Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
JEMMA
The next morning, I slowly slide out of bed, wincing as my back protests against the unforgiving mattress. I wonder if a hotel bed would feel the same. Something tells me it would.
I crack the door of the guest bedroom open, straining to listen for any sign of Luca, but the apartment is as quiet as a mouse.
He must have left already. He never said when he’d be back, but I imagine I have the apartment to myself for a couple of hours at least. That will give me enough time to figure out my next move.
Now that I’m in Paris, I kind of want to stay, but I can’t expect Luca to extend his generosity for the whole month.
One night was enough. I should try to be out of here later this afternoon.
I don’t want to be a burden. Plus, there’s the awkwardness of last night that I’m not sure I want to deal with.
But if I couldn’t find a hotel last night, what makes me think today will be any different?
I slink into the bathroom next to my room, and sure enough, Luca has set out a fresh set of towels for me, just as he said he would. As I glance in the mirror, my tired, jet-lagged reflection meets my gaze, but something else catches my eye—a note taped to the mirror. I step closer to read it.
Good morning, Jemma,
I hope you slept well. I’ll be back in the early afternoon. Please help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I would love to take you to lunch when I get home. Make sure you enjoy a cup of espresso on the balcony. You’ll love the view in the morning!
Luca
I catch a glimpse of the smile spreading across my face.
He wants to take me to lunch.
Maybe there was nothing awkward about last night.
And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have a gorgeous girlfriend named Colette.
I don’t even make it out of the bathroom without pulling up social media and doing a quick search for Luca Dubois.
I try three apps but come up empty-handed with each search.
Luca seems to be a ghost as far as social media is concerned.
I know the French are more private than Americans, but I thought he’d at least have some sort of presence online. This makes me even more curious.
Who are you, Luca Dubois?
I head to the kitchen, overly excited to make myself an espresso and settle on the balcony as Luca suggested in his note.
Okay, the fact that he took the time to write me a note when he could have easily sent me a text makes him all the more attractive.
The man must have a flaw—I mean, besides being a bit of a know-it-all grump from time to time, but I’ll chalk that up to being French.
Oh, and the whole he might have a girlfriend thing.
I shrug that little tidbit off my shoulders and pick a pod from Luca’s extremely organized coffee station.
I’m sliding my chosen espresso pod into the machine when a thunderous pounding erupts from the entryway.
I freeze, forgetting to put the cup under the spout.
Coffee sputters from the machine, spraying dark liquid across the counter.
Way to go, Jemma.
I grab a towel and toss it on the mess, hoping the person will go away if I don’t answer the door.
“Luca!” a woman’s voice hollers.
Do I answer it?
My heart races as I tiptoe cautiously through the living room, anxiety coiling tightly in my stomach.
The pounding continues. “Luca, réponds à la porte.”
I scramble to translate her words—Answer the door.
I really don’t want to do that.
After all, Luca isn’t here. So, what harm is there in letting it go unanswered?
I steal a peek through the peephole, and my heart drops—it’s Colette, the beautiful caller from last night.
I quickly shrink away from the entryway, wishing I could disappear entirely.
I don’t want to get Luca in trouble if Colette is his girlfriend.
How would she react if another woman opened her boyfriend’s door?
Did he ever call her back? My guess is no.
“Je pensais que nous pourrions y aller ensemble ce matin,” she says, her voice elevated with irritation.
My French isn’t as great as I thought, but I think she said something along the lines of: I thought we could go together this morning.
What is Luca doing that requires this gorgeous creature to be there too? Whether she’s his girlfriend, wife, ex-wife, or the mother of his child—that I’ve seen no evidence of—my heart sinks.
I don’t know what I was hoping for with Luca. I thought maybe the idea of him having a girlfriend was all in my head, but it turns out the sparks I thought we had last night were all in my head.
“Luca!” she calls again, pounding furiously on the door.
Is this woman ever going to give up?
Oh my gosh, what if she has a key?
Would it be worse if she burst in here to find me hiding behind the door?
Ugh! What should I do?
Colette draws my attention back to her with a sharp, “Putain, Luca!
Fuck! I sure hope that means she’s ready to give up.
I wait for a hint of silence and then carefully check the peephole.
She’s gone.
I rush to the balcony, tossing the window open in haste. I need to get a better look at her.
Ugh! Why am I torturing myself?
I wait patiently, pressing up against the cold window frame, holding my breath, as if that will somehow make me invisible.
After a few moments, an exquisite, tall brunette steps out of the building, wearing a black tailored wool coat over a chunky tan sweater, paired with a knee-length skirt and high boots—the epitome of Parisian chic.
Dang it, she’s absolutely beautiful.
Maybe a little hostile, but drop-dead gorgeous, nonetheless.
She pivots in my direction, and my breath hitches, wishing I could slink back inside. She stops, slips on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and glances up in my direction.
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
Why did I come out here?
I freeze as our eyes meet—her expression unreadable—maybe surprise, perhaps anger.
Either way, Luca is busted.