was so odd to think they were sleeping, while I was racing around the shop, the days whooshing by in a blur.
When there was a lull in customers, I dashed outside to call Ridge, calculating the time difference and hoping I’d catch him before he left his hotel for the day. “Morning, beautiful,” he said, in that rich husky just-woke-up way. I could see him in my mind’s eye, laying with crisp cotton sheets tangled around his taut, tanned body. Him running a hand through his shock of black hair. That sexy, dazed gaze of his as if he’d awoken from a nice dream.
“Morning, Mister. Still lazing in bed?”
He let out a gruff sigh. “I am, and it’s not half as much fun without you.”
“I hope not.” I strolled down the street to Square Rene Viviani, and walked through an arbor covered with climbing roses which gave off a musk scent. I sat under a canopy of leaves, bracing myself against the strong winds. As cold as it was, there was something magical about the rain hitting my flushed cheeks, and Ridge’s silky voice.
“How’s it going there? A book lover’s dream?” A rustle of sheets, and the splash of running water filtered down the line.
What could I say that wouldn’t make me sound like a timid little mouse? “Oh, you know, I’m still having a few teething problems, but I’m sure I’ll get there. The little hurdles are nothing when I have Paris outside waiting…” I big, fat, lied. He was so self-assured and dynamic, I didn’t want him to worry that I couldn’t handle myself in the so-called big bad world.
“Sounds like you’ve got a handle on things there.”
“Yep, having a blast. I cried when I saw Van Gogh’s –”
He interrupted, “Wait one second, baby.”
My mouth promptly closed as someone spoke out of hearing range. When he came back to me, his voice was firmer, more businesslike. “Sorry, I have to go. You can tell me all about Picasso later.”
“It was Van Gogh…”
He spoke to someone again, whoever it was their voice garbled through in an urgent tone. “Gotta go, baby. It looks like the story might have just broken. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” With that he hung up, leaving me with just the pitter patter of rain for company. Was he really that busy, he couldn’t spare five minutes?
***
A few days later I was still reeling from the awful experience at the passport office, they’d been so belittling – I bristled every time I thought of it. Why didn’t I speak up for myself better? Their warning rants had continued on for another thirty minutes until I was mute with anger. And then there was Ridge’s abrupt hang up. He hadn’t managed to call me back, so the story must’ve have been breaking like the slowest wave on earth. I’d left a bunch of messages for him, and then vowed no more. It was hard not to take it personally. Surely he ate? And slept? Showered. He could spend a minute on the phone to me. But perhaps, like so many times, he was out of range, or something. My life was hectic here anyway, and I always had so many things vying for my attention.
Still trying to familiarize myself with the shop, I worked on stacking shelves whilst TJ manned the counter. It was a gloriously quiet moment, one where we scrambled to get as much cleared up before the next wave of tourists and book lovers swarmed in. The door gusted open and the man I had caught a glimpse of in the conservatory on my first day walked in. The one who hid in the shadows like he didn’t want to be seen. Again, his blonde-haired, blue eyed looks seemed familiar, but how could they? I didn’t know any French men, I was from smallsville.
“Who
is
that?” I asked TJ, in a whisper. For some reason I was drawn to the mysterious man who sat upstairs for hours on end and yet I had never seen him buy a book.
TJ shrugged. “Haven’t stopped to speak to him before. But every day like clockwork he’s here. He’s been here ever since I arrived.” He moved to fix a fallen stack of books.
When there was a lull in customers, I dashed outside to call Ridge, calculating the time difference and hoping I’d catch him before he left his hotel for the day. “Morning, beautiful,” he said, in that rich husky just-woke-up way. I could see him in my mind’s eye, laying with crisp cotton sheets tangled around his taut, tanned body. Him running a hand through his shock of black hair. That sexy, dazed gaze of his as if he’d awoken from a nice dream.
“Morning, Mister. Still lazing in bed?”
He let out a gruff sigh. “I am, and it’s not half as much fun without you.”
“I hope not.” I strolled down the street to Square Rene Viviani, and walked through an arbor covered with climbing roses which gave off a musk scent. I sat under a canopy of leaves, bracing myself against the strong winds. As cold as it was, there was something magical about the rain hitting my flushed cheeks, and Ridge’s silky voice.
“How’s it going there? A book lover’s dream?” A rustle of sheets, and the splash of running water filtered down the line.
What could I say that wouldn’t make me sound like a timid little mouse? “Oh, you know, I’m still having a few teething problems, but I’m sure I’ll get there. The little hurdles are nothing when I have Paris outside waiting…” I big, fat, lied. He was so self-assured and dynamic, I didn’t want him to worry that I couldn’t handle myself in the so-called big bad world.
“Sounds like you’ve got a handle on things there.”
“Yep, having a blast. I cried when I saw Van Gogh’s –”
He interrupted, “Wait one second, baby.”
My mouth promptly closed as someone spoke out of hearing range. When he came back to me, his voice was firmer, more businesslike. “Sorry, I have to go. You can tell me all about Picasso later.”
“It was Van Gogh…”
He spoke to someone again, whoever it was their voice garbled through in an urgent tone. “Gotta go, baby. It looks like the story might have just broken. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” With that he hung up, leaving me with just the pitter patter of rain for company. Was he really that busy, he couldn’t spare five minutes?
***
A few days later I was still reeling from the awful experience at the passport office, they’d been so belittling – I bristled every time I thought of it. Why didn’t I speak up for myself better? Their warning rants had continued on for another thirty minutes until I was mute with anger. And then there was Ridge’s abrupt hang up. He hadn’t managed to call me back, so the story must’ve have been breaking like the slowest wave on earth. I’d left a bunch of messages for him, and then vowed no more. It was hard not to take it personally. Surely he ate? And slept? Showered. He could spend a minute on the phone to me. But perhaps, like so many times, he was out of range, or something. My life was hectic here anyway, and I always had so many things vying for my attention.
Still trying to familiarize myself with the shop, I worked on stacking shelves whilst TJ manned the counter. It was a gloriously quiet moment, one where we scrambled to get as much cleared up before the next wave of tourists and book lovers swarmed in. The door gusted open and the man I had caught a glimpse of in the conservatory on my first day walked in. The one who hid in the shadows like he didn’t want to be seen. Again, his blonde-haired, blue eyed looks seemed familiar, but how could they? I didn’t know any French men, I was from smallsville.
“Who
is
that?” I asked TJ, in a whisper. For some reason I was drawn to the mysterious man who sat upstairs for hours on end and yet I had never seen him buy a book.
TJ shrugged. “Haven’t stopped to speak to him before. But every day like clockwork he’s here. He’s been here ever since I arrived.” He moved to fix a fallen stack of books.
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