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

lives!
    “Where
there’s will, there’s a way.” I say in a preachifying tone, patting his upper
arm. “Your happiness is in your hands.”
    “Right.”
He attempts to stifle a smile, but his lips won’t cooperate. They never do when
something cracks him up. “Now that you mention the hands, I realize I am capable of solo happiness when I apply them to my…”
    He
looks down at his fly.
    “Oh,
please!” I roll my eyes, suppressing the laugh that ripples in my chest.
    “I’m
sorry.” He schools his features into a serious expression. “Tell me about the
roofs. Those two are zinc, right?”
    I
nod. “As are most Paris roofs, thanks to Napoleon’s architects. They were far
from stupid, by the way. Zinc is cheap, resistant, waterproof, and easy to fold
and cut.”
    “I
know.” He gives me a wink. “I’ve tried.”
    I
point to a steep roof with dormer windows. “This one is slate. Beautiful, don’t
you think?”
    He
studies the slate roof for a moment. “A friend of mine lives in an attic
apartment like that one. I avoid hanging at his place in summer.”
    “He
should hire us to redo his ceiling insulation.”
    “I’ve
told him the same thing.” He shrugs. “But his landlord has other priorities.”
    “Landlords!”
I sigh. “Anyway, slate is my favorite roofing material. In case you were
wondering.”
    “Note
taken.” He picks up a chocolate macaron. “Mine is red tile, like on that
crooked house to the right.” He beams, pointing his chin to the house. “In case
you were wondering.”
    For
a moment, I just drink in that toothy, disarming smile of his and then watch
him eat his macaron, his eyes shut with pleasure.
    When
he opens them and looks at me, I wake up from my trance, remembering that we’re
having a conversation and it’s my turn to say something.
    Right .
    “It’s
the oldest building in this neighborhood,” I say. “A survivor of Haussmann’s
ambition.”
    “And
the green roof behind it?”
    “Copper.”
    He
nods. “I thought so.”
    I
reach for another macaron, but Hugo catches my hand in his.
    Stay
calm, Chloe.
    Slowly,
I lift my eyes and give him a questioning look.
    “I’m
going to deliver my apology now,” he says. “So I need some moral support.”
    Cheeky
bastard.
    I
consider withdrawing my hand, but then I change my mind. There’s no harm in
letting him hold it for a few moments. I’m just being friendly here. The exquisite
pleasure of his touch has nothing to do with it, obviously.
    Hugo
focuses on the macarons as if counting them.
    “So?”
I ask after a long moment. “Let’s hear it.”
    He
lifts his eyes from the box. “I’m sorry for not calling your bluff.”
    I
blink. “Huh?”
    “That
night in the basement, remember how you said you didn’t want me?”
    I
nod.
    “It’s
bullshit, Chloe.” His gaze drills into mine, defiant. “I don’t believe you.”
    I’m
too dumbfounded to speak.
    His
lips curl. “Your bluff may have worked when we were sixteen, but not at
twenty-five.”
    “What
the—”
    “Chloe.”
He sounds like a parent reasoning with a child. “I’m not a highbrow, but I’m
not a half-wit either. And even if I were, I still would’ve ended up noticing
how you check me out every time you think I’m not looking. And how you touch my
arm all the time. It’s been going on for a year.”
    “I…
You…” My mouth opens and shuts unproductively as I rack my brain for a good
riposte.
    He
grins. “You want me, pichune . You want me really bad, and you know it.”
    Incendiary,
sarcastic words finally roll out of my brain—only to get stuck in my
mouth, crowding and jostling one another. My lips just won’t open up to let
them out.
    He
gives my hand a squeeze. “And now you know that I know it, too.”
    I
let out a deep sigh—and give up. I should have objected earlier, cut him
off midsentence or stormed out instead of just staring at him like an idiot.
Blanket denial at this point it would be an insult to his intelligence.