Chapter 15
DIANE
That’s what this is—a break. Whenever I find myself enjoying Darcy’s company, I tell myself that all it means is that I’m just taking a breather from constant hating.
Neat, huh? In this light, there’s no reason to panic every time I catch myself fancying Darcy’s toothsome bod or admiring a trait of his character.
This theory is the only way to account for what happened in Burgundy.
Prompting Darcy to give me an extra hot kiss was bad enough.
I can tell myself I did it to spite Genevieve, who’d gotten under my skin, but how do I explain that I nearly disintegrated from it?
And how in hell do I explain asking Darcy to strip and pose for me?
A fit of madness? An attempt to sabotage my own plan? An admission of defeat?
I prefer to go with the Everyone Needs a Breather hypothesis.
Anyway, back to the here and now. I’m standing next to Jeanne in the middle of the front room of La Bohème, staring at the long windowless wall opposite the entrance. At Jeanne’s request, Chloe had fitted it with little hooks and strings so it could serve as a gallery to showcase local painters.
“Your photos of Parisian rooftops would be perfect for my first exhibit,” Jeanne says.
“I’m flattered,”—and I truly am—“but I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to offer me this opportunity just because I’m Chloe’s sis.”
“I’m offering you this opportunity because I love those photos, period.” Jeanne cocks her head and winks. “But don’t expect me to pay for the prints.”
“Are you insane? You should be charging me, not the other way around!”
We agree on the size and number of prints, and Jeanne returns behind the bar.
I stare at the wall some more, brimming with excitement.
Displaying my work outside the virtual world, printed and framed, is a big step toward becoming a real photographer.
It doesn’t matter how many photos I sell—this exhibit isn’t about making a profit.
It’s my graduation from hobbyist to professional.
Manon zooms by with a loaded tray, mouthing, “Five minutes.” This means she’s about to take a coffee break and wants me to stick around. I pick a table by the window and engross myself in my current whodunit.
Manon’s voice pulls me out of the story a few minutes later. “How can you enjoy that stuff?”
“What’s wrong with detective stories?”
She sits down, placing a cappuccino and an espresso on the table. “All that violence and crime.”
“To me, these books are more about the intrigue and figuring out who the culprit is.” I cock my head. “What I don’t understand is how you can like romance.”
“What’s not to like?” She gives me a dreamy look. “I can never decide what I enjoy more—the thrill of the deepening love, the overcoming of obstacles, or the guaranteed happily ever after.”
“There are no happily ever afters in real life.”
“If you mean we all die in the end, I agree.” She gives me a wink. “But romance books aren’t about eternal life. They’re about eternal love.”
“Does it exist, your eternal love?” I sneer.
She stares at me, perplexed. “You just got engaged. Shouldn’t you be a little more… optimistic?”
“I should—I mean, I am.” I glance at the ridiculously big diamond on my finger. “It’s just… People come together and split up. Or they stay together and hate each other’s guts. That’s real life—just look around you.”
“OK.” There’s a sparkle of mischief in her eyes as she surveys the bar area. “Let’s see… Oh, look, it’s Jeanne!”
Manon turns back to me, beaming.
I know exactly what she’s going to say.
“Last time I checked,”—she can hardly keep the glee from her voice—“Jeanne was still happily in love with Mat.”
I shrug a so-what. “They’re an exception to the rule.”
“What about Chloe and Hugo?” Manon arches an eyebrow. “How long will you give those two?”
Hmm. Very long, actually. Until death do them part.
“My parents divorced,” I say. “So did Sebastian’s, and Elorie’s, and plenty of other people I know.”
“OK, I’ll grant you that,” Manon says. “Not every couple gets their happily ever after. In real life, half of them split up.”
“Ha! You see.”
“But the other half stays together and continues loving each other, just like in romance books. And lots of divorcees remarry happily.” She pats my shoulder. “It’s one of those glass-half-full things—just a matter of perspective.”
“Or a matter of dumb luck.”
“Maybe.” She rubs her chin. “Or maybe it’s a matter of knowing yourself well enough to sense who’s right for you.”
“How can you ever sense that? It’s not as if there’s an alarm in your head that goes”—I cup my hands around my mouth—“weeeoooo-weeeoooo, all systems go! I have a visual. The individual at three o’clock is the perfect match. I repeat: Target at three o’clock. Go, go, go!”
“That’s not how it works.” She smiles and glances at fellow waiter Amar as he walks by eyeing Manon as if she were the Eighth Wonder of the World. “You don’t always recognize it at once, but when you’ve spent some time with the right guy, you’ll know it’s him. Trust me.”
Lucky her. I’ve never felt that confident about anyone.
I guess I don’t know myself well enough.