Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (5 page)

She had denied her confession vehemently upon sobering up.

Mat kissed her and tugged on her binder. “Put this away,” he whispered.

“Mat,” she said admonishingly.

“Yes?”

“I have to read all this before the hearing tomorrow.”

“Can’t you read it first thing in the morning?”

“I won’t have the time.”

He pulled away a few inches and peered into her eyes.

She looked down at her papers. “Besides, it isn’t Saturday yet,” she
said, her tone reproachful.

He removed his hand from her shoulder and sat up. Christ, she made
lovemaking sound like a chore that had to be done on certain days
.
Like vacuuming or changing the bed
linen. Was it what sex was to her—a chore? Was it the real reason why
she’d only do it on Saturdays? And only those when she didn’t have her period,
a headache, or . . . no energy.

Whenever he asked her if she wanted him to do things differently, she’d
always say she was happy with his
methods
.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling she resented their couplings, rare as they
may be. Was having sex like eating for her—another bodily function she
hated but wouldn’t dare admit it? He loved her but, God, how he wished she had
a tenth of Jeanne’s sensuality!

As he stared unseeing at his tablet computer, he pictured Jeanne in his
mind’s eye, her out of this world body, her sweet face, her lush lips, and
irresistible smile. He recalled every detail of how she looked in her wicked
cocktail dress at Rob’s party and then in those tight jeans when he’d run into her
last month. His pulse picked up.

Great.

Mat clasped his hands over his head. How could Jeanne still make him feel
this way, after three years of no contact? The half dozen curvaceous, beautiful
women he associated with on a daily basis left him as cold as ice. What was it
about Jeanne that affected him like this?

He finally fell asleep after convincing himself
that his visceral reaction was residue from his youthful crush. It would peter
out. All he needed to do was stay away from her. It would be madness to risk
losing Cécile—the woman he planned to marry one day—over a romp
with a hot babe he had nothing in common with.

***

“I’ll have a double this morning,” José said. “Haven’t slept well.”

“A double it is.” Jeanne tilted her head to the side. “You do look a
little tired.”

“That kid on the third floor played the guitar again . . .
almost until dawn.” José shook his head in despair.

“Is he any good?”

José blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Not that it matters, of course,” she said quickly. “He shouldn’t disturb
his neighbors’ sleep.”

José gave a tentative nod
.

She handed him his coffee and smiled to reassure him she was on his side
.

His face relaxed. “I see you hired a new server,” he said, taking a sip
and nodding in Amar’s direction.

“Nothing escapes your notice, José.”

“Looks a little too . . . young.” He grimaced as he said
young
.

“It’ll pass. And it isn’t contagious,” Jeanne said.

José sighed and drank the rest of his coffee in thoughtful silence.

During the staff lunchtime three hours later, Jeanne caught Amar
red-handed: He was about to shove a plate into the microwave.

“Freeze!” she yelled.

He dutifully froze, holding the plate midair while gripping the microwave
door with his other hand.

“Now slowly close the microwave, put the plate down, and turn to face
me,” she ordered.

He turned around.

She shook her head. “Thank God it was me and not Claude who caught you
trying to nuke that meat.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? First, if Claude gives you a cold dish for lunch, it’s
supposed
to be eaten cold.”

“And second?” Amar tilted his head.

“No one ever uses the microwave. It’s a firing offense.”

“Then why do you keep one here?”

“How shall I explain it . . .” Jeanne pinched her chin.
“You see, every bistro
must
have a microwave oven. Yet, every
good
bistro makes a point of never using it.”

“Of course, it’s totally obvious,” Amar said, deadpan.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Jeanne nodded, somehow managing not to
smile. “So, I’ll forget what I just saw, and we’ll pretend it never happened,
OK?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned away to greet Amanda who’d just come in. Her office was around
the corner, and she was a regular during lunch at
La Bohème
,
eating it at the counter to chat with
Jeanne. She once told Jeanne she would have come more often if it hadn’t been
for fear of running into Lena or Rob. Being the latter’s ex, she didn’t
particularly relish the prospect.

“Do you think you could close the place off after nine on Friday?” Amanda
asked.

“Depends on the number of people you’re bringing. What’s the occasion?”
Jeanne asked.

Amanda beamed. “My big promotion. I’m now officially number two in the
department.”

“We’ll close if you can get twenty-five people. Thirty would be better.”

“I’m inviting all the colleagues I’ve worked with directly, which should
be about twenty,” Amanda said. “And all my friends.” She paused before adding,
“Which should bring us to twenty-five . . . I hope.”

“Are you inviting Rob?”

“No way,” Amanda said.

Jeanne gave her a sympathetic look.

Amanda sighed. “I’m not . . . angry anymore. I just don’t
want to see him, that’s all.” Then her face brightened. “But I’m inviting Mat
and Rob’s business partner, Patrick. They’re my friends regardless of their
connection with Rob.”

Jeanne didn’t register much after the word “Mat.”

I’m going to see him Friday night . . . unless he
declines Amanda’s invitation.

For some reason she didn’t think he would. But what if he brought his
girlfriend? Jeanne frowned. She didn’t want to see Mat with his girlfriend.

She briefly considered asking Didier to give her a hand during Amanda’s
promotion bash but decided against it. There was no need to stoke the tension
between the two men.

It would be best for everyone if Mat simply didn’t show up.

“Is something wrong? You look preoccupied,” Amanda said.

“Aside from the universe conspiring against me?” Jeanne shrugged and
shook her head. “No, everything’s fine.”

“How enigmatic.” Amanda narrowed her eyes. “But, unfortunately, I’ve got
to get back to the office. We’ll discuss this later.”

She paid and climbed down from the barstool. “So Friday, right?”

“Right,” Jeanne said. “Wine and cheese?”

“You read my mind.”

That night Jeanne left earlier than usual. One could pull only so many
doubles in a row without a break. Besides, she needed a free evening to
reconnect with the people she loved. She hadn’t had a meaningful conversation
with her parents in a while. Her only communication with her brother over the
past months had been a few laconic text messages. And when was the last time
she went out with friends? She’d been too focused on work, which was a smart
thing to do financially and to keep her mind off Mat.

But the downside was piling into a heap too large to ignore.

As she stepped into the lobby, she spotted the concierge polishing the
enormous mirror on one of the walls.

Jeanne approached her and held her hand out. “Hi, I’m Jeanne. My
apartment is right there on the ground floor.”

The concierge gave her a small smile and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet
you. I’m Daniela.”

She reminded Jeanne of Lena. Daniela was small, dark-haired, and doe-eyed
with something unmistakably East European in her features. She looked to be in
her midtwenties. She could have been pretty, Jeanne thought. But as it was,
Daniela wore her hair in the most unflattering style Jeanne had ever seen, hunched
her shoulders, and hid her body in shapeless drab clothes.

“I work at
La Bohème
up the street,” Jeanne said.

“Oh, I went there a few days ago for a coffee. Nice place.”

Her accent was definitely East European.

“Where are you from?” Jeanne asked.

“Romania.”

“Daniela, would it be OK if I asked you to take in parcels for me every
once in a while?”

“Of course. It’s part of my job.”

“Great, thank you!”

It was time to wrap up the conversation and let the woman get on with her
work. But Jeanne had one more question. “Are you alone in the loge?”

Daniela shook her head. “I have a little boy, Liviu. He’s eight.”

Jeanne nodded.

“But he’s a quiet boy. He doesn’t make noise.”

“I know.” Jeanne tugged on her necklace. “Listen, we’re next door
neighbors now, right? So, if you need anything . . . or need
help, just knock on my door or come over to the bistro. OK?”

“You heard the fight a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you?” Daniela asked,
biting her lip.

“It was hard not to.”

“I’m so sorry about that—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jeanne cut in. “I just want you to know
you can reach out to me if . . . that guy bothers you again.”

“He’s my boyfriend. He’s a nice guy when he’s sober. He’s good to Liviu,
too. He’s just going through a rough patch after losing his job
.
”

Jeanne touched Daniela’s arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Welcome
to our building, Daniela.”

After she walked into her apartment and collapsed on the couch, Jeanne
wondered what it was with women like Daniela—and herself—that
pushed them toward the wrong men. Daniela’s was violent. As for her picks, they
were either philandering or already taken. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to fall for
a nice guy for once? A nice
available
guy.

Someone like Didier.

***

The wine and cheese idea had been a stroke of genius, Jeanne thought
without false modesty. First, it allowed them to test all the new cheeses
they’d ordered from Normandy and quickly gauge which ones were more popular
than others. Second, it didn’t require the service or even the presence of the
chef tonight. Claude had been feeling under the weather all week, so Pierre
told him to go home early and watch a comedy. The proprietor, whose
joie de
vivre
was indomitable, persisted in hoping depression could be cured by a
night off and a comedy. However, he had learned his lesson from Claude’s
previous bouts and made arrangements in case the chef was a no-show tomorrow.

Mat had come alone.

“Girlfriend too busy again?” Jeanne had asked after they greeted each
other.

“Yeah,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

She gave a few instructions to Amar
,
who was helping her tonight, and turned back to Mat. “The cheeses over there
are the ones we ordered in Baleville
.
”

“It fills me with immense pride that our products are good enough for
refined Parisian palates.”

Jeanne smirked and turned her attention to other guests. She spent the
next three hours slicing cheese, pouring wine, and taking orders. Mat spent his
time talking to Amanda and Patrick. Amanda cruised from one small group to
another, joking and laughing and looking the happiest Jeanne had seen her in a
long time.

A little before midnight, Jeanne realized that Amanda was the last person
left in the bistro, not counting herself and Amar
.

So,
Mat left without saying good-bye.

Her heart tingled with disappointment, but it was better this way. For
everyone.

Amar began to clean up while she went over to Amanda to exchange a cheek
kiss. Amanda threw her arms around Jeanne in a bear hug. “Thank you for this
lovely evening, Jeanne! Everything was perfect.”

Jeanne patted her on the back. “It was a pleasure
and . . . I think you’ve had too much wine tonight.”

“Why do you say that? Do I look drunk?” Amanda released Jeanne and
whipped out a pocket mirror from her purse. “Do I sound drunk?”

Jeanne chuckled. “Neither. It was the hug that gave you away. You don’t
do
hugs.”

“Oh.” Amanda grinned, relieved.

“Let me call you a cab. You shouldn’t take the
métro
in this state
and at this hour.”

Ten minutes later, Amanda was gone and so was Amar
.
It was time to close up and haul herself home. Jeanne
loaded the remaining glasses into the dishwasher and removed her apron. She was
about to put on her parka, when someone pushed the back door open and stepped
in from the bistro’s courtyard.

It was Mat—coatless and shivering.

Spotting Jeanne, Mat sighed with relief and congratulated himself on his
perfect timing. Had he waited a few seconds longer, she would’ve left, locking
him in.

“What the . . . ,” Jeanne said, stopping in her
tracks.

OK. He owed her an explanation. “It got too stuffy in here, so I went out
for some air.”

“And fell asleep?” She gave him an I’m-so-not-buying-it look.

“I smoked a cigarette,” he said, blushing like a schoolboy. “A first in
six months . . . And I lost track of time.” Another shiver ran
through his body.

Jeanne hung her jacket back on the hook. “Come on. Sit by the heater
while I make you tea.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, leaning his back against the
blissfully warm heater.

She gave him a shoulder glance. “I won’t have a customer catching pneumonia
after an evening in my charge.”

A few minutes later, she placed two steaming mugs on the table in front
of him and sat down. She was unbearably attractive even in the masculine shirt
and wide pants of her bistro uniform
.
He forced himself to look away.

“If you leave in the next half hour, you can still catch the last
métro
,”
she said. “I suppose you’re staying at Rob and Lena’s?”