Page 5 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
I thought about the night Tucker had given me the ring, a big, beautiful diamond set in platinum, which he’d had the waiter place into a flute of expensive champagne on our one-year anniversary. At the time I’d loved the spectacle of his getting down on one knee in front of everyone at the restaurant, but I had to admit half of the thrill was because everyone had told me what a playboy he was, that he’d never take me seriously, that he’d break my heart into a million pieces. But he hadn’t.
For a solid year we’d had a blast together—whenever we had time, that is. Running Devine Events kept me crazy busy, and he worked a ton of hours as VP of Sales at his family’s bolt and screw corporation. Neither of us was particularly clingy or emotionally needy, so we enjoyed each other’s company when we could and didn’t whine about the times we were apart.
He often said I was the ideal woman for him—beautiful, smart, and low maintenance. Those were his criteria. And I’d thought he was the ideal man—a gorgeous suit-and-tie guy with a master’s degree, a trust fund, and a flair for showy romantic gestures in front of an audience. The former drama student in me adored that.
So after downing the champagne, I slipped that ring on my finger and got busy planning a wedding worthy of a princess and playboy heir. I also moved into his townhouse, but even then we didn’t make a lot of demands on each other’s time.
Maybe we should have.
Maybe you’re supposed to want to actually be together more than Tucker and I wanted to. Maybe you should miss each other when you’re apart. Maybe the regret you feel after your fiancé calls off your wedding should be more about the man and less about the dress, the roses, and the menu.
(Surf and turf, by the way. Lobster and filet mignon. And the wine…oh good God, the wine.)
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed. How could I have been so dumb?”
“Come on, Mia,” Erin said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Each of my two best friends took a hand and pulled me up to a seated position. “It was a fantasy, like you said. Anyone would have been caught up in it.”
“Well, now it’s all just one big fucking waste,” I said bitterly. “All that time and money—gone.”
They glanced at each other. “You know what we think?” Coco patted my hand.
“What?”
“You should go to France tomorrow.”
“What! By myself?”
“Yes.” Erin got off the bed and disappeared into my walk-in closet. Before I could ask her what she was doing, Coco started in.
“You’ve been working nonstop, Mia, and planning your own wedding every spare second. Now you need a vacation, alone. You need time to reflect and think and just get over this.”
I blinked at her in disbelief. “And going to Paris alone is going to help me do that? When it was supposed to be my honeymoon?”
“Don’t think of it as a honeymoon.” Erin appeared with my big old suitcase, the only one that was not monogrammed with TBM. The bright red one that I’d taken on all our girl trips—just the sight of it made me perk up a little. “Think of it as Tucker’s parting gift to you—an all-expenses-paid luxury send-off!”
“I can’t. That wasn’t the plan.”
“Fuck the plan for once, Mia!” Coco bounced off the bed and gestured dramatically. “Just do it! Think of Paris—think of all the things on your list you’ve always wanted to see! Those things are still there, and they’ll look the same even without Tucker at your side. In fact, they’ll look better.”
It was true, I did have a Paris list. I had several, actually. One for dining, one for drinking, one for shopping, one for museums and cathedrals, one for outdoor attractions, one for romance…the idea soured in my mind. “No. It was going to be my honeymoon, goddammit. All I’d do is sit around drinking wine and brooding that this was supposed to be the most romantic week of my life and instead I’m there alone.”
“But think of how good that wine will be!” Erin smiled so brightly I almost laughed. “You’re just going to do the same thing if you sit around here for the week. Why not do it in view of the Eiffel tower?”
“The Louvre!” Coco added, clapping her hands.
“The Pont Neuf!”
“Notre Dame!”
“The Arc de Triomphe!”
“OK, OK, please.” I put up my hands to stop the ad campaign. “Please don’t start singing The Marseillaise. I get it. France is awesome. Yay France. I’m just not up for it. And you know how I am about flying.”
“I’ll give you a sleeping pill. You’re going.” Erin put the suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. “Now let’s pack your bags. This trip is paid for, and if you don’t go, then Coco and I are going, and we might love it so much we’ll decide we’re a lesbian couple and stay there without you.”
“You’re so not her type,” I said. But I allowed her to pull me to my feet. “Coco goes for tall, dark, and tattooed. That little heart above your ass doesn’t count.”
Erin smiled sweetly. “But it’s Paris. Anything can happen there.”
