Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

more in control of the situation providing my own transportation. Dressed in a black sweater dress and knee-high boots, I arrive shortly after 7:00 p.m. and linger out front for a moment, taking in the splendor. His home is gorgeous. It’s a nineteenth-century apartment building, carved out of the locally sourced light-gray limestone that gives Paris buildings their distinctive look.

I’m not an expert on Parisian real estate, but even I know that this is the expensive neighborhood.

After the doorman allows me in, he instructs me to take the elevator up to the third floor. When Gabriel answers the door, he greets me with a quick kiss on the lips.

“I’m so happy you’re here.”

His eyes sparkle as he helps me out of my coat. He hangs it in the foyer closet, and his gaze slowly meanders the length of my body.

“You look stunning,” he says as he takes my purse and places it on the shelf above my coat.

Since I’d already worn my one nice outfit to the museum today, I borrowed a stretchy little black dress from Marla. Gabriel seems to appreciate the way it clings to all the places that make me self-conscious.

I hope he can’t tell I’m holding my breath and doing my best to suck in my stomach. The only thing worse than my granny panties would’ve been Spanx. Do they even sell such a thing in Paris?

Finally, he closes the closet door, puts his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me into the living room. I’m hyperaware of his touch and the smell of his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean with hints of tobacco. It makes me want to lean in and breathe deeper.

I’m glad I ended up shaving my legs.

When I step into the living room, I notice that his home lives up to the neighborhood’s reputation.

From what I can see, it’s about three times the size of Ivy’s ninth arrondissement apartment, and it has all the charming, old-world Parisian fixtures one would imagine—the kind that make a home look both old and brand-new at the same time.

The paint is fresh and bright white, and the Murano glass chandelier in the foyer sparkles as if it was recently cleaned. Who knows? Maybe the cleaning crew stopped by Gabriel’s place after they left square la Bruyère.

Then I’m struck by the aroma perfuming the air.

My stomach growls. “Something smells delicious.”

He smiles at the compliment and looks downright boyish in his black Henley and blue jeans. I like this more casual side of him.

“I hope you’re hungry. I have prepared a feast for us.”

Which means he was pretty confident I would show up tonight.

I’m glad I did.

I’m glad I didn’t miss the chance to see this place. To see the floor-to-ceiling casement windows from the inside. I notice that they’re covered by shutters and flowing white sheers, so I can’t see outside where I once stood, but it’s dark out there anyway and it’s warm and inviting in here. A grand piano sits in front of the windows in one corner. Across the room there’s a fire in the fireplace, which is one of those modern gas-and-glass models built into the marble surround. It gives the room a contemporary touch that reminds you that, yes, these walls have seen the ages, but the current custodian enjoys all the latest conveniences. And has very good taste, as evidenced by the large white couch-and–chaise lounge combo with a fur throw draped casually over the back—perfect for lounging or cuddling.

“Sit down, please,” Gabriel says. “How do you say… make yourself at home?”

“Make yourself at home!”

I know it was a corny thing to say, but when I get nervous, my inner nerd springs to life. I’m relieved he chuckles as he leaves the room.

Rather than sitting, I take the opportunity to take in the room with its high ceilings, crowned with expensive-looking medallions and sculpted molding. Its details are similarly French to the ones in Ivy’s apartment, but here they’re elevated to the next level. It’s all white on white—white ceiling, white fixtures, white walls, white shutters and drapes, white furniture—except for the Murano glass chandelier and the deep-red Persian rugs that top the parquet floors.

I notice no trace of cigarettes or ashtrays, which probably means he doesn’t smoke in the house.

Points for him.

He’s still smiling when he returns with champagne in a silver bucket and two crystal flutes. He sets everything on the coffee table, which is carved out of marble and laid with a scape of large hardback coffee-table books, a massive fresh floral arrangement in a gleaming silver dish, and a grouping of towering silver candlesticks in graduated sizes. The place looks straight from the pages of Architectural Digest.

“I hope you like bubbles,” he says as he coaxes the cork from the bottle with a controlled pffft and a nearly inaudible pop.

He pours two glasses and hands me one, then touches his glass to mine.

“To you. I am so very glad we’re doing this.”

“I am, too.”

The way Gabriel looks at me reminds me I’m wearing the lacy violet-blue thong and matching bra under my dress. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll want to keep my silky little secret to myself.

He gestures to the sofa. “Please make yourself at home and enjoy the fire while I go in and check on dinner.”

“Can I help you with anything?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Everything is done. It’s simple food. Coq au vin and pomme de terre. It needs to cook a few minutes more.”

I feel odd sitting alone in the cavernous room.

I take my champagne over to the built-in bookshelves that line the walls on either side of the fireplace. They are crammed full of books—and not the generic leather-bound variety for show that designers often use to accessorize fancy places like this.

Some shelves house large art and photography books. Several volumes detailing the history of France occupy another shelf. They’re situated among small sculptures and colorfully painted bowls and sterling silver chalices. There’s a framed black-and-white