But I couldn’t.
I take a sip of the espresso, watching the Parisian people carrying on with their lives outside the café on streets full of history and beauty. My therapist asked me why I stayed—was it the money? The status? My cushiony lifestyle? Love? Memories of what we had been, what we were? Fear of the unknown, of being lonely and what I’d be throwing away? I wasn’t a practical person. I always let my heart lead the way, but when faced with those questions and the stark reality they offered, it was hard to fool myself.
It wasn’t only my love for William that made me stay. I had done nothing with my life except be William’s wife, and the thought of figuring out who I was without him terrified me. It still does. If I’m honest with myself, I think that’s what hurts the most about his betrayal. That he made a farce of everything I stood for, everything I held dear. He made me doubt myself as a wife, as a person, and as a woman.
Almost finished with my espresso, I browse a travel guide of Paris, unsure of where to go next. The Louvre or Notre Dame? After the phone call and a good cry, I’d made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t let the state of my marriage bring me down or allow the turmoil inside me ruin my stay. Screw that. I won’t give my husband the satisfaction to wreck this, too. I’m in Paris, the City of Light, where Picasso, Hemingway, Matisse, and many others lived. I plan on enjoying myself while figuring out what to do with my life and whatever is left of our marriage.
I push my glasses higher up my nose while reading a passage about the architecture of the famous Cathedral. William hates them, saying they make me look like a nerd. He would always ask me to not wear “those stupid things” and put my contacts in. I smile, pleased. I guess I still have a streak of rebellion left in me.
The waitress comes over to remove my plate. I’m thanking her when the maddening man from the gallery walks by the cafe, the one whose kiss and arms I still feel around me like phantom limbs. His gait is easy and relaxed. He’s almost past the restaurant but stops when he recognizes an older gentleman sitting a few tables away from me. He goes to talk to him, and my heart goes into overdrive by his mere proximity. They shoot the breeze for a little. And like a Peeping Tom, I seem unable to stop watching him. The way his hair falls loosely over an eyebrow. This boyish half-smile that lingers after he laughs at something the other man said. The sharp lines of his features at odds with the lushness of his lips. Brutal. That’s it. He’s brutally handsome without even trying.
He looks up and lets his gaze travel across his surroundings. Panic, and fear that he’ll notice or catch me gawking at him, makes me drop my book clumsily on my lap. With my heart in my throat, I pick it back up as fast as my awkward fingers will allow, raise and hide behind it, pretending to read while silently praying that he didn’t see me.
Please. Please.
“Hello, neighbor.”
Crap.
“Hey.” I force myself to meet his eyes, and I’m taken aback once more by how piercing they are. They are eyes that make love and enslave you. But then again, everything about him is designed to awaken one’s darkest, most erotic fantasies. “Hi. I didn’t see you there.”
If he knows I’m full of shit, he doesn’t call me out on it. “How’s the book?” He tilts his head to the right as though trying to read the title. The corners of his mouth twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“The book? Oh, yes. Great.” I glance at the culprit and notice I’m holding it upside down. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I flip it back up. “I was trying … you know. To look at a picture from all angles,” I add lamely. Seriously, Valentina? All angles?
He chuckles, and the sound is throaty and masculine and spine tingling. “I keep bumping into you,” he adds quietly, a soft, slow, and intoxicating smile lingering on that full mouth of his.
“Is that a good thing or bad?”
“I don’t know … I’m still trying to figure it out.” He looks at the empty chair across the table from me. “May I?”
“No, I was—”
He pulls the chair out and sits down across from me, our knees touching. He takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back. While he does, I try my damn hardest not to gape at him. Wearing only a faded black tee that molds to his muscular chest, it takes every ounce of willpower I own to tear my gaze away from him and his golden skin.
“Getting ready to leave …”
He nods towards the book lying open on the table. “Where you going?”
I shut it closed. “Nowhere.”
“Bien.” He looks around for the waitress to place an order, but he might as well save himself the trouble. She’s been eyeing him hungrily since he sat down, waiting for the chance to approach him. “Then you can join me for a glass of wine.”
I grab my bag, preparing to leave. “I’d rather not, but thank you for the offer.”
“You’re still mad about the other day?” He reaches across the tiny table for my hand. “If so, I’m sorry.”
“I thought you weren’t going to apologize.” The warmth of his touch sends a shot of electric heat running through me stirring my senses. However, logic, or self-preservation, wins and I remove my hand.
“I’m not. I’m sorry it upset you, but I’m not sorry it happened. Stay.”
“As I’ve already said, I’d rather not.” Everything about him makes me want to put an ocean between us.
He tilts his head to the side, sizing me up. “Pity … I didn’t peg you for a coward.”
I tighten my grip on my bag, offended. “I’m not.”
“Prove it.“ He raises an eyebrow. “Have a glass of wine with me.”
Without saying a word, I let go of my bag and sit back down. I fold my hands primly over my lap and raise my eyes to meet his, responding silently to his challenge. Well, two can most certainly tango.
He grins approvingly.
The waitress comes over, and it seems for the time being we’ve reached a temporary truce. His gaze remains trained on me while he orders a bottle of Brunello, and I fight the urge to fidget in my seat. The waitress walks away, leaving us to ourselves.
Leaning back comfortably in the chair, he rests his leg horizontally over the knee of the other as he runs both of his hands through his longish jet-black hair. My fingers itch to touch its softness. “They suit you.” He points toward my eyes.
Instinctively, my hands go to my round, horn-rimmed glasses, and I inwardly groan when I realize what he’s referring to. I start to remove them but decide to keep them on.
“Good decision. I like them on you.”
My heart skips a beat. I blush furiously. “Thanks,” I say, but the statement comes out sounding more like a question.