Free The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris by Jenny Colgan Page B

castle stood a fountain, chocolate bubbling through it merrily.
    It was so childlike and adorable and witty, Claire couldn’t help it—she burst into a huge smile and clapped her hands together. As she did so, she suddenly felt someone’s eyes upon her and glanced up. Frozen on the other side of the glass, clearly in the middle of talking to somebody else, was Thierry, suddenly stock still and gazing at her like he couldn’t tear his face away. Claire felt her smile fade from her face and her cheeks go pink. She bit her lip anxiously. Without even realizing it, it was as if all the crowds, the customers, the noise and bustle of the summer in the city had completely vanished. Tentatively, she raised her hand in a gesture of hello and pressed it against the vitrine , the shop window. Thierry put down his scoop—his customer started talking to him, but he completely ignored her—and raised his great bearlike paw. Claire noticed what she hadn’t seen before; his thick black eyelashes were ridiculously long—they protruded over the dark brown, lively eyes and hooded lids. She felt, even through the window, as if she could see every last one, trace every hair, every cell.
    Suddenly someone, trying to get a better look, jostled her out of the way. Instantly it was as if the spell was broken. She staggered slightly to the side, and in an instant, Thierry was out of the door, pushing his way through the crowd.
    â€œAre you all right? Are you hurt? Who did that?” he barked.
    The crowd sidled away from one slightly awkward-looking small man.
    â€œYou!” said Thierry, waggling his finger directly in the man’s face. “You are banned from this shop forever. Go!”
    The man blushed violently, muttered some words of apology in Claire’s direction, then disappeared.
    â€œ Bon !” said Thierry. “Everyone else, come in. Well, only if you wish to experience the best chocolate in the world. Otherwise, it is unimportant to me what you would like to do.”
    People started flooding into the shop, but Thierry led from the front, a huge arm around Claire’s shoulders. Next to him, she thought, all the other men looked puny.
    He led her straight through the selling area, with its original ’30s golden lettering and polished glass cases. The walls were lined, Claire saw, with great old jars for different kinds of sugar—vanilla, demerara, violet, lemon, icing. He led her through to the back of the shop, where a grumpy old man with a unibrow was tending, and nodded him through to the front. The man went, looking sullen.
    Claire hardly noticed. She had just seen the room for the first time. To her, the far back wall was a flower garden. Many of the herbs and plants she didn’t even recognize; her family’s meals at home were plain affairs. Her mother had attempted spaghetti Bolognese once and everyone had felt it dangerously daring. Mme. LeGuarde believed in eating lightly and cleanly, so there was much plain steamed fish and vast amounts of salad and vegetables. But this was something else; all the greenery sent its competing perfumes into the air, set against the warm, comforting, utterly solid scent of chocolate everywhere; warm and thick and comforting, the scent, Claire realized later, of Thierry himself.
    â€œYou like it?” he said. She beamed, her face and heart full. “I…I love it!” she said, completely sincerely. She saw how much this pleased him; he couldn’t hide anything he felt in his face.
    â€œHere, here,” he said, beckoning her to the large copper vat. He dropped in the long ladle spoon, then drew it up to her. Then he stopped.
    â€œ Non ,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
    Claire looked at him quizzically. Inside her chest, she could feel her heart beat. “Why?” she said.
    â€œOh! Coquette!” he said smiling. “So I can kidnap you and sell you to white traders. Then, so I can chop up