Honeymoon in Paris
Chapter One
A warm glow of morning sunlight whispered bonjour as I batted my eyelids open and smiled at the ruffled pillow on Luc’s side of the bed. I peeked over at the clock and grinned even wider when I realized that it was ten a.m. and I had nowhere else to be.
It was the last day of our luxurious Paris honeymoon and the last week of my incredible four-week paid vacation. I’d spent a considerable portion of this particular week wrapped in these very sheets in pure, unadulterated, knock-my-socks-off bliss with a man who I was madly in love with, and who loved me more than I ever knew I could be loved.
Luc Olivier.
I rolled his name around on my tongue, reveling in its perfect syllables, in the way it made my stomach leap, my heart swell, my legs quiver. And as I closed my eyes once more, I realized that no matter how tumultuous the past year had been, Luc had always made me feel this way, since the very first time our paths had crossed almost one year ago.
The heavenly aromas of buttery croissants, melted chocolate, and strong French coffee swirled through the expansive suite, arousing my senses, making my stomach growl. In the next room, a light clattering of plates and silverware mixed with the soft beat of Keren Ann’s “Jardin D’Hiver”—one of my favorite French songs.
It’s a song I used to play for my students back when I was a high school French teacher in DC. But as I slipped one bare leg over the crisp white sheets in our Paris honeymoon suite and felt an early fall breeze flitter across my skin, I remembered that the romantic week I’d been enjoying in the City of Light was a far cry from my frenzied days in the nation’s capital.
I discovered my lacy violet nightie hiding in the sheets by my feet and slipped it over my head, but just as I was about to get out of bed, Luc’s rugged face appeared at our bedside. A mischievous grin peppered his unshaven cheeks while his chestnut eyes glinted in the orange morning light.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” he said, presenting me with a tray of fresh pâtisseries, two small tasses de café, and the morning journal, the way he’d done every single morning of our dreamy honeymoon.
Is this really my life?
“Let us take our petit déjeuner in bed, no?”
I giggled at Luc’s adorable accent and decided it was best not to argue. “Whatever you say.”
Luc rested the tray over my lap, then removed his jeans and T-shirt before slipping his lean body underneath the sheets, his legs intertwining with mine. The minute his hands reached my waist, he pressed his moist lips into the crook of my neck and left a trail of soft kisses down my shoulder. Tingles rolled down my spine while butterflies twirled through my stomach.
“If this is what heaven is like, sign me up,” I said. I was tempted to tell him that breakfast could wait, but as I’d learned from our recent mornings together, Luc liked to drink his delicious French café while it was still hot. I couldn’t say I blamed him.
“I know we have tried new kinds of pastries each morning,” Luc began. “But this morning, I made a special trip over to my favorite pâtisserie on rue de Passy to bring you the world’s best pain au chocolat. I hope you will like it.”
I raised a flirty eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to sell me on chocolate croissants, Luc. Trust me, I could eat more of these every day than I would ever admit to you.”
Luc’s charming grin lit up the room. “Me too,” he said before we both took our first bites into the flaky, buttery delights.
A sliver of warm, gooey dark chocolate hit my tongue. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding. These are the best chocolate croissants in the world. Why have you been holding out on me?” I nudged him as I took another scrumptious bite.
Luc winked at me, then took a sip of his café. “I wanted to save the best for our last day in Paris. There is more to come.” A hint of mischief sparkled in his eyes, making me wonder what else he had up his sexy sleeve.
“Oh? What do you have planned for today?”
“You’ll see.”
I leaned in and gave Luc a chocolat-covered kiss on the lips. When we resurfaced for air, I rested my forehead on his and whispered, “You know, if you want to feed me a pain au chocolat in bed every day for the rest of our lives, I’d be more than okay with that.”
Luc’s lips found mine once more, and this time I plummeted a little further into the depths of his touch, his scent, his kiss. When he pulled away, I laughed at the dab of chocolate I’d smeared on his cheek.
“Here, let me,” I said, lifting a napkin from the tray.
But as I picked up the napkin, today’s paper spilled onto my lap, the bold headline catching my eye.
“Ooh, that new romantic comedy I’ve been wanting to see—Le Problème avec l’Amour—is premiering in Paris this weekend.”
“The Problem with Love,” Luc repeated as he slipped his arm around my waist and peered over my shoulder at the paper. “Never heard of it.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to suffer through a girly movie with me. Fiona is in love with the lead actor, Marcel Boucher, so I’ve promised her we’d see it together next week.”
Luc nodded without responding, then flipped to the second page of the paper.
The headline staring back at us made me gasp. “Students arrested in massive drug ring bust at the Cité Universitaire,” I translated aloud, not believing my eyes as I continued skimming the article. The Cité Universitaire is the large campus situated in the fourteenth arrondissement of Paris, where both Luc and I had been living only a few months ago.
“This is insane, Luc. The leader of the drug ring was Pascal Girard, the guy that lived at the end of our hall! Do you remember him?”
Luc nestled his face into my neck and traced my collarbone with his lips. “The only thing I like to remember about living in that dorm was the day I first bumped into you wearing a skimpy towel in the shower. Do you realize that was almost one year ago? And now you are my beautiful wife. I am the luckiest man in the world.”
Luc’s words made me forget about our dorm’s drug scandal and instead brought back a vivid flash of my first day in Paris and my first encounter with Luc. It had only been two days since I’d broken off my engagement with Jeff, my ex-fiancé. Even though I was more than a little burned from his tryst with the red-headed beauty he’d met online, I’d decided that no self-respecting Francophile woman would wallow around in self-pity on her first night in the City of Light. So that evening, in the communal shower of my Paris dorm, Luc’s steamy, towel-wrapped body bumped straight into mine . . . and we lived happily ever after.
Well, obviously that’s not exactly how it all played out. But honestly, what relationship didn’t have a few hiccups? I figured now that we’d already gotten the hard stuff out of the way, things would be smooth sailing from here on out.
Although, no matter how bumpy our relationship had become over the course of my first year in Paris, the steam from that first meeting in the showers never evaporated. And on this lazy morning, only one month after Luc had swooped back into my life, and only five days after we’d vowed to love each other for the rest of our lives, my clothes strewn all over the hotel floor and the half-eaten Lindt milk chocolate bar by our bedside were solid proof of that never-evaporating steam billowing between us.
I kissed Luc’s chocolate-covered cheek and giggled. “And I’m the luckiest woman in the world. Seriously Luc, you’ve really outdone yourself with this honeymoon.” I glanced around our ritzy suite at the Château Frontenac Hotel just off the Champs-Élysées, realizing how aptly named the hotel was. With its tall ceilings, crystal chandeliers, vases of freshly cut lilies, and regal furnishings, our suite resembled the inside of a mini castle. Of course we’d modernized the castle with bags of sinful chocolate from La Maison du Chocolat just across the street, colorful macarons from Ladurée around the corner, and sexy lingerie from Chez Isabelle, the raciest lingerie shop in Lyon—a place I’d become quite fond of since Luc and I had gotten back together.
“You know in French, the word for honeymoon, la lune de miel, refers to the first twenty-nine days after the wedding, when the couple is totally in love and everything is perfect.” Luc ran his hand up my thigh and kissed my shoulder. “I wanted to start off this time by giving you a week in Paris that you would never forget, especially since I did not show you this Paris the first time around. And the good news, chérie, is that this is only day five.”
Luc’s hand crept further up my thigh, and as much as I wanted to let that hand go wherever it pleased, there was something important I needed to ask him.
“This week has been incredible, Luc. Really, the most amazing, romantic week of my entire life. I just have one question, though—how on earth are you affording all of this? You just finished your master’s degree, you have Adeline to take care of, and you’re a professor. I just don’t want you to go into debt—”
Luc placed a finger on my lips. “That is not for you to worry about, mon amour. I promise you, we are not in any debt.” He snatched the journal from my hands and tossed it to the floor. “Now finish your pain au chocolat because we have a busy day ahead of us. Today, ma princesse, I’m taking you shopping on the Champs-Élysées.”
Now if an American man had ever called me “his princess”, I probably would’ve laughed in his face. But whenever Luc called me his princesse, his belle, his amour, his cœur, I practically melted in a puddle at his feet.
In my melted puddle state, I decided to table the finance discussion until we arrived home in Lyon. Our lightning-fast, three-week engagement period hadn’t allowed us the time to properly discuss the merging of finances, but surely we’d get to it next week. And if Luc wanted to take me shopping on the Champs-Élysées on our last day in Paris, who was I to argue?
I traced the outline of Luc’s handsome face with my finger. “Before we hit the Champs, care to join me in the shower?”
“Do you even need to ask?” The grin to end all sexy grins slid onto Luc’s lips before he removed the breakfast tray from my lap, pummeled me with kisses, then carried me into the shower.
Yes, the finance talk could definitely wait.
* * *
An hour and a whole lot of steam later, Luc and I emerged from the hotel elevator, our cheeks on fire with that newlywed glow we’d been carrying around all week. Hand in hand, we floated over the marble floor of the chic lobby, but just as we stepped out into the crisp autumn day, a swarm of camera-ready paparazzi stopped us in our tracks. And while I would’ve loved to think they were all waiting for the moment when Luc and Charlotte Olivier would walk out of this fancy hotel, they couldn’t have been less interested in us. It was the sleek, black limo that had just pulled up to the curbside that had all the cameras poised and ready for clicking.
Luc sidestepped around them, not seeming the least bit interested in finding out who was about to step out of that limo.
“Wait, Luc. This is so exciting. Who do you think it is?”
He kissed me on the forehead, then tugged at my hand. “You are my star, chérie. Come, let’s go shopping.”
“I’ve never seen anyone famous,” I said, peering around the cameras. “Let’s just see who it is and then we’ll go, okay?”
He eyed the photographers warily before giving a slight nod. How could Luc not be the least bit excited to see a celebrity?
A small crowd of tourists had gathered around the paparazzi, so I led Luc around the edge of the group until we had a clear view. As the limo door opened, a tall, slender man dressed in a crisp gray suit jacket and dark jeans appeared. His black hair was peppered with just enough gray to give him that distinguished, experienced look that only an older man could get away with. A rail-thin blonde who, from her profile, looked young enough to be the man’s daughter, took his outstretched hand and shot a sultry gaze at the cameras.
Just as her big green eyes turned toward us, I recognized her face. She was starring in Le Problème avec l’Amour alongside one of France’s most eligible heartthrobs, and my friend Fiona’s biggest celebrity crush, Marcel Boucher. As I was trying to remember the actress’s name, Luc turned to me, the look in his eyes one of pure bewilderment.
“Come on, Charlotte. Let’s go,” he said firmly.
But before we could even turn around, the young actress linked arms with her much older date, fixed her gaze on Luc, and strutted right up to us.
“Luc, what a nice surprise,” she said in French. “Obviously you remember Vincent.”
Luc’s face went stone cold as he stared at the two of them, cameras clicking furiously around us. The older man nodded at Luc, the severity in his hazel eyes overriding the politeness of his outstretched hand.
Luc didn’t take Vincent’s hand, though. Instead he squeezed my hand so tight I almost yelped, then cleared his throat.
What in the hell is going on?
“This must be your new girlfriend,” the girl purred, not masking the undertones of jealousy laced in her sex-kitten voice.
“This is Charlotte, my wife,” Luc responded without hesitation.
But as Luc’s eyes met mine, I saw something in them I hadn’t seen all week.
Dread.
“And Charlotte,” Luc began. “This is Brigitte, Adeline’s mother . . . and my ex-wife.”
