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

stopping.
    I
need to deal with this.
    As
soon as he steps in, Hugo hands me a glossy white box tied up with a red ribbon.
    “You’re
trying to bribe me,” I say, taking the box.
    I
know what’s inside without having to open it—my favorite macarons.
    “This
isn’t a bribe,” he says. “It’s an apology.”
    I
cock my head. “For groping me or for maiming my dance partner?”
    “I
didn’t maim him,” he protests.
    “But
you could have, potentially.” I head to the kitchen, waving to him to follow
me. “Well, at least you aren’t denying the first accusation.”
    “I
am.”
    I
spin around. “ Ah bon? ”
    He
nods.
    “OK.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then what are you apologizing for?”
    He
takes a deep breath. “Being such a… chicken.”
    “I
don’t understand.”
    “I’ll
explain.”
    I
sigh and resume my march to the kitchen. I don’t look at Hugo while I unwrap
the box, make coffee, pile two steaming cups and the macarons on a tray, and
carry it out to the balcony. After that, I dart to the living room to fetch two
floor cushions but no blankets. It’s so warm that we won’t need them.
    When
I return to the kitchen, I finally glance at Hugo, who hasn’t said a word while
I bustled about. He’s leaning against the wall and watching me in all his
Herculean glory.
    “Ready
to explain ?” I ask, motioning to the balcony.
    He
nods. “But before I do, I have a message to relay. My parents would like to
invite you to their thirtieth wedding anniversary next Saturday.”
    “That’s
very kind of them, but I—”
    “They
won’t take no for an answer.”
    “I’m
flattered, I really am, but… I haven’t been in touch with your mom and dad
since I left Nîmes.”
    He
grins. “This isn’t an altruistic gesture. Now that they’ve made peace with my
change of career, they want to ingratiate themselves with my new boss.”
    I
arch an eyebrow at “boss.”
    “Business
partner,” he corrects himself. “Please say you’ll come. It means a lot to
them.”
    I
doubt that.
    Hugo’s
mom and dad have always been kind to me, but I really don’t think my presence
at their anniversary would mean a lot to them . My dear boy, we both know whose idea this invitation is and who won’t take no for an
answer.
    Oh
well, I do owe Claire and Charles a visit, so if I’m to travel south it may as
well be next weekend. I’ll spend Friday night and most of Saturday with Claire,
stop by the Bonnets’ party to wish them thirty more happy years, and then go
over to Marseille on Sunday to visit Charles.
    “OK,”
I say. “Please tell Yvette and Hervé I’ll be there.”
    We
step through the French window and sit down on the cushions, tailor style. I
pick up a green macaron from the box. It could be pistachio or green tea, and I
love both flavors, so it’s a smart choice. As I bite into it, the delicate
cookie crumbles and melts in my mouth, coating my taste buds in its heavenly
essence.
    Pistachio.
    Yum .
    Hugo
sips his coffee, his gaze traveling across the roofs around us. The view is
particularly impressive this time of day when slanting sunrays permeate nearly every
roofing material, deepening its color. Only steel sheets bounce the rays in
dazzling bouquets of light.
    I’m
suddenly filled with a ridiculous sense of pride as if Hugo were admiring a
canvas I’d painted. Which reminds me that I should show him Diane’s photographs
of these roofs. They’re not just beautiful—they’re poetic.
    He’ll
love them.
    I
point to the roofscape. “The advantage of living in an ugly modern high-rise in
Paris is that you can enjoy this view.”
    He
nods and points to my plants. “So this is your secret garden?”
    “You
could say that, yes.” I pick up a vanilla macaron recognizable by its telltale
black dots. “I come here to read or just do nothing. It’s my happy place.”
    “I
envy you a little,” he says. “I’ve never learned to feel happy on my own.”
    Oh
you would, buddy, if that meant saving