Kiss Across Chaos (Kiss Across Time #10) - Tracy Cooper-Posey Page 0,11
Washington? They pay grunts peanuts here. And that’s all I am, right now.” He glanced in the mirror, then flicked the indicator on and moved the car over to the outside lane.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Arlington is that way.”
“I’m making a quick stop, first. It won’t take long. Not here, anyway.”
He turned off the main road into a narrow side street and drove beneath bare trees dusted with snow. Houses with Christmas lights rolled past, then he turned into the parking lot for a strip mall, slotted the Mercedes into a bay and switched off the engine.
“What’s here?” Jesse asked.
“Here? Nothing.” He pocketed the keys, then leaned over the console and slid his arm under hers. “Relax,” he breathed, as she reared back. He pulled her back against him.
As she registered the heat of him and the solidness, she felt the peculiar breath-robbing side-swipe of a jump and the blank mindless moment of transition.
He’d actually jumped from inside a car.
She blinked, looking around, as Aran let her go. She was on her feet now, and they were standing in a narrow alley formed by two buildings sitting barely four feet apart. It was cold here, too. Somewhere in the northern hemisphere, then. But the cold was different from the crisp, snowing sharpness of the air in Washington. More humid. Softer.
Aran dug gloves out of his coat pockets. “I need a real croissant and coffee,” he told her. “Come on.”
That told her where they were.
Paris. France.
Her pack was back in the car. In Washington. On the other side of the Atlantic from here. So she shrugged and followed Aran out of the alley and into the street beyond.
She had visited Paris as a Marine, once or twice, but not to the Left Bank. This was the Latin Quarter, rich with literary and artistic history and she tried not to stare about like a tourist as Aran moved down the sidewalk.
He didn’t have to go far. The patisserie was only a few yards away from the lane and Jesse knew, suddenly, that he used the lane for his arrival chamber because of its proximity to the bakery. He used it a lot.
Abruptly, she recalled the coffee and croissants he had brought with him the very first time he had shuttled her from one housesitting location to the next. That had been in San Francisco. He’d told he’d bought the croissants in Paris, only a few minutes before.
Jesse guessed that this was the bakery where he had bought them.
He pushed open the door, which jiggled a cheerful bell and held it for Jesse to step through. The man in a white apron behind the counter perked up when he saw Aran. “Monsieur Aran!” He broke into fast French.
The rich smell of something hearty cooking in a broth was all she could detect. It made her mouth water.
Aran let the door shut and moved over to the counter, replying in the same machine gun fast French. He lifted his hand toward Jesse, and she heard her name among the French.
“This is Bertrand,” he added, to her.
“Bonjour, Bertrand,” she said, and winced. She was not good at any language but English.
Bertrand was not a typical Parisian. He didn’t react to her abominable accent. He just smiled at her. “It is a cold day, no? A good day for soup with your bread.”
“And coffee,” she said, her belly rumbling. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Then soup, too. Merci, Bertrand,” Aran replied.
“Sit, sit. I will bring.” Bertrand hurried into the back room.
Aran moved over to the single table next to the window. The sun pooled around it.
Jesse pulled her phone out of her pocket as she sat in the other chair.
“Same timeline, but I brought us back to noon here, too,” Aran said softly.
She put her phone away with a grimace. “I thought it should have been the middle of the night or something, here. ‘kay, then.”
Bertrand hurried out with a long plate loaded with four croissants, a pot of coffee in the other hand. He put both on the table, then delved into the pocket of his apron and produced two coffee mugs, which he put on the table with a flourish. “The soup, she come.” He winked and hurried away.
They both reached for a croissant. Jesse tore off the end of the crescent and ate hungrily.
Soft white bread with the hint of oil, a touch of salt. Nothing else. Vive la gluten. It was perfect. She gobbled another enormous bite and sat back with a sigh.