7. Anne
Chapter 7
Anne
Alexandre and I spent the whole day trekking around Paris. Clad in another floral sleeveless sundress and comfortable sandals, I felt less like a tourist and more like a true Parisienne as I walked around with him. He held my hand or guided me through crowds by holding my waist close to him. There was a street festival and we tried a lot of samples, including some very moldy cheese and fresh oysters.
He was kind and stifled his laugh when I misspoke to one of the vendors. Another case of mispronunciation on my part. I asked for beaucoup de chocolats and after some very confused looks, Alexandre took over. When walking away, he explained that my pronunciation of beaucoup was closer to beau cul , which means that I asked the vendor for a “nice ass of chocolates.”
Hopefully my skin is sun-kissed enough to cover my mortification and blushing. I find myself in awe of Alexandre and want so badly to impress him, to have his full attention.
Is this falling in love?
I shake my head, trying to dump all those thoughts out. Even if it’s love, I’m not staying in Paris. This is only a vacation. The honeymoon I never got to take and a treat to myself for how far I’ve come.
I could send in my pastry school application.
I’d stay in Paris if I got accepted. I took it on a whim while still on the excited high of the conference, but now I’m seriously considering applying. It’s not like Violet actually needs me in Kastle Harbor. She can handle the bakery’s needs all on her own. I love my family, but how much do we even see other now? It’s all phone calls and texts.
“What are you thinking about so hard for your frown to be like that, mon trésor ?” Alexandre’s velvety voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look around. We’re back at my place, in front of my door.
Did I really zone out the whole metro ride?
“Trying to figure out what my favorite part of today was,” I lie, hoping he can’t tell.
Why bother him with my ideas of the future? We enter my place and I take my shoes off. I want to swap them for different flats before we head to dinner.
“Tricky.” He takes my hands and pulls to him. “How can I pick one moment with you?” He kisses my forehead before letting go of my hands. His words send a little shiver through me. Goosebumps form on my arms.
Which reminds me that I need to grab a sweater. The summer days might be hot but it’s been chilly these past few nights.
“Where are we eating?” I ask him as I try to figure out which shoes to wear.
“I thought I could cook for you tonight, and then if you’re free tomorrow night, I can take you out to somewhere fancy.”
I’m speechless. First, he’s going to cook for me so that means I’m going to see his place. Am I going to sleep over? Do I need to pack a tote bag with a toothbrush? Second, a third night in a row that he’s off work. Was he already off? Did he take off? What is happening? My brain can’t handle all these questions.
Pick a path and take it.
“Sounds great. Dinner at your place tonight and a fancy restaurant tomorrow.” I pull my sweater on and slip into flats. “I’m ready then.”
“Not to be too presumptuous, but you may want to bring an overnight bag.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “I’m happy to walk you home but I fear that some French dinners can leave one feeling quite stuffed.” He pats his stomach. I know there’s nothing but muscle beneath, and lick my lips as I think about spending the night with him once more.
Perhaps we’re both in this little bubble of lust.
I can’t help but grin at his response before packing a tote bag with a few basic items. In addition to my toothbrush and hairbrush, I toss in a pair of underwear and a bra for tomorrow morning. I’m fine with wearing my outfit again. But the weather’s been too nice and my body gets so sweaty, a clean set of undergarments is needed.
We make it to Alexandre’s place in no time. His apartment is spacious, despite having only one bedroom. The bathroom is on the smaller side but he has a patio, large windows, and quite the kitchen. His furniture is a mix of dark wood and silver metals. The color scheme is navy and grey, with the textures rounding it all out. There don’t seem to be any patterns or funky splashes of color anywhere.
Come to think of it, so far, all his clothing has also been basics and solids.
This simplistic style fits him like a well-tailored suit.
“Okay, you relax and watch me cook for you.” He guides me to the stools at the kitchen island. His kitchen is all marble, the swirls of grey and cream mesmerizing to look at, though not quite like watching Alexandre start to cook.
“What’s on the menu?” I wiggle in my seat, trying to peek at everything he’s laid out on the countertop. “And are you sure I can’t help?” He’s tied an apron on and started dicing onions.
“ Non, mon trésor ,” he states. “Consider this me trying to impress you.”
He’s trying to impress me?
Just like I have been with the French language. Except I’ve only embarrassed myself with my attempts. I need to figure out a phrase that will let me show off and dazzle him.
I watch his hands move quickly as he makes his way through the vegetables next to him. All I can think about are his hands on my body and what his fingers can do.
I bite my lip, trying to distract my mind with a glimmer of pain. Instead, it makes me think more about Alexandre and the sensation of his tongue ever so slightly grazing my skin.
It doesn’t stop the heat that ignites in my lower abdomen, knowing that there’s only a little panel of lace between my core and being ravished by Alexandre once more. I take my sweater off and ask Alexandre for a glass of water. My mouth is dry and my palms sweaty. I wipe my hands on my dress. I’m not nervous. We’ve already slept together.
But why am I feeling anxious?
Can I make it through dinner?
Alexandre
In addition to a glass of water, I pull out a dry white wine and pour two glasses. I tell Anne about the flavor notes as I continue to prep dinner. I’m waiting for the perfect opening to tell Anne about my visit to Le Cordon Bleu . I wasn’t aware that one of the people on the team that reviews applications is an old culinary school buddy of mine.
Despite not tasting Anne’s pastries or knowing exactly what all she can do, I talked her up and described what I do know. I described her passion, her growth, her background and career switch. I explained that she is one of those people ready to dive in, learn everything, and thrive in Paris. Between the application and my words, he offered her a spot in the fall. She’d need to be back in the city for September and ready to jump right into classes. But she got in and the spot is hers if she accepts.
I watch Anne drink the water before she sips the wine. I don’t know when the perfect opportunity will pop up. Maybe I need to take the initiative, like Fran?ois mentioned.
“You said you haven’t been professionally trained for becoming a pastry chef.” I set all the diced veggies to the side. “Is that something you’ve considered pursuing?” I sip the wine while tidying up the veggie scraps.
“It is.” She runs her index finger along the rim of the wine glass and sighs. “It was, I suppose. I’m not sure.”
“There’s a lot of great programs abroad, such as Germany and Switzerland.”
“Interesting that Paris isn’t among them.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“I assume you already know that since you came here for a conference.” I add oil to a pan and turn the heat on low. “There is Le Cordon Bleu . They have a few campuses here and overseas. It’s well-known.” I trail off at the end and add the veggies to the pan. I mix it all together while Anne talks.
“I did consider applying there, but I’m not sure I’d even get in. I mean, I’m in my thirties and have a year of experience. That’s not exactly ideal Paris pastry school material.”
“Is that all that’s holding you back? The unknown of getting accepted?” I turn the heat off on the stove and walk over to join her on the seated side of the island. I take her hands in mine. “If you got in, would you stay?”
“I haven’t thought about what would happen if I got accepted because I haven’t applied. I don’t want to waste precious vacation time on something that doesn’t have a chance of happening since the forms are sitting in my apartment.” She sighs. Her shoulders droop as she exhales.
“What if someone else submitted your application for you?”
Her eyes widen and her jaw drops, her cute strawberry lips forming a large oval shape. “What are you saying, Alexandre?”
“The morning after we slept together, I saw the Le Cordon Bleu logo on some papers when I set the pastries down and I was curious if you were interested in their school. I figured I could answer any questions you had about the program.” I run my fingers through my hair, trying to find the right words.
“So, you decided to take my application? Or what?” Her voice wavers. I can’t tell if she’s getting angry or upset.
I suppose I don’t really know everything about Anne.
“I submitted your application in person today. I spoke with the admissions guy. We’re old friends.”
“How could you do that, Alexandre? That’s my personal information.” She fumbles for words. “I hadn’t even decided if I was interested in their school or not.” She stands and starts to pace. “This is a vacation fling. You had no right to take my application, let alone submit it for me. How could you go behind my back and do that without even talking to me?” Her eyes start to water and my chest feels tight. She pulls her sweater on and starts to grab her bag.
I can’t be the reason for her tears.
I reach for her hand. I want to comfort her and hold her close, but she pulls away from me, ready to leave.
“You got in.”
“I got in?” Her eyes are prickled with tears. “This should be an amazing experience for me but you’ve ruined it. I don’t want to see you again.” She slams the door shut behind her as she leaves.
I’m stunned. I didn’t think she’d leave. I thought she’d be ecstatic to get accepted. I pictured us talking about her moving to Paris in the fall over dinner and then celebrating properly tomorrow night.
I thought she felt the way I do.
I was ready to take a risk, and she wasn’t.
It takes everything in my body to keep from going after her, my fists and jaw clenched as I debate what to do.