Page 35 of One Week in Paris
I’d frozen at his words. The man is a charmer like his father, and I wonder how many women he has going. I certainly am not the only one.
I shake my head. Why am I thinking about myself as ‘one of his women’? How did that happen?
I turn to Oscar and he flashes me a smile. I’m glad he’s here. I need him here. I don’t care if he gets the wrong idea, if we cross the line.
“So, you love me, hey?” he teases.
I smile “Yeah, you know… like a little girl loves her puppy.”
He grins. “I love you too,” he says. “But not as much as I love Nellie.”
I smile. Nellie is his rag doll cat, whom he absolutely adores.
“Well, yeah. I love Mitzy more than you too, of course.”
“This friend of yours… Gabbie. Can we trust her?” he asks. “She won’t steal my Nellie, will she?”
I laugh. “Gabbie is very good with animals. She has a cat too, and a dog. She’ll take good care of them, I promise.”
He smiles and looks out the window. It’s sweet how he’s in one of the most exciting cities in the world and he’s worried about his cat.
“Let the adventure begin,” I cheer.
He smiles at me again, full of excitement. “Yeah, let’s.”
We arrive at our destination,a quaint, charming European street. I love it. Corrie pays the driver, and I check the notes I’ve written about this place: the address, second floor, unit 10.
The driver doesn’t help us with our bags, and I’m mildly annoyed. I wonder if he would have offered to help if we weren’t accompanied by six foot two of disheveled man. It’s fine — Oscar’s got it.
Corrie pulls at the huge door with all her might. “Fuck, this thing is heavy.”
The old staircase creaks under our feet as we trudge up. We both carry a small suitcase. Oscar is in charge of the big ones — I knew he’d be good to have around. The lock sticks when I try to open it, and I’m worried for a second, but then it finally relents.
As soon as we walk in, I relax a little. The place is just as it was in the pictures, small but lovely. Wooden beams run across the low ceiling, and there’s striking vibrant art on the walls. The decor is casual French with a dash of Victorian. One could say the place is a bit ‘girly’, which is perfect for Corrie and I, not so much for Oscar.
But I’m sure Oscar doesn’t give a shit. I dash over to the antique bookcase. A collection of French and English books line the shelves, and even a few Spanish ones. Donations from previous guests? Who even has the time to read in this fabulous, exciting city?
“This place is the bomb,” Corrie says.
I laugh. “The bomb?” I tease. “You watch too muchGossip Girl.”
We venture in to the bedrooms. The rooms are almost identical, both furnished with double beds dressed in pretty linens, antique armoires and bedside tables, and flowing white curtains. They’re both very romantic. “I call dibs on this one. The view is better,” Corrie says.
“I guess that leaves the other room for Oscar and I,” I say.
Corrie smirks. “The walls are thin. Don’t you two be too loud.”
Oscar laughs. “No promises. This one’s a screamer.”
I shake my head. “I am not.”
“No, she’s more of a moaner,” Oscar tells Corrie.
Oh damn, this is going to be a long week.
After we get settled in,we stop by a small Japanese restaurant down the road. We stuff our faces with sushi, and I get trapped in the small washroom in the basement when the lock on the door gets stuck. Thankfully, Corrie comes to my rescue.
We take a walk around the neighborhood. Our place is not far from a market where we stop in at a café where I order a ‘café’ which as it turns out, is not coffee, but espresso. I know I’ll be wired all day. I learn that if you want a plain old coffee in Paris, you must order a ‘café américano’. You live, you learn.
