly needed to occupy her hands with something. She grabbed the dishrag and
started wiping the spotless countertop.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Mat said.

Jeanne stopped wiping and stared at the
dishrag, noting absently that it was dark green and had too many holes from
rough treatment.

“I behaved like a jerk . . .
like one of those sleazebags I enjoy feeling superior to.” He gave a heavy
sigh. “This isn’t who I am, Jeanne. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Château-Grillet. Too much of it,” she said,
trying to make light of the situation.

He shook his head. “Anyway, I just came to
apologize and . . . to say good-bye.”