“You will call?” he asked uncertainly. “I hope you will call.”
“Maybe,” I said. I felt a bit mean. But at the same time, the noncommittal answer filled me with a little rush of power. Perhaps it was nice to know that I could go to bed tonight without a stomach full of butterflies, without wondering if the man would call me.
“It has been a pleasure spending the day with you, Emma,” Sébastien said formally. He leaned in and kissed me again, a long, lingering, probing kiss this time. I knew it was supposed to make me change my mind. I knew I was supposed to grow weak in the knees and invite Sébastien in despite my earlier refusal. And I very nearly did.
After all, it was the perfect French kiss.
But perhaps that didn’t mean anything at all.
Chapter Nine
Ah, so you met Sébastien?” Poppy said, eyeing me in amusement the next morning.
I was confused at Poppy’s reaction. She’d been in bed by the time I arrived home, and I’d been eager to get up the next morning to tell her about my unexpected date the day before. Perhaps, I thought, she’d been right about the potential of these French guys after all.
“What?” I asked. “You know him? That’s impossible.” How could she know a person I’d randomly encountered in a city of millions?
“Let me guess,” she said drily. “He was tall with glasses. Sitting alone. Reading a novel. Told you he goes to a different café each week?”
I stared. Was she clairvoyant? “Yes,” I said. “But how . . . ?”
“I met him my second week in Paris,” she said, the left corner of her mouth curling upward into a smile she was clearly trying to fight. “I’d been taking a walk near Notre Dame, and it started to rain, so I ducked into Café Margot. He was there, reading a Gérard de Nerval book. The moment he realized I was British, he came right over.”
“What?” My mouth felt dry.
“I didn’t realize until I was telling my American friend Lauren about it that it’s apparently his routine,” Poppy said. “He did the exact same thing to her. Wined her, dined her, took her on a tour of Montmartre, got her drunk at that great fondue place up there. Is that what happened to you?”
“Yes,” I said, flabbergasted.
“Right. Me, too. And then he walks you home and asks if he can come in?” Poppy finished the story for me.
I gaped at her and nodded silently.
“Well, at least you were smart enough to say no,” she said. “I wasn’t as smart. He wound up spending the night.”
“You’re kidding,” I said flatly.
“Not at all.” Poppy grinned. “Nothing happened. But imagine how foolish I felt when I told Lauren the story and found out the same thing had happened to her.”
“Probably just about as foolish as I feel right now,” I muttered.
“Don’t feel that way,” Poppy said brightly. “That’s the game they play. They know exactly how to woo you. But as soon as they get what they want, they’re on to the next conquest. It just proves my point. You have to jump ship before you get too attached.”
I was feeling a little ill. “Are all French guys like this?” I asked in horror.
Poppy laughed. “No. I believe Sébastien is a rare case. But he’s a great example of why you can’t believe a word they say. Never. Men just want to tell you lies, whether they’re French or American or British. It’s universal. At least according to Janice Clark-Meyers, the author of Different Language, Same Men.”
I looked at her for a moment. “You sound awfully bitter,” I said carefully. “Darren must have really hurt you.”
Poppy looked away. “No. I’m just a realist.”
Poppy went out Sunday evening to meet some guy for drinks, and I spent the time finally unpacking my two massive suitcases, hanging clothes in my tiny wardrobe chest and putting away T-shirts, lingerie, and nightgowns in the little drawers under my bed.
I was lost in trying to decide whether to put my shoes under my bed or buy an over-the-door shoe rack somewhere when the phone rang, startling me.
“Emma, I’ve missed you,” said Brett’s familiar voice on the other end when I picked up. I froze, stunned. It had been nearly five weeks since I’d last seen him, and already his voice sounded unfamiliar to me. “Your sister gave me your number,” he added. “It hasn’t been the same here without you.”
I breathed into the phone. I didn’t know what to say. Had he, by some sixth sense, realized that for the first time last night, I’d fallen asleep without thinking about him? I’d just been getting used to a life without him.
“Emma? Are you there?”
“Brett,” I said finally, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I miss you,” he said, sounding wounded. “Don’t you miss me?”
“No,” I said. There was silence on the other end, and I felt guilty—not just for hurting his feelings but because it was a lie. I did miss him. But that was pathetic, wasn’t it?
“I shouldn’t have said the things I did,” he said after a moment. “I was stupid, and I’m so sorry. It was all a mistake.”
I was silent. I didn’t know what to say.