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

I’m not going to ruin a good night by overthinking it.

“So, your Cordon Bleu friends are storing the food?”

He blinks.

“Yes, and I can also use one of the kitchens to cook. Your timing with this first tour was perfect because Cordon Bleu’s new term doesn’t start until the end of next week.”

“It’s really good of you to do this, Aiden.”

“I wanted to. For you.”

The Eiffel Tower is flashing its bright lasers and lights in the distance, but Aiden and I only have eyes for each other. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want to make things awkward right before tour time.

So I sit back, breaking the spell. “This seems like the perfect place for a picnic. You’re sure it works okay for transporting and serving the food?”

He glances around the park, still looking a little dazed but acting like nothing almost just happened. “Sure, I don’t see why not. I’ll figure out where to park and use a cart to wheel in the food. If something changes, I’ll let you know. But we should be able to find a space in this vicinity.”

January is considered the shoulder season for Paris tourists. It gets dark early and the weather is unpredictable. Sunset happens around 5:45, but we’ve been blessed with relatively mild temperatures in the midforties. Aiden will provide thermoses of hot coffee to keep everyone warm, and the upside to the earlyish sunset is the postdinner light show, compliments of la Tour Eiffel.

“Tallu can meet you here and help you. Emma will probably want to stay with me to see the whole tour. Plus, it will be good for her to get the full effect of walking up to the picnic like a guest.”

“Works for me,” he says. “We can’t reserve a space, but you can look for us around here. Will Marla be helping?”

“That remains to be seen. She might have other things to do.”

ON THE MORNING OF the tour launch, Tallulah, Emma, and I arrive at the office at 6:00 a.m., ahead of the 10:00 a.m. departure. Emma came in special for the inaugural run. I’m both giddy and nervous that she will be here watching my performance and helping me shepherd twenty people through Paris’s crazy years.

I’m here early to do one last check to make sure everything is in place. I was so grateful when Em and Tallulah volunteered to be here at the crack of dawn to help me. Marla stayed in London a few extra days, which is probably best for both of us because things have been tense since I caught her in the lie.

After I unlock the door and turn on the lights, I pick up messages. The first one is from a reporter.

At first I assume she wants to cover the new tour, and my heart soars. I couldn’t buy better advertising. Or, at least, it’s not in our budget right now.

However, my elation is short-lived.

“Hello, this is Desirae Montpellier from The Guardian. I’m trying to reach Hannah Bond. I’m following up on a tip I received that you might know something about a newly discovered Andres Armand manuscript. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”

“What the—?”

“What’s wrong?” Tallu asks. She and Emma gather round.

“A reporter has gotten wind of the Armand manuscript. Only a handful of people know about it, but they all know we’re not ready for the publicity frenzy it’s going to create.”

Would Marla do that when she, more than anyone, understands the consequences of announcing it without a plan? Especially on the opening day of the tour. Would she do it out of spite to throw us—me—into chaos?

She has done some pretty bad things in her life, but they’ve always come from a place of selfishness, not malice or spitefulness. Still, she knew today was the big day and she’s not here to help.

“Who would do something like this?” T asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do.”

“You shouldn’t do anything right now,” T says. “Not until you can talk to your attorney.”

She’s right—I’m not under any obligation to call the reporter back immediately… or at all.

“Is there any way you could parlay this into tour coverage?” Emma asks hopefully.

“I don’t know.” Of course, press like this has the potential to bring a lot of attention to the tour that could translate into bookings. But baiting Desirae Montpellier with the manuscript seems like a cheap publicity stunt. Most important, it feels like Ivy and Andres deserve better.

“Today we need to focus on the tour.”

Emma looks a little disappointed, but she nods.

She wouldn’t have tipped off Montpellier, would she? We’ve been friends for so long I can’t imagine that she would betray my confidence like that.

Someone did, and sadly, my money is on Marla.

Right now, I can’t let speculation distract me. I need to get my head in the game and start channeling Granny Ivy—

No, that doesn’t sound right. I need to channel Ivy Braithwaite in her Paris prime.

I bought a blonde bobbed wig with bangs for the occasion. I’m pairing it with Ivy’s black-and-gray dress that I found in her closet. Since it’s still cold outside, I’ll wear her red cloche hat and the long, camel-colored coat trimmed in faux fur.

I’m so busy running through my script and pulling together last-minute odds and ends that the reporter slips my mind. Until Marla waltzes through the door smiling like she’s right on time for a girls’ day out.

“Good morning, beauties,” she sings. “I hope you’re hungry. I got us breakfast from Angelina. Café au lait, hot chocolate, pain au chocolat, and plain croissants for the boring people. Oh! And I got each of us one of those precious little Mont-Blanc pastries. I couldn’t resist. I know it seems like a lot, but when you consider I was tempted to get four of everything on the menu, what I brought you is an exercise in restraint.”

She holds up a