Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Day two of the tour started with me guiding nine guests through the massive crowds at the Louvre Museum. It was usually one of my favorite aspects of the trip, but my mind struggled to focus. On any normal day, I was a wealth of trivia, spouting fascinating tidbits about priceless artifacts like a history professor.
Today was not a normal day.
Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of last night with Pierre. Statues that I’d previously considered magnificent works of art suddenly appeared erotic. Paintings that once enthralled me with the artist’s attention to color and detail now oozed desire and lust.
Passion and nudity were everywhere.
My body temperature sizzled, and the ache between my legs was like an earthquake set to split me in half. As we pushed our way through the crowds to admire one work of art or the next, each step had hot flushes flaring from deep inside me. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Pierre looking at me with blazing desire in his chocolate irises. I could still feel his hands on me, caressing my breasts, fondling my erect nipples. My body was like a pincushion, and little needles of lust pricked me at every opportunity.
Damn, it was good, but it was so fucking distracting.
In an attempt to tame my newfound libido, I spent extra time at the Mona Lisa. No erotica there. Nope. Barely even any flesh. And better still, I recited dozens of facts about the famous painting that served to keep my mind on track and my horny bits shackled.
It was only when my group started to drift away that I reluctantly moved on.
The next picture ruptured my Mona Lisa bubble. An ancient painting by Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix. The giant masterpiece was writhing with naked bodies. Men with massive erections and just as many flaccid dicks too. Topless women draped in fabric and naked ones prancing around showing off their ginger pubic hair. Why were they all redheads in his paintings? Was that a sign?
It’s a sign, all right. A sign that I’ve lost my mind.
Death of Sardanapalus was a brutal painting depicting a king who was willing to destroy all his possessions, including women and children, to reign supreme. But today, I didn’t see the blood and gore; today, I saw an orgy.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. After three hours of battling my schizophrenic brain, I did something I’d never done before. I decided to abandon the tour group. Gathering them beneath a giant statue of a young man with his crown jewels on full display, I pinched my temples. “I’m so sorry.” I had to raise my voice over a screaming child nearby. “But I have a headache. I have to go.” Putting on an Oscar-worthy act, I felt terrible as, feigning pain behind my eyes, I relayed brief instructions, complete with suggestions on what they absolutely must see.
My Del Reys squeaked across the black and white mosaic tiles as I dashed past statue after statue. Cocks and tits were the obvious theme. Jaysus! I’ve fallen into a kinky vortex!
Outside at last, I paused at a stone pillar and sucked in enormous breaths. Adrenalin blazed through me. My eyes darted about . . . the traffic, the blazing sun, the thousands of people.
I probably looked like a junky who thought zombies were chasing her.
What I needed was a good walk. Exercise and I were not friends. Even yoga was impossible—especially downward-facing dog. Suffocating in a mountain of boob was no fun.
But I didn’t walk very far before my stomach started growling. My legs had a mind of their own and within fifteen minutes, I sat at the century-old Café Verlet.
The quaint little coffee shop was nearly a hundred years old and had somehow managed to retain its old-world charm. Exactly why I liked it. Even some of the décor and crockery were original, but that wasn’t the only reason I popped in whenever I could.
They offered thirty-two varieties of coffee from all over the world. I’d tried them all.
My coffee choice for today was Kona Extra Fancy. The coffee bean, which was reportedly grown on the slopes of the Mauna Loa volcano in Hawaii, had a rich taste of chocolate, blackcurrant, and licorice. It almost meant it didn’t need a sweet treat to go with it. Almost.
After all the energy I’d exhausted this morning, I needed a sugar fix.
I ordered a mille-feuille fraise. The thick vanilla cream and sweet juicy strawberries sandwiched between layers of caramelized flaky pastry was a treat to die for. Exactly what I needed to get my mind off my horny little bits.
Sipping my coffee, I gazed around the tiny café. Everybody looked to be utterly smitten with the person they were coupled with, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. The woman across from me was snuggling into her partner’s neck, and I couldn’t decide if she was asleep or was a vampire about to draw blood. I hoped it was the latter; I could use the distraction.
Paris was reputed to be the city of love, but for fuck’s sake, could they not keep it to the bedroom?
My hypocrisy had me giggling into my coffee. I couldn’t even keep it in the bedroom. Nope, the kitchen chopping block was my new boudoir of choice. Apparently.
My world had gone mad.
Andre, the waiter, delivered my pastry and I attacked it with the gusto necessary to escape my rampant thoughts. I was sure he’d be disgusted at the number of crumbs he’d comb up when he cleared my plate away.
With my stomach happy, I left the café and headed toward the hostel. I crossed the Pont des Arts bridge that for many years had held thousands of padlocks that couples had attached to the wrought iron in a pathetic attempt to display their eternal love for each other.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Love was a cruel illusion. Just like in romance novels, it was fiction.
Despite criticizing romance novels, I intended to spend the next three hours curled up in bed with my book.
Oh, shit. My stomach sank. My book was at Chateau de Vin et d'antiquités.
Glancing along the shops that lined the street, I prayed a bookstore would miraculously appear. It didn’t. I was surrounded by dress shops, shoe shops, bag shops. Jewelry. Perfume. Lingerie. The overpriced and trivial accessories were as useless as belly button fluff.
My feet were glued to the pavement as I stewed over what to do. If I didn’t occupy my mind, my thoughts would slip right back to Pierre’s hands on my girls.
A black dress in the window beside me caught my eye. It was on a mannequin with a twelve-year-old girl’s body and mammoth breasts that defied gravity.
Holy headlines! I had never seen a mannequin with my body shape before. Or dresses that were made to fit it.
“ Bonjour, puis-je vous aider .”
I hadn’t noticed the woman on the step of the shop. “ Bonjour .”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She indicated to the outfit.
“Yes, it is.”
The woman’s eyelashes, thick, black, and long, fluttered enough to make me wonder if she was having a seizure. “Would you like to try the dress on?”
Frowning, I couldn’t decide if she was desperate for a laugh or desperate for a sale. “Oh, no thanks.”
“It would fit you perfectly. Please, allow me to show you.” She opened her palm, guiding me toward the entrance.
Deciding to embrace the unexpected distraction, I headed into the store. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, I blinked at the sparse selection of clothing lining the walls. This was not the type of store I usually frequented. Most of my clothes were purchased from my local discount store, where nearly everything was made in China.
The saleswoman had luscious wavy black hair. And as she selected the mannequin’s black dress from the rack, I admired both her gorgeous locks and her perfect hourglass figure. Some women had perfect everything.
And then there was me.
With the dress draped across her arm, she smiled and said, “Follow me, s'il vous pla?t .”
I followed her flawless ass to the fitting room, half expecting the belt strangling her waist to snap her in two. After hanging the dress on a brass hook, she held the curtain aside for me to enter.
“ Merci .” I stepped into the cubicle, and she tugged the drape closed.
The mirror was mean. My hair, as usual, formed a wild red halo around my head and my freckles looked like I’d lost a battle with a hyperactive child wielding a brown magic marker. They were funny like that. Some days my freckles were barely visible; other days, they were as noticeable as a naked hunk on a tightrope.
Snapping my eyes away from my reflection, I reached for the dress.
The fabric was much softer than I’d anticipated, yet it was firm and slightly stretchy. Down the front of the dress was a gold zipper that traveled from the bust line to the hemline, much like a body bag. I had no idea where that brutal comparison had sprung from.
My brain was getting weirder by the minute.
After undressing, I placed my clothes on the plush French provincial chair in the corner. Gliding the zipper down, I caught the dress before it slipped off the hanger. I weaved my arms through the holes, pulled the fabric together at the front, and zipped it up.
Bloody hell! It fit.
In fact, not only did it fit, but it also looked incredible. I shifted from side to side, admiring the miracle. The stretchy fabric contoured over my narrow hips and miraculously stretched to cover my girls perfectly. No bulging, straining, or looking like I was about to flop out at any moment. My bizarre shape had always been my problem. Apparently, tiny hips and big boobs were not something dressmakers could comprehend .
The last time I’d worn a dress was my engagement party, and fortunately, caftans had been on-trend.
“How does it look?”
I jumped at her perky voice. “Oh, ummm, it looks nice.”
“ S'il vous pla?t, may I see?”
I pulled the curtain aside.
She stepped back and eyed me up and down in such a way a rush of heat blazed up my neck. My freckles would’ve hit party mode.
“I told you. This dress is made for your figure.” She turned to the full-length mirror on the wall, urging me to step out of the cubicle. “See how it emphasizes your bust?”
“I’d rather hide it, to be honest.”
Her eyes bulged. “No, no, no. That will not do. These are your assets. You should show them off like they are the Hope Diamond.” She stepped forward and tugged the zipper down to reveal ample cleavage, then the crazy woman cupped my boobs, plumping them up.
I froze, not sure of the correct protocol. Maybe it was a French thing?
No woman had ever touched my boobs before. Not even my mother, despite her unhealthy obsession with them. Although she had tried on more occasions than I could count.
“Yes. You like?”
I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t know.”
“I do. This is perfect for you. You own this dress.”
“I don’t own any dresses.”
Again, her eyes bulged. “That is a crime. Every woman should have a dress. Especially a little black dress. Match it with stilettos, and men everywhere will notice you.”
I blinked at her and had to resist pointing out her misconceptions. Not only did I not own any high heels, let alone stilettos, but men did not look at me .
Well, not me, me. Just the area between my navel and my clavicles.
She twisted my shoulders, so I was square to the mirror. “This dress is perfect for you.”
She glided her hand over my hip. “It shows your divine curves.”
She plumped up my hair. “Your stunning curls are highlighted with this simple black fabric.”
She pointed at my boobs with a satisfactory smile. “It shows off your marvelous assets.”
Divine. Stunning. Marvelous. She was a walking thesaurus.
She was also very good. It really did look good on me. But what was the point of owning a dress I would never wear?
I must’ve pulled a face because she sighed and put her hand on her hip. “Would you like me to show you something different?”
“Oh, no thank you.” I shrugged. “I don’t have an occasion to wear it.”
“Ahhh, but when you do have an occasion, you’ll be pleased to have this in your wardrobe.”
And therein lay her next mistake. I didn’t have a wardrobe. This beautiful dress would crumple in my suitcase for weeks on end.
Not wanting to explain that little scenario, I decided on a different approach. “How much is it?”
Her face lit up. “You are in luck. It’s on special—thirty percent off.”
Matching her smile, I waited for her to reveal the price. She didn’t. “And what is the special price?”
“Just two hundred and ninety euros.”
If I’d had a milkshake rather than a coffee earlier, it would now be a mighty mess on the plush carpet. Two hundred and ninety euros! Lordy! It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it, but I couldn’t comprehend how such a simple piece of clothing could cost so much. “I’m sorry, but that’s way outside my budget. I shouldn’t have tried it on.”
Her smile snapped to a thin line. If her eyes were daggers, they would’ve sliced my head clean off.
I scurried back into the cubicle, and she yanked the curtain closed.
I couldn’t undress and redress fast enough. With the dress back on the hanger, I tugged the curtain aside and was surprised to see her still standing there. Her angry scowl was accentuated by her hands on her hips.
Not my fault the stupid woman had lured me into her stupid dress shop with those stupid fluttering lashes. I was not going to feel bad about this. Nuh-uh, no way.
“There you go.” I handed her the dress with my most dazzling smile.
Her eyes blazed into my back until I crossed the exit threshold.
Outside, I raised my chin to the glorious sunshine and strode toward the hostel like I owned the whole building.
But it was like I’d become some kind of romance magnet. Couples were everywhere.
Young. Old. In-between.
All bombarding me with public displays of affection.
William and I had never shown affection in public. We hadn’t even held hands.
My gaze whipped from one couple to the next. Lovers kissing, hugging, holding hands, laughing. Taunting me. Teasing me. Sucking me down a single-status black hole.
Picking up my pace, I gave my Del Reys and my size-F boulder-holder a workout as I dashed to the safety of my room.
Once inside, I dove onto the bed, shoved my face into the pillow and bawled my eyes out.
What the hell is happening to me ?
I rarely cried. This was my second time in two days. Pierre’s comment about me being lonely for love shot through my brain like a cupid’s arrow.
Was I lonely for love?
I’d been living on my own for years.
When I’d left Australia for London, my only strategy had been to get away from William and my mother’s constant begging. When I’d landed that cruise ship job and met Azalia, she’d provided a friendship that I hadn’t realized I’d needed. We messaged each other almost every day.
My job at Vacation Dreamz provided me with a driver on every tour. So, I always had company.
I didn’t think I was lonely.
But maybe I was.
An ache I’d never noticed before sat heavily around my heart.
Damn you, Pierre.
I was not lonely for love.
Damn you, Roman.
I am not a fucking old woman. I’m not even thirty!
I sat, wiped my eyes, and stared down Avenue de Saint-Gwendolyn. Pierre’s Vespa was parked against the streetlamp. That meant I wouldn’t be fetching my book this evening.
It was almost worthy of more tears.
Instead, I grabbed my phone and filled in the time texting Zali, learning ‘the pitfalls of breastfeeding, according to Azalia.’ The poor thing had also had a disastrous shopping trip, in which she’d lost her mother in the department store and had to call security to help find her. Despite her never-ending woes, Zali always managed to find a way to laugh it off.
After a quick shower, I met my tour group in the lobby and led them down the narrow lane toward where Roman should’ve been waiting with the bus. We were as noisy as a backpacker bar at midnight. It didn’t help that our voices echoed off both the cobblestones below our feet and the stone buildings lining the alley.
Roman must have heard us coming because he jumped from the bus as we arrived. The slight shadow on his cheeks highlighted the start of a new beard. It made his teeth seem whiter when he grinned. “Hey, Red, did you have a good day?”
I studied his smile, searching for any reference to our encounter last night. Deciding I was safe, I grinned back. “Yes, all good. How about you?”
“ Si , it was fun.”
While I’d been doing/not doing the cultural tour of the Louvre, Roman had driven the remainder of our group to one fashion outlet after another. I’d rather do the paintings and statues any day, except when my horny bits reigned supreme over the rest of me.
The passengers were freakin’ rowdy. It was only their second night on tour and fatigue hadn’t set in yet. It would. It always did. Usually on about day five, when the long days traveling, the long nights partying and the subsequent hangovers drained them.
Once they were all settled, grabbing the microphone, ready to explain the Moulin Rouge show we were about to see, I knelt on my chair to face them. “Okay, who wants to see tits?”
Faaark. My heart shot to my throat.
“I’d like to see your tits.” Despite being in the back row, I heard Mike’s comment.
The passengers roared with laughter, and many guys and even some women nodded, agreeing to my offer.
I can’t believe I said that .
I clutched the chair; fearful I’d pass out .
Roman shot me a glance. His eyes were wide. His jaw was ajar. Maybe he thought I’d gone mad.
Maybe I have.
Faking a laugh, I made a show of pretending I’d said it on purpose, and urging confidence into my voice, I trudged on. “Well, you’re on the right tour then.”
The hunger in Mike’s eyes took me right back to Pierre’s kitchen. My restless girly bits did a little jig that had an inferno coursing through my body. I was about to hit self-combustion mode.
I needed a fan. Hell, I needed to stand, legs apart, over an industrial air-conditioner at full blast.
But no. I, Daisy Chayne, had a job to do. My people needed me.
Get your shit together.
I cleared my throat and forced my brain into tour guide mode. “Moulin Rouge began in October 1889, with the intention of allowing very rich patrons to ‘slum it’,”—I used finger quotes for emphasis—“in a highly fashionable district.”
Roman kicked the bus into gear, and I continued my spiel about the classic French show. I was on a roll. History was to me what hitchhiking was to a penniless backpacker . . . free and exciting, and you never knew where history would take you.
“People from all walks of life came to witness the unique Bohemian spectacle. Champagne flowed, dancing costumes became extravagant, the cancan was invented, and the singing cabaret developed into a huge success that still thrives today.”
The monologue rolled off my tongue, no longer requiring any thought as we passed through Paris’s bustling streets. But my gaze kept returning to Mike. His eyes hadn’t shifted from me. When he smiled, butterflies in my stomach became soaring eagles, and I couldn’t help smiling back at him .
My juvenile body was out of control.
I cleared my throat and pointed out one interesting building after another, undertaking my tour-guide job with professionalism that usually rewarded me with excellent reviews.
But then it hit me. All this expertise would be useless once I was booted out of Europe.
The eagles in my stomach thudded back to earth.
What am I going to do?
The change in the timbre of the tires dragged me back to my job and shoving the brutal reality aside, I directed the group’s attention to the Arc de Triomphe. While I gave them my usual description about the French landmark. . . construction statistics. . . its interesting history, my damn eyes were focusing on the naked men carved in great detail into the marble arch.
It was official. . . I’ve lost my fucking mind.
I’d never had an obsession before. So why couldn’t my new fixation be something cute like seashells or fairy floss? Not nudity! In a city like Paris, nudity was as common as fluffy Pomeranian puppies.
Finishing my new raunchy take on the tourist attraction, I fanned my face and flopped into my seat.
Roman’s grin was spectacular and lingered way too long.
“What?” I feigned ignorance.
“Who wants to see tits?”
My shoulders slumped. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“Me neither. But it was funny.”
“Not for me.”
“Oh, lighten up, Red. It’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”
I stared at him, grateful that he hadn’t recognized my laugh had been fake.
He turned his attention back to the road, and I shifted my gaze out the window. While Paris whizzed by in a cocktail of colorful lights and lively movement, my brain locked in on the last time I had truly laughed. Other than last night, which had been more crazy hysteria than genuine laughter, it was five months ago. In Germany, I managed to spill a stein full of beer down my front. I’d started my very own wet T-shirt competition. Laughing at myself was the only way to avoid embarrassment.
Roman was right. I did need to lighten up.
I’d been going through the motions of life. Not living it. Just existing.
Not anymore.
From this moment forward, I’m going to let loose.
I’ll prove to Roman that I’m not old. I am young, and fun, and maybe a touch crazy.
I am Daisy Chayne. It’s time for me to live.