Meet Me in Paris: A Memoir (Paperback)

Meet Me in Paris

Prologue

No matter the season, no matter the weather, love is always in the air in Paris.

And tonight is no different. 

The autumn sun has been swept away by a splattering of gray clouds, blanketing the city’s cobblestone streets in one of those inky, mysterious Parisian nights where lovers’ secrets will be swept away by the choppy waters of the Seine, or captured whole by the Gothic towers of Notre Dame, or better yet, swallowed up by the bottle of red wine my own lover and I are sharing in a charming little bar near Châtelet.

Yes, I’ve taken a lover. 

In Paris. 

A Paris lover.

Oh, how I adore the taste of those delicious words.  

The Merlot slips past my lips, smooth and rich, as I smile at this most disarming man I have by my side. I give him a look that is both coy and inviting, in lust and falling—well, more like plummeting—headfirst and harder than ever before.

It is only the third time we’ve been together, and already, this lover of mine has hopped on a plane from Chicago to spend a few days with me in Paris. 

I’m not sure if he understands how much his presence by my side, in my beloved city, means to me. Or how each touch of his strong hands, each adoring smile, each endearing tilt of his head is healing this broken heart of mine. 

Divorce has a way of shattering hearts like nothing else. And mine is no exception. It has only been a few months since I left my husband—the man I have loved for twelve years, the man I still love, despite my choice to leave our dying marriage—and I know these days in Paris with my lover will be my only happy ones for some time. 

We’ve spent this crisp fall day strolling hand in hand along the hilly streets of Montmartre, devouring croissants aux amandes and pains au chocolat, stealing kisses in abandoned courtyards, sipping espresso at hilltop cafés, flirting with every word, every breath, and falling ever so hopelessly in love. 

Although neither of us wants to admit it yet.

As my lover drinks his wine, he gives me a sly look that says, Get up, go to the bathroom, let me slip off your jeans, and I’ll take you right here, right now.  

I haven’t known him that long, but I know what his looks mean.

“We’re only a few blocks from our flat in the Marais,” I say to this insatiable man. “And besides, French bathrooms are so tiny.”

“That’s a few blocks too far,” he replies, sliding his hand up my thigh. “And you’re so tiny. I think we’ll be just fine.”

“Lover. You’ll just have to wait.” I smack his hand, loving the way he wants me so.

The truth is, in the days since I left my marriage, I’ve been ravenous for affection, for sex, for love. A lioness let out of her cage. Raw, powerful, and in need.

I would let my lover take me anytime, anywhere. And he knows it. 

But I so enjoy teasing him.

Suddenly my older, playful lover becomes all serious, taking my hand. 

A long silence stretches between us as he holds my gaze. I have a feeling that whatever is coming will probably make me cry.

Finally, he speaks.

“No matter what happens with us in the future, whether you’re finished with me after Paris or we can’t stay away from each other for the rest of our lives, promise me…promise me…that at some point in the next five years, we’ll meet again in Paris.”

I glance down at my lover’s silver wedding band, not meaning to, not wanting to, but my eyes go there, if only to remind myself of the reality of our situation. That I am falling in love with a man who is mine and who isn’t mine. A man who is healing my heart and ripping it apart, all at the same time.

I can’t stop the tears from rimming my eyes as I look up into his intense green gaze, the gaze that unhinges me completely, unravels my heart, makes me do all sorts of things I never would have dreamt of doing before he stormed into my life. 

Or before I stormed into his.

It is here, lost in his eyes, where I forget all about my wounded heart.

“Hmm. Me, you, Paris, in the next five years…” I hesitate, pretending to consider my options. 

“Promise me,” he demands as he squeezes my waist and pulls me close so he can run those deadly lips of his along my neck. 

He can’t get enough of me; since the day I met him, he never could.

“Yes. I promise,” I whisper, once I’ve caught my breath. 

And then his lips find mine in this bar in Paris, where no one knows us, where no one recognizes the romance writer and her lover, holding on to each other, making promises we aren’t sure we can keep, but making them all the same.

When we dash out of the bar moments later, I wonder how many secrets the wind is carrying as it whips past, waltzing over cobblestones, rustling through trees. 

Quite a lot, I imagine, in a city this grand, a city this thrilling, a city so gloriously full of love.