Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,72
how was I supposed to give all my time and energy to finding my happiness again with him underfoot? Jason was the bane of my existence, a complete pain in the ass, and I knew if given half a chance, he would ruin everything!
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• • • •
I AWOKE TO the smell of fresh coffee. Was there a greater scent to be greeted with in the morning? Well, maybe chocolate cake, but coffee was a solid number two.
Again, it took me a moment to remember where I was. Paris. The ceiling above my bed was low, and the light from below was dim. There was no window in the loft, giving it the feel of a snug cocoon. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of my blankets, but the lure of the coffee was too potent to ignore. The café downstairs must be open for business and brewing up a storm. Then I heard the whistling.
It was a tuneless melody, but it was most definitely coming from downstairs. There was someone in my apartment! I clutched my covers in a moment of panic. Then I saw a man, the one who was whistling, crossing the living room to my balcony doors. He held a coffee in one hand and opened the door with the other. He strode outside and made himself at home on my veranda. I immediately recognized his loose-limbed walk. Knightley!
I shoved my covers aside. I finger combed my hair, then snatched my silk bathrobe from the foot of my bed. I shrugged it on and belted it tight. I hurried down the ladder to the floor below, striding across the living room and poking my head out the door.
“Martin,” he said. “You’re up. Excellent. I picked up coffee and pastries from the café downstairs. Have you met Zoe, the owner? She’s something else, isn’t she?”
I blinked. He bought coffee and pastries? My opposing desires to rip him a new one or shove a pastry in my mouth and wash it down with fabulous French coffee went to war. Coffee and pastry won before the battle lines were even drawn. Shocker.
“We need to talk,” I said. I gestured to the balcony. “Don’t move—unless it’s to jump.”
Jason grinned. “You’re all heart, Martin.”
I examined the contents of the bag he’d left on the counter. He’d gotten the swirly pastry with raisins. Damn it—that was my favorite. How was I supposed to present a formidable front while stuffing my face with pastry? I grabbed the paper cup of coffee. It was warm in my hand. The bitter aroma made me salivate. Clearly it would be considered bad manners to ignore what he’d bought for us, and I certainly didn’t want to be rude.
With my pastry lust justified, I took a paper-wrapped Danish and my coffee and joined him on the balcony, taking the seat on the other side of the very small café table, which was just big enough for our coffee cups. The balcony was in full sun, so even though the temperature was in the low sixties, it was pleasant to be outside in the sweet Parisian air. Jason had his phone out and was taking a picture of the street and the top half of the Eiffel Tower, which could just be seen off in the distance, beyond the buildings. He turned to me once he’d snapped the photo.
“Good morning,” he said. His thick dark hair was mussed, and he was wearing jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a plain white T-shirt. His gaze moved over my cow pajamas and pink silk robe. His lips twitched, but he didn’t say a word. The restraint was probably killing him.
“Thanks for the coffee and the pastries,” I said. I didn’t want to start the morning with a spat. “That was nice of you.”
A slow grin moved across his lips, and he raised his own cup and took a long sip. “That hurt, didn’t it? To thank me?”
“More than a pulled tooth but less than a broken arm,” I said.
He laughed. It rumbled up from deep down in his chest, and I found myself chuckling in return. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that bad. Still, I was the sort of girl who valued her privacy, especially when prepping for a big date, so I needed him gone by midafternoon in order to make it to my salon appointment and give myself a solitary moment or two to get in the right headspace.