Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,69

and into the gloriously golden late afternoon. Jean Claude twined my fingers with his as we turned and walked down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. People moved around us, and I found myself pressed closer and closer to him until he let go of my hand and slid his arm around my back, resting his hand on my hip.

“It is okay?” he asked.

I could feel the heat of him along my side, and our faces were just inches apart. It was hard to believe this was real, that he was real. My heart swelled, and I nodded, unable to find the words to say how very right it all felt.

As I studied his profile—the lush lips, jutting cheekbones, and full brow—I was struck again by how beautiful he was. The man positively took my breath away. And in that breathlessness, I felt it. The flutters not just of physical desire but of the emotions that had lain dormant inside of me for so long.

He turned his head and met my gaze. His eyes glowed with affection. “Tomorrow I will have your party dress delivered in the morning, and then I will pick you up at sept heures. What do you say, Chelsea?”

“I say yes,” I said.

He grinned at me, a slash of white teeth against the darkening sky, but only I knew that what I was saying yes to was so much more than going to a party. I was saying yes to all of it: to him, to Paris, to feeling all the feels again.

* * *

• • • •

HE LEFT ME at my doorstep, with a kiss on each cheek and a look that scorched the soles of my shoes.

I’d been in my apartment for all of five minutes when Zoe arrived, demanding details and gushing over my Absalon dress. We squealed like middle school girls invited to their first dance when I told her about the party. She insisted I had to visit her salon the next day and promised to set up an appointment.

I would have stayed in and spent the evening daydreaming about him, but Zoe insisted that since I was dressed, I must go out with her and enjoy Paris. She convinced me to let her do my makeup, which she made very bold with glittery eye shadow and vibrant lipstick. She said it wouldn’t be healthy to fixate on Jean Claude. It was the sort of advice Annabelle would have given me, so I went.

Zoe took me on a whirlwind tour of all the hot spots. We danced on a party barge on the Seine under the blue glow of a full moon. We climbed to the top of an abandoned building in Marais and found a drag queen dance club on the roof with a DJ, strobe lights that shot out into the night, and a fully stocked bar.

A pretty black man dressed as Marilyn Monroe and killing it was completely taken with me even though we couldn’t converse over the loud music. When I took to the floor to dance with Marilyn, Zoe cheered me on, joining us with her own partner, a very tall and muscular Greta Garbo. Tipsy from the cocktails being served, we left in the early hours of the morning, stopping at an underground café for an enormous meringue filled with sweet Chantilly cream.

With a hug, Zoe and I parted ways in front of the apartment, as she had late-night plans to visit a special gentleman friend. I tried not to envy her that.

I jogged up the steps, still hearing the music from the rooftop party in my head. A delicious thrill rippled through me as I thought about my reunion with Jean Claude and the promise of a date with him tomorrow. I felt more certain than ever that this was what I’d been looking for, the thrill of infatuation. I was giddy.

I stepped into the dark hallway and turned toward my apartment. I was almost at my door when I saw a rectangular lump in front of my door. What the hell? I jumped, and then it hit me. My carry-on!

I picked up my pace and rushed down the hall toward the bag. Socks, my favorite hairbrush, my cow pajamas—oh, how I’d missed them all! I was almost on top of my bag when I saw a pair of legs stretched out on the other side of it. I braked hard.

They were a man’s legs in jeans and black Converse sneakers. Was it the airport