Now I’m thinking how very perfect this flat is for lovers.
And cursing that we can’t test out the window, the garden, the terrace . . . not to mention the bed.
Then I remember Stephen’s question, and Joy’s foot digging into my toe, and perhaps she needs me to play along.
“It is perfect for lovers.” I drape an arm around her shoulder, and she lifts her face to mine. In the span of a second, it’s as if Stephen is gone, and there’s just this woman and me, and all I can think is how much I’d like to press a kiss to those perfect red lips.
Perhaps she can read my mind, because she dusts her lips against my jaw, and that barest touch triggers a rush of heat in my body. I’m not even sure why we’re playing this game, but I also don’t really care.
When she lets go of me, she says, “I can move in today. Is that okay?”
Stephen nods. “Excellent. I will switch the paperwork. Let me go call the office to get that started.”
He heads down the stairs, leaving us on the rooftop garden.
I scrub my hand over my jaw. “Why did you want to go along with the whole young lovers thing?”
“Because that man is a romantic. I could see it in him. In the way he looked at us and seemed to catalogue how we interacted. Some part of him liked the idea that we were a thing. Doesn’t hurt anything for him to think that.” She nudges me. “Besides, we almost were, right?”
“We almost were.”
“It didn’t bother you to play along, did it?”
“Not in the least.”
“I suppose we can go back to being translator and translatee, Blaze.” She winks and heads down the stairs.
I’m alone on her roof, staring at the city. This woman might be the toughest client I’ve ever had, since I’m going to spend every second resisting her.
9
Joy
I’m ready.
All I need is one last accessory—the finishing touch for nearly every outfit. Perusing the antique silver mirrored tray perched on the bureau, I consider which perfume is most appropriate for a first day. Nothing too intense. Something incredibly subtle. Most of all, something classy.
I choose one that smells faintly of a soft, dewy path in the spring woods, with a lilac bush at the end. A collector sent me some from her stash—a sampler tube—and I’ve cherished it. I daub some behind my ears then set the tube next to the scalloped edge of the mirror. The mirrored tray is new, purchased from the Marché aux Puces this weekend, from a grizzled old vendor with yellowed teeth, a cigarette dangling between them as he played cards with another fellow, barking out a price. I wanted it so badly, I didn’t even attempt to bargain. I simply paid what he asked.
Now, it’s Monday morning and time to go. I grab my shoes and slip them on, shoulder my Kate Spade bag, then lock the door behind me.
Down the six flights I go, with my head held high.
Hmm.
That’s a little dicey.
Fine, the stairs are hard to navigate in heels. I have determination in spades, but I also wasn’t whacked with the stupid stick. I return to my place, take off my Jimmy Choo sling-backs, drop them in my bag, and slide into a pair of flip-flops. I hoof it down the eighty-four uneven steps.
With each footfall, I say silently I love my rooftop. It makes it that much easier to manage the insanity of six flights.
When I reach the bottom, I’m not breathing hard. You are.
Anyway, I’ve pretty much acclimated to the time change, and I’ve mostly acclimated to these steps. One thing I’ve absolutely adjusted to is my rooftop. Last night, I drank a glass of white wine while sitting in a wooden chair, watching the lights from the Eiffel Tower.
Not too shabby.
Butterflies flap in my belly as I cross the foyer in my building, my flip-flops slapping on the marble floor. Setting a hand on my stomach, I try to quell them. But I’m not sure I can. It feels like the first day of school, and I’m jam-packed with jitters.
You’re going to do great.
It’s what my parents told me this weekend over Skype.
It’s what Allison said in a text. You’ll be fabulous!
It’s what my co-worker Jeanie from Texas said in an email. You will be a rock star!
It’s what I desperately want to believe, and so I give myself thirty extra minutes for the commute, and I head for the metro.
When I walk down the steps, it’s not just crowded. It’s like a vacuum-packed bag of coffee grounds. The platform is stuffed with people, shoulder to shoulder, jostling, squeezing, working their way to the front of the crowd as a train slides into the station. As I make my way through the sardines, I have to make a decision—push forward into the train that’s clearly eaten too much at Thanksgiving, or turn the hell around and catch an Uber.
Duh.
I hightail it away from the rumbling train, because as much as I want to be a Parisian, I don’t want to show up at work sweaty, stinky, and covered in the scent of half a million others because I’m damn sure that’s how many people are on that train.
I’ll just slink away and slide out of here.
“Excusez-moi,” I mutter. “Pardon.” I wedge myself between two suited guys, sliding through, and then bump past a sturdy woman carrying a large box. I blink—mostly in admiration. She’s a tough dame, navigating this mess.
I’m pushing against the crowd, gripping my purse tight to my body like it’s a baby in a Björn, and beyond the rows of heads I can see the steps. Almost there.
Then, a sharp, stinging pain radiates from my left foot.
“Oh crud,” I mutter.
I try to lean to my right foot,
