Free The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) by Alix Nichols

dodging since Thursday
night.
    Can
Hugo and I continue as before?
    After
the first incident and Hugo’s relaxed attitude the following morning, I thought
we could. I really thought we’d just sweep it all under the carpet and keep
pretending it hadn’t happened for as long as it would take us to believe our
own lie.
    But
then Hugo slipped within twenty-four hours of the initial transgression. We slipped . I may not have been the mastermind, but I sure did more than freeze up when he
touched me. What was my role, exactly? Hmm… You could say I was an
accomplice. You could even say I was an accessory, all too happy to take part in
the crime.
    But
let’s stick to the facts. They’re pretty straightforward, underneath the fluff.
He wants me. I want him. It can’t happen. I can’t have an affair with Hugo and
then end it as I’ve done with other men.
    And
why’s that, Chloe?
    I
turn off the vacuum cleaner and sit down, letting the answer float into my
conscious mind and drape itself in words and sentences.
    If
we have sex, he might fall in love with me and suffer the wrath of the
merciless gods. And I can’t let it happen for a very simple, very selfish
reason.
    I
love him.
    I’ve
loved him for a year now, since he showed up in Paris. No, that’s not true. I
loved him before—in high school or perhaps even since the day I plonked
myself on the chair next to his in sixth grade.
    It’s
always been him, only him.
    So
there, the secret I’ve kept so well from my classmates, friends, family, Hugo,
and even myself, is finally out. The Devil’s spawn Chloe Germain has an
incurable crush on all-around good guy Hugo Bonnet.
    This
is bad.
    And
there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
    My
head drops to my chest, and I struggle with the temptation to bang it on the
coffee table. Team Loki, my foot.
    So
where do I go from here?
    With
a ragged sigh that leaves me drained, I grab my backpack and head out to shop
for groceries. But more than milk and eggs, my mind needs a distraction—a
reprieve from its fruitless efforts. As I trudge back home, my backpack full
and my head empty, I spot a familiar shape behind a tree across from the
entrance to my building. It’s Fabien. When I backtrack to take a better look,
there’s no one.
    I
step into the foyer and close the door behind me.
    The
next ten minutes are dedicated to pondering which alternative is
worse—Fabien stalking me or me going nuts and imagining things like
Alcinda’s husband. It’s not just the apparitions. I’ve been finding unsealed
envelopes in my mail and getting obscene phone calls from an unknown number. A
couple of days ago, I freaked out because someone left a wilted red rose on my
doorstep.
    I
wonder if it was Fabien’s doing or my wacky neighbor’s idea of a Halloween
joke.
    These
thoughts are far from pleasant, but I prefer mulling over my sanity to thinking
about the situation with Hugo.
    My
door buzzer rings.
    I
freeze for a moment, before telling myself that at least this solves one of my
dilemmas. Fabien is stalking me; I’m not being paranoid. And instead of
standing here, I should answer the call and tell the idiot to stop what he’s
doing or else I’ll report him to the police.
    I
rush to the door and pick up the receiver.
    A
deep, velvety bonjorn hits the pit of my stomach before my brain gets a
chance to process the Provençal greeting.
    The
man at the other end of the intercom isn’t Fabien.
    It’s
Hugo.
    *
* *

Twelve
    “I
hope this isn’t a bad time,” Hugo says.
    I
summon all the cool I’m capable of. “That depends.”
    “I
need to talk to you about something.” He pauses before adding, “Something
important.”
    I
buzz him in.
    This
conversation needs to happen. It may ruin our friendship and, eventually, our
professional relationship, too, but there’s no avoiding it. After the events in
the basement of La Bohème and at Manon’s party, the cat is out of the
bag, meowing its head off, and showing no intention of