clenched jaw. His eyes weren’t precocious anymore.
Yes, I had been ignoring him since our date. It was Louis’s condition. But more importantly, I felt with some certainty that Bastien had used me that night he took me to Noir.
Awkward silence ensued.
“I want to talk about the other night,” he said in English. “I want to take you for a drink after work.” He checked out the clock, no doubt knowing full well that it was close to six thirty p.m.
“No, no thank you,” I said, shifting awkwardly.
Bastien peered at the cleavage that heaved up as I crossed my arms around me. I quickly uncrossed them.
“Fleur, you misunderstand. I am here to explain. You are confused about why I took you to Noir the other night.”
“No, I’m not confused. And, anyway, I have plans.”
The dressing room curtain remained closed. What was taking her so long?
“Fleur, s’il te plaît , I do not want Marie, who is my good friend, to think I have upset her daughter.”
I huffed. “You have not, Bastien. I’m just not interested.” I glanced at Anne—oh God, this was terrible. What if Sylvie comes in here? “Look, we’re fine. You don’t need to explain anything. I am working right now. And, I don’t need to speak with you about anything. Ever,” I added, for good measure. I paused, heart flipping at the determined set to his jaw. He wasn’t listening.
“And, I told you, I have plans—”
“With who?” he barked.
My stomach somersaulted. Why was he making this difficult?
The shrill of the metal curtain rings being torn back captured our attention.
“With me!” proclaimed the customer, in all her towering emerald-green-and-smoky-gray-ombré glory. (The dress looked stunning.) She was eyeing Bastien with angry pluck. “She has plans with me. So, fuck off,” she snarled, getting a gasp out of both Anne and me.
Chapter 8
Holy girl crush, I thought, eyeing Chloé Bijou. I mean, with a name like that . . . The tan Italian leather of her sleek white Porsche hugged my body as she took a very sharp corner, barely slowing down. And the way she’d dealt with Bastien, I was beyond impressed.
After stopping at a red, she gawked at me again. Hm. I wasn’t sure the admiration was mutual.
“Don’t worry, I am an excellent driver,” she said, droll, turning her excited eyes back to the road.
Hey, I wasn’t going to say a word, even if she did get me killed after rescuing me from Bastien and giving me my first commission. My hands clasped tight together as we narrowly missed a van reversing from an alley onto the port’s strip.
Bastien, perhaps not knowing how to respond to Chloé’s rudeness, stared us both down and left the shop. Then she bought the dress. And she insisted on taking me out to a café to keep up the pretense. I was surprised she knew the English word pretense , but she told me she went to boarding school in England. Most Sylvie customers were wealthy, so it wasn’t surprising.
I filled her in on my background, how I was learning French, and why I was here in the first place—I told her about Marie.
“Is that why you would go with a policeman?” she asked. She’d parked her car with a sudden stop, halfway up the pavement (the norm) in front of one of Toulon’s nicest cafés in the hippest area of town. The wide boulevard was lined with busy cafés, and the outdoor tables were overflowing with Toulon locals sipping coffee, smoking, people-watching. The eateries and bars were crowded continuously during open hours, and, unlike a Starbucks in America, not full of students or new moms. It begged the question—does anyone work in France? Not that I was judging.
Chloé was waiting for an answer. I guess she’d noticed Bastien getting back into his unmarked Renault. I tried not to read her directness as rude: a few days after I arrived here, Marie explained to me that the French are forthright (especially when you break one of their strict rules around decorum).
“Uh, well, yeah. I
Yes, I had been ignoring him since our date. It was Louis’s condition. But more importantly, I felt with some certainty that Bastien had used me that night he took me to Noir.
Awkward silence ensued.
“I want to talk about the other night,” he said in English. “I want to take you for a drink after work.” He checked out the clock, no doubt knowing full well that it was close to six thirty p.m.
“No, no thank you,” I said, shifting awkwardly.
Bastien peered at the cleavage that heaved up as I crossed my arms around me. I quickly uncrossed them.
“Fleur, you misunderstand. I am here to explain. You are confused about why I took you to Noir the other night.”
“No, I’m not confused. And, anyway, I have plans.”
The dressing room curtain remained closed. What was taking her so long?
“Fleur, s’il te plaît , I do not want Marie, who is my good friend, to think I have upset her daughter.”
I huffed. “You have not, Bastien. I’m just not interested.” I glanced at Anne—oh God, this was terrible. What if Sylvie comes in here? “Look, we’re fine. You don’t need to explain anything. I am working right now. And, I don’t need to speak with you about anything. Ever,” I added, for good measure. I paused, heart flipping at the determined set to his jaw. He wasn’t listening.
“And, I told you, I have plans—”
“With who?” he barked.
My stomach somersaulted. Why was he making this difficult?
The shrill of the metal curtain rings being torn back captured our attention.
“With me!” proclaimed the customer, in all her towering emerald-green-and-smoky-gray-ombré glory. (The dress looked stunning.) She was eyeing Bastien with angry pluck. “She has plans with me. So, fuck off,” she snarled, getting a gasp out of both Anne and me.
Chapter 8
Holy girl crush, I thought, eyeing Chloé Bijou. I mean, with a name like that . . . The tan Italian leather of her sleek white Porsche hugged my body as she took a very sharp corner, barely slowing down. And the way she’d dealt with Bastien, I was beyond impressed.
After stopping at a red, she gawked at me again. Hm. I wasn’t sure the admiration was mutual.
“Don’t worry, I am an excellent driver,” she said, droll, turning her excited eyes back to the road.
Hey, I wasn’t going to say a word, even if she did get me killed after rescuing me from Bastien and giving me my first commission. My hands clasped tight together as we narrowly missed a van reversing from an alley onto the port’s strip.
Bastien, perhaps not knowing how to respond to Chloé’s rudeness, stared us both down and left the shop. Then she bought the dress. And she insisted on taking me out to a café to keep up the pretense. I was surprised she knew the English word pretense , but she told me she went to boarding school in England. Most Sylvie customers were wealthy, so it wasn’t surprising.
I filled her in on my background, how I was learning French, and why I was here in the first place—I told her about Marie.
“Is that why you would go with a policeman?” she asked. She’d parked her car with a sudden stop, halfway up the pavement (the norm) in front of one of Toulon’s nicest cafés in the hippest area of town. The wide boulevard was lined with busy cafés, and the outdoor tables were overflowing with Toulon locals sipping coffee, smoking, people-watching. The eateries and bars were crowded continuously during open hours, and, unlike a Starbucks in America, not full of students or new moms. It begged the question—does anyone work in France? Not that I was judging.
Chloé was waiting for an answer. I guess she’d noticed Bastien getting back into his unmarked Renault. I tried not to read her directness as rude: a few days after I arrived here, Marie explained to me that the French are forthright (especially when you break one of their strict rules around decorum).
“Uh, well, yeah. I
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