Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene Page A

to think about putting on clothes. She grabbed a robe before stepping outside. “I told you I was the repressed type, didn’t I?”
    â€œYeah,” Will said. “I think you mentioned it. Just before we fell in bed the first time.”
    â€œYou want to hear about my fiancé?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI think I should tell you,” she said honestly, as she lifted the carafe to pour coffee for both of them.
    â€œNope. No interest. You’re with me. When you’re in Paris, you’re with me. When you leave Paris…” His gaze shot to her eyes, so hot and blue. “Then there’s nothing I can do. You’ll be there. I’ll be here.”
    â€œThat was the agreement,” she concurred.
    â€œBut you do need to shake that guy. He’s not right for you.”
    â€œNow, come on, Will. You really have no basis to know he’s not for me.”
    â€œI’m three hundred percent sure. You’re going to break it off when you get back to South Bend.” Will made it sound more like an absolute statement than a question. The sky was blue. Her broken engagement was a given.
    Kelly didn’t respond. Thinking about Jason and going home just tangled her up again. She was tangled up enough.
    Besides, just below their balcony, Paris was waking up. An old man was hawking the morning newspapers. Another vendor was pushing fresh flowers—he stopped below, saw her and raised a bouquet to her, peeling off a whole speech so fast she couldn’t follow.
    â€œWhat’s he saying?” she asked Will.
    â€œHe says if you’ll come down, he’ll give you a bouquet for free, because you are a beautiful woman, a darling, where I am but a canard for hiding you from the world up in this apartment. He wants to kiss your hand. He wants to adore you. He wants you to be with a man who knows how to love a woman—a man such as himself.”
    â€œOh.” Tugging her robe closed, she bent over the balcony and threw the flower man a kiss. “Merci, monsieur! Je vous aime! Toujours!”
    The man grinned.
    Will shook his head. “You’ll have him on our doorstep every morning.”
    â€œI had to be polite, didn’t I?”
    â€œUh-huh. You picked up the French flirting thing really well. But onward…here’s the plan for the day. I don’t have to go to work, because work, after all, is irrelevant to life. But I do have a couple things I should do there. So you could either come with me—shouldn’t take me more than an hour—or you can stay here for that hour. After that, well, you can’t be in Paris and not do certain things.”
    â€œLike…?”
    â€œYou’re a girl, so you have to do a parfumerie or two. Then there’s the old Halles marketplace near the Centre Pompidou. That’s like hell on earth. You know. Shopping. Little shops, zillions of them. If you like cooking stuff, Le Creuset is there. Or Sabatier knives. Or copper cookware…”
    â€œPlease don’t look at me when I’m drooling. It’s embarrassing.” She made a vague gesture. “You’d actually shop with me?”
    â€œWith you, yes. With anyone else, no. Then after that…well, you have to see the Marmottan Museum. God knows, there are a hundred museums around here. But that’s the one with the Monets. Then there’s the Musée Rodin, which I swear is seriously cool. Then there’s Sacré-Coeur. I don’t know if it’s a mortal sin to be a Catholic and miss Sacré-Coeur, but it’s gotta be close. And we have to hit a garden or two. Boulogne or Tuileries or Monceau. It’s spring. The gardens here are an absolute.”
    She looked at him and kept on looking. He was beyond good-looking. His eyes alone were mesmerizing. Not dark blue, not light blue, but kind of a clear, lake-blue. He had such a strong, sharp jaw—a measure that he was more stubborn than a bulldog,