One Bride for Five Mountain Men

Chapter 23

Jordan

Paris seems different now. I went back to my natural hair color, and I find myself greeting every stranger with some kind of challenge. I expect them to recognize me, and I expect to have the opportunity to stare them down defiantly when they do.

But somehow, the number of people who have that gleam of recognition in their face has dwindled to so few that sometimes I even forget to look for them.

I've been scrubbed from Pinterest. Our lawyers sent DMCA and cease-and-desist letters to thousands of publishers to remove both the streams and my image from screen captures. Some wicked part of me is delirious to know just how popular I became. My picture was everywhere, doing all kinds of things. There was fan fiction. There was fan art all over DeviantArt. There was even an Etsy seller who specialized in bras and panties in the styles I wore. Honestly. Some people.

But because of the Internet's notoriously ADHD personality, they've moved on to a whole new basket of scandals and sideshow attractions. I am quickly fading into “Where is she now?” status. It's a relief, believe me.

But that means Paris is different. Instead of wondering who's going to spot me out next, I really only have to worry that they're going to miscount my change, insult me to my face, or that I'll wander into some weirdo masturbating in public. Just normal Paris stuff.

I guess we didn't have to really come here to dispatch our properties, but I wanted to do it anyway. We have people to do that, as R likes to say so frequently. I could have hi

red an un-designer to dismantle my flat, sell off my stuff or put it in storage, or give it away. But I wanted to do it. Putting it all together had meant a lot to me.

And surprisingly, R did the same thing. I truly didn’t expect him to, since he had picked the flat out and all its furnishings. But he said that if we wanted to have a place in Paris, he wanted it to be some place we picked out together, as well as all the stuff inside it.

It makes me happy me to know that he really has listened to me. I’m glad he sees me as an individual. He respects my decisions and doesn't just tell me what to do and when to do it anymore.

We are partners, just like he said.

But I did find a truly adorable flat in Saint Germain-des-Prés in the 6th Arrondissement. It's unbelievably expensive, of course, but we have just the best neighbors. Just the best view. Just the best of everything. It's only going to be available for a short time, and I hope he likes the idea. No matter what we do in the States, I want us always to be able to return here. Even though it stinks to high heaven a lot of the time, there’s nothing more romantic than Paris.

So it's one last business fête at the Louvre before we return to New York tomorrow, and then Los Angeles after that. I got a business to start, and I can't wait.

All heads turn toward me as I exit the limo and step onto the curb. For a moment I have that feeling of being pushed back, as though everyone looking at me has a physical force like a wave.

But they’re smiling. I feel that I should know them, so I smile back. I see a lot of the same faces from last time, faces from dinner parties we’ve had. I do not see Monsieur Maillot, and that is just great.

R turns to me just as I'm walking up to him. He steps away from the small group of fashionably-dressed business people and holds his hands out to me, cupping my elbows in his palms and drawing me up for a long, slow, probably extremely inappropriate kiss.

“What was that?" I say when he finally pulls away, slightly breathless at the attention.

“Just saying hello,” he murmurs in that rumbly, sexy voice that makes my panties damp. He presses a brief, tender kiss to my forehead.

As per protocol, we walk around the outside of the group, letting people look at us. Everyone has to see everyone, almost like a much fancier way of having a roll call. But a lot of businesses are like that: being in places where other people are. Making connections, being seen.

He draws me away from the group and into the Louvre, and slowly we meander toward a beautiful landscape, wide and serene.

“You know what that is?”

I nod. “It's a Corot. Quite a lovely one.”

He appraises it with his eyes, scowling.

“I suppose this is the good stuff, eh? What makes it good?”

“Well, it's a pretty typical French composition. There’s a foreground, and there is a far horizon. Then there's sort of a zigzag path that your eye can take so that you can always get to the horizon. It's like hope. Like, there’s always a path forward, figuratively,” I finish thinking how Madame Brevelle would be so proud of my explanation.

“A path forward… is like hope?”

“Yes…” I say slowly. Something is definitely going on here. Why is he acting like he doesn't know anything about art history? And why are all these people casually meandering into this gallery?

I turned to him curiously, but take a half step back when he drops to one knee in front of me. His eyes search mine as his hand dives into his front pocket and withdraws a small black box.

I can hardly believe what I'm seeing, but he opens the box and presents to me. The diamond glitters vivaciously inside it, seeming to send out sparks in all the colors of the rainbow.