Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (4 page)

“What if you didn’t have to choose?” Didier
asked mysteriously.

“What do you mean? Are you forfeiting?”
Pierre gave him a puzzled look.

“Not a chance,” Didier said. “But what if
Jeanne and I came to some sort of . . . understanding about this
affair?”

“What, like partnering to buy
La Bohème
together?” Jeanne asked.

“Something like that,” Didier said.

Well, this explained his recent friendliness.

The idea appeared great… but only on the
surface. First, Jeanne had savings and several loan options: her parents, Lena
and Rob, her bank. She certainly didn’t need a partner to help her buy the place.
Second, even though she’d never had any quarrel with Didier, she had no
particular affinity for him either. So, no, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

“That would be brilliant!” Pierre looked so
relieved it was touching.

“Wouldn’t it?” Didier turned to Jeanne.

“I don’t think—” she began.

“Listen, Jeanne,” Didier said, placing his
hand on her arm. “You don’t need to decide or even say anything now. Give
yourself some time to process the idea. You may change your mind and find it as
appealing as I do.” He gave her a long look that made her uncomfortable.

“I hope you will,
girl,” Pierre said. “I hope you’ll do us all a huge favor and change your mind
.
”

***

Jeanne glanced at her watch for the third time in five minutes. She had
to take a decision, and quickly. One option was to wait ten more minutes and
elbow her way through the crowd to get on the next
métro
train. The risk
associated with that option was if she failed, she’d be stuck here for another
twenty minutes. At least. According to a well-established Parisian tradition,
the
métro
workers were on strike, effectively disrupting the routines of
hundreds of thousands of people.

The other option was to call Didier, ask him to brave rush hour, and
drive to rue Cadet to collect her. She decided to give the
métro
another
chance.

The evening before, Pierre had beckoned to her and Didier. “I want you
two to go to Baleville tomorrow morning.”

Jeanne’s mouth fell open. Why did Pierre want her and Didier to go to
Mat’s hometown?

“What for?” Didier asked.

“Our main cheese supplier, Monsieur Conchard, wants to showcase his new
products. I suspect he may also want to renegotiate the prices.”

“Why won’t he come here?” Didier asked.

“He doesn’t feel like traveling to Paris with an assortment of smelly
cheeses in the back of his car . . . and who can blame him?”

“So you want us to assess the new products and negotiate the prices,
right?” Jeanne asked.

“It’s time you learned to swim on your own, children,” Pierre said.
“Because in this business, you’ll be swimming with sharks
.
”

Jeanne smirked. “You make it sound so attractive.”

“I’m glad you see it that way
,
”
Pierre said with a wink
.

He gave them the necessary instructions and promised to keep his cell
phone on. Jeanne agreed to meet Didier in front of his building at nine o’clock
the next morning and drive to Baleville in his car. It was eight forty now.
Jeanne clenched her fists and edged closer to the track. To hell with good
manners—she was a shark in training, after all.

Twenty-five minutes later
,
she
spotted Didier on the corner of his street, glancing at his watch. She waved.
He beamed and waved back
.
And even
though Jeanne knew why he was so friendly, she couldn’t help warming to him a
little.

“I like this look of yours,” he said as she sat in the car.

She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans, a mustard-colored cashmere
pullover, and a tailored leather jacket that reached the waistline of her
jeans.

“You usually come and go from work dressed in the uniform,” he added.

“I live next door,” she said. “So it makes sense to change at home.”

They drove in silence for a little while.

“Have you been in Baleville before?” he asked after they got onto the
A13.

“No, never.”

“It’s a nice town. Only twenty minutes from the sea, but much more
affordable than seaside places like Deauville.”

“Sounds nice,” she said. “Do you know how big it is?”

Hopefully big enough to minimize the risk of running into Mat.

“Ten thousand or thereabouts,” he said.

A hundred thousand would’ve been better, but then again, ten is better
than five.

“And it’s only an hour and a half from Paris,” he added.

Way too close, if you want my opinion.

Didier tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looking pleased with himself.
“If Monsieur Conchard doesn’t invite us to lunch, I’ll take you to Le Cheval
Bleu. It’s a nice local restaurant I discovered a few years ago, when I toured
the Cider Route with some friends.”

“I’ve wanted to do the Cider Route for years now, but instead I always
end up going south,” Jeanne said.

“You’re from the south, aren’t you?”

“Nîmes. My family are still there and some good
friends . . . Where are you from, by the way?” She realized
she’d never bothered to ask Didier that basic question.

“I’m from Lille.” He smiled. “
The Great
French North.”

She smiled back.
What a strange guy.

He enjoyed being mean to customers, but he was usually courteous with his
colleagues. Now that she thought of it, he’d always been particularly nice to
her.

They arrived in Baleville a little before eleven o’clock, parked in front
of Monsieur Conchard’s shop, and ran inside to avoid getting soaked in the
heavy rain. The supplier greeted them, an enthusiastic smile on his face. At
twelve thirty they were done. As it turned out, Monsieur Conchard had no
intention of a price hike, but only wanted
La Bohème
to order his new
cheeses. Immensely relieved, Jeanne and Didier promised to call him within a
week with a definitive answer.

“How about lunch? I’m starving,” Didier said as they stepped out onto the
wet street. Fortunately, the rain had exhausted itself into a drizzle while
they’d been inside with Monsieur Conchard.

“How can you still be hungry after tasting twenty different cheeses?” she
teased.

“How can you not be hungry?” he retorted.

“If we leave now, we’ll avoid traffic, because everyone’s having lunch,”
she offered.

“I’m not leaving without having eaten properly.”

Seeing his determination, Jeanne stopped arguing and followed him to his
favorite restaurant. As they walked, she tried to form an opinion about the
town. It wasn’t as pretty as the more touristy places in Normandy, but its
half-timbered houses certainly had a lot of charm. And it was provincial
through and through even compared to her hometown of Nîmes.

“Jeanne?”

She slowly turned away from the church they were passing, already knowing
who it was. She’d recognized his voice. She would have recognized it in a crowd
of people shouting her name.

“What are you doing here?” Mat stared at Jeanne as if she were an apparition.

“Meeting with a supplier,” Jeanne said before introducing the two men to
each other.

“We’ve met before,” Mat said to Didier. “I used to frequent
La Bohème
a few years back, when Rob worked there
.
”

Didier put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can’t recall.” He
turned to Jeanne, “We need to hurry if we want to get a table.”

“Where are you guys headed?” Mat asked.

“Le Cheval Bleu—why?” Didier shot Mat a hostile look.

“What a coincidence! That’s where I’m going for lunch.”

“No kidding,” Jeanne said in her driest voice.

“It’s the best place in town, and I only go for the best.” Mat squinted
at her and smiled his crooked smile. “Do you mind if I tag along? We could talk
about our common friends and remember the good old times.”

Jeanne stole a glance at Didier. He’d folded his arms across his chest,
lifted his head, and straightened as if trying to reach Mat’s height. His mouth
had thinned into a hard line, and even though he remained silent, his body
language was loud and clear.

This is a disaster in the making,
Jeanne thought. Yet some
treacherous part of her was thrilled to spend the next hour in Mat’s company.

“Fine. Whatever.” Didier tugged at Jeanne’s sleeve. “Let’s move.”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Mat said. “Just need to make a quick phone call.”

Jeanne and Didier were already seated when Mat walked into the
restaurant. He exchanged a handshake and a few warm words with the chef and the
waiter who rushed to add a chair and utensils to Jeanne’s table.

After they ordered, Mat fixed his gaze on Jeanne, staring at her for much
longer than was polite.

She shifted in her seat.

“I’m not used to seeing you in jeans,” he said by way of apology. “Either
of you, that is,” he added, turning to Didier.

“Why, did you think I was born in a server uniform?” Didier asked, a
muscle pulsing on his jaw.

Mat turned to Jeanne again. “I much prefer your current look to the
Gothic stuff you wore outside work a few years ago.”

She smiled. “Oh yeah, my Gothic phase.”

“Do you still hang out with Goths?” Mat asked.

Jeanne shook her head. “I never did, actually. I was what the Goths call
a
poseur
.
I loved their
esthetics, I copied their dress, but I never shared their worldview.”

“Which is?” Didier asked.

“A fascination with all things tragic and morbid,” Jeanne explained.

“Was that why you dyed your hair blue rather than black?” Mat asked.

“Yeah,” Jeanne said. “I guess it was my touch of rebellion against their
rebellion . . . I never enjoyed Gothic music, either.”

“You used to like Sting,” Mat said.

“Still do.” Jeanne looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m faithful like
that.”

Mat swallowed hard and held her gaze. For a few moments, no one spoke.
Jeanne and Mat peered at each other, while Didier’s face grew tenser and redder
by the second. Then, thankfully, their food arrived.

They ate in silence.

“It was nice seeing you . . . guys,” Mat said when they
finished the meal and stood to leave.

“Take care,” Jeanne said.

Didier glared at him and walked out of the restaurant.

On their drive back, Jeanne thought of Mat, noting with satisfaction that
her initial excitement was giving way to anger. He had no right to intrude on
their meal. He had no right to look at her like that—as if she had
mattered to him—or talk to her as if he had cared. He had no right to
treat Didier with contempt.

Then she thought of Didier, telling herself he was a solid guy who had
enough trust and respect for her to want to be her business partner.

And, possibly, more.

***

Chapter Three

November

Cécile climbed into bed next to Mat who looked up from his iPad and
smiled. She had a pencil, a highlighter
,
and a thick binder in her hands.

“Things are looking better for my client,” she said.

Given her penchant for understatement, he inferred she expected to win
the case. “That’s my girl. Would it be premature to announce it during the
public debate at the town hall?”

“When’s the debate?”

“Saturday. I’m counting on your presence.”

“I’ll be there. This GMO case will set a precedent in the region, so the
judge is taking longer than usual.” She tapped her teeth with her pencil. “I
should be able to tell you on Friday if you can make an announcement.”

“What about the windmills?”

She sighed. “We’ve got the Government’s Environment Pact and the
greater
good
on our side, but the plaintiffs’ arguments are
more . . . emotionally charged.”

“They can’t sleep because of the noise and they hate the skyline, right?”
He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to take a
public stand on this. Sooner or later someone’s bound to ask what I think about
the windmills.”

“Has anyone polled the locals?”

“Mom surveyed a sample of sixty Balevilleans. The opinions were divided,
almost fifty-fifty,” he said.

“So, what’s your stand going to be?” She cocked her head. “You’re a
Green—you can’t turn against wind turbines just because some people find
them ugly.”

“And noisy. Besides, some Greens are concerned about their impact on
wildlife.”

“Oh, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “A wind turbine kills an average of
one bird per year. Fossil fuels kill a
lot
more.”

He threw his hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

“I’ll prepare a fact sheet with references to serious studies,” she said.
“I did tons of research for my case, so it won’t take a lot of time.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, baby. What would
I do without you?”

“Lose the election?”

“I may lose it anyway,” he said.

“Not if you follow my advice.” She winked at him. “I want you to become
mayor of this town just as much as you do.”

“For environmental reasons?” he asked.

“And for private ones, too.” She smiled.

He stroked her taut cheek
,
and
his hand slid down to caress her bony shoulder through the fabric of her silk
pajamas. He didn’t try to bare it. As much as he liked the sight of her dainty
frame in her sleek clothes, she was so skinny it pained him to look at her
naked. Oh, how he wished she had curves. Not like Jeanne—that would’ve
been too much to ask. He’d be happy with a hint of flesh in one or two
strategic places. But Cécile was a calorie-counting, low-carbing, fat-avoiding
vegan, which made acquiring said flesh virtually impossible. Once in a moment
of drunken honesty, she shared the real reason behind her multiple food
restrictions. Cécile hated the act of eating. But she didn’t want to explain
this to anyone, so she’d come up with all those diets to conveniently invoke at
mealtimes.