I reach the door and ring, and soon a voice floats over the buzzer.
“Come in.”
The emerald-green wooden door spills into a courtyard teeming with yellow tulips. I’ve gained entry to a secret lair simply because I have the passcode—a love of perfume. The door swings open, and a pretty, petite brunette with black glasses and high cheekbones steps out and tosses her arms around me.
“My new American friend in Paris,” she declares, the sleeves of her maroon top fluttering.
“Hello, my new French–American friend in Paris. Your courtyard is gorgeous,” I say, once I untangle myself.
She waves a hand dismissively. “I do a little gardening.”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”
She ushers me inside, and bless her, she has a bottle of champagne on the living room table.
I think I love her.
Two hours later, I’m buzzed, happy, and laughing.
“Try this one,” she says as she reaches for a bottle on the marble table in her living room. A delicate tray hosts several vials and tubes of her favorites. “It’s Euphoria.”
“Will it make me feel amazing?”
“It will make anyone want to seduce you. No man is powerful enough to resist this scent.”
“Why? Does it smell like pizza and beer?” I ask, thinking Richard was weirdly powerful enough to resist all pretty scents. He curled his nose up at them, covering his nostrils, asking me to please, please, please never wear perfume in the house. It gave him a headache.
She slaps her hand on her thigh. “You’re very funny.” She hands me the bottle. “Here you go.”
I’ve already washed off the ones I’ve tried on so far, so my wrists are bare when she spritzes some on. I bring my hand to my nose and inhale. “Mmm. It’s a tropical garden, and I’ve just strolled past a mango tree, where the fruit hangs low and ripe.”
She whistles her appreciation. “You need to write my blog for me.”
“Well, you don’t want me to say something simple, like it smells like mangoes,” I say drily. “Your blog taught me better.”
“The best perfumes take you on a trip. They whisk you away to a place, to a time, to a memory.”
I sigh happily, picturing a tropical island while I’m in her very French, very rich home. Elise owns an advertising agency. The perfume blog she writes in her spare time.
“I was worried,” I admit with a contented sigh.
“About what?”
“Would we get along? Would you be snooty? Would I be a terrible guest, since my French is abysmal?”
“You’ll get there, and of course we get along. We share a love. And you are wonderful and not a douche. Did you like my American word? See, I haven’t been gone too long from the United States.”
“Just say douchecanoe and you’ll be good to go at proving your dual citizenship.”
“Douchecanoe,” she says with the most impeccable French accent, and we both crack up.
“Brilliant.”
“Merci. And how are you liking Paris? You must be fighting off all the French men all the time.”
I scoff. “No, not at all. I haven’t even had so much as a French kiss.”
“You’ve come to the most romantic city in the world, and you haven’t even kissed in the City of Light?” Incredulity is her new middle name.
“There’s no one.” But an image of the handsome man I spend half my days with flashes before me. I can feel my lips curve in a grin as I imagine Griffin’s handsome face.
Elise must catch my expression because she arches a brow curiously. “Are you sure?”
I inch closer, even though we’re alone. “Well, my work translator is a total fox.”
She laughs. “Fox. Do tell.”
I spill all about Griffin. How we met. Our rapport. Even the texts he sent.
“British and French. He sounds delicious. You should take a lover,” she says, then raises her glass.
I nearly spit out the bubbly. “Take a lover?”
She nods, her expression fiercely certain. “Yes. You are attracted to him. He’s attracted to you. It makes perfect sense to me.”
I shake my head, bemused. “You’re so French.”
“Why not do it?”
“We work together. It would be complicated when it ends, and it always ends.”
“Then don’t complicate it. That’s what we do well here. We’ve learned to take our pleasures—our wine, our perfume, our chocolates. Eat them, savor them—enjoy them. You never know what tomorrow brings. We should enjoy every day, and eat it like a fruit.”
“If that’s the case, I want my days to taste like peaches.”
She wiggles an eyebrow. “You should eat a banana.”
I laugh. “You’re going to be a very bad influence on me.”
“I might be. But you won’t regret great sex. Seriously? Have you ever regretted great sex?”
I set my glass down. “It’s been so long since I’ve had it, I’m not sure I remember enough to regret.”
“That saddens me so much I need another glass,” she says, grabbing the bottle and offering me some.
I wave her off. “I shouldn’t have any more.” I glance at the time. “I need to take off. I have to meet Griffin for ice cream.”
“Where? Berthillon?”
I smile. “How did you know?”
“It’s only the best in Paris. He probably wants to feed you ice cream and get you in bed.”
“Is that a thing here? Ice cream and sex?”
She nods sagely. “Like I said, we love our pleasures in France.”
I point at her. “You’re trouble, Elise. Total trouble.”
She smiles. “Of course I am. Maybe you need trouble. Maybe you’ve spent the last few years doing what you thought you should, and now it’s time to do what you want.”
I blink and square my shoulders, surprised she can read me so easily. “How can you tell?”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
I take a beat before I answer. “You might be right.”
When I leave, I can’t help but wonder how right she is. If I should pursue more. I know, rationally, it would be a mistake,
