One Summer in Paris

What was she doing? Was she here because of the attraction she felt toward Philippe, or was it something more? Deep down she was afraid her reasons might be more complicated than that. Was she proving something to herself?

Last time they’d been together she’d felt excited and a little reckless. She’d managed to push David out of her head, but now he’d crept back in and she couldn’t shift him.

And it wasn’t just that she felt a little guilty, although she did, it was more than that.

She didn’t really know Philippe, did she?

They’d been intimate, but they weren’t close.

When she’d met him at eighteen, it hadn’t mattered. Her family had felt like handcuffs, chaining her to a life she’d hated. The last thing she’d wanted to do was talk about them. But now?

Somehow the chemistry alone wasn’t enough.

They’d talked about art, music, travel, literature but every time she tried to talk about anything more personal he’d closed the conversation down. Audrey would no doubt laugh at her and tease her for being old-fashioned and maybe she was, but if that was the person she was, then what was wrong with that?

Philippe lifted his head reluctantly. “Somehow I don’t think I have your full attention.”

Grace rested her hand on his chest. If she was seriously considering going with him to Budapest and Prague, then they needed to have an honest relationship, surely? “Could we talk?”

Philippe raised an eyebrow. “Talking wasn’t what I had in mind,” he drawled, “but if that’s what you want to do, then of course, let’s talk. What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to know more about you. Tell me about your family. Your parents. Your sister.”

“I don’t think they come under the heading of erotic conversation.”

“I don’t feel as if I know you.”

He slid his hand into her hair and kissed her gently. “After the other night? You know me, Grace.”

She thought about the first time she’d had sex with David. It had been after her parents’ funeral, which sounded dreadful when you thought about it, but in fact hadn’t been dreadful at all. David had been living in a one-bedroom apartment in the town where they’d both grown up, and he’d taken her there afterward, nurturing her like a wounded animal.

He’d tucked her up on his old battered sofa, made her a cup of tea and listened while everything she’d been thinking and feeling had spilled out of her mouth.

David was a good listener, of course. Always had been. It was one of the things that made him a good journalist. Most people listened and then jumped in the moment there was a pause in the conversation, but David listened because he was truly interested in what you were saying.

They’d talked all night, about everything and anything and even in the middle of the heartbreak she’d found herself laughing. They’d made love as dawn was breaking and it had felt like the beginning of something rather than the end.

She’d moved in with him the same day.

At first it had seemed like an unusually impulsive move for her, but then she’d realized that this moment had been coming for a long time. She and David had been friends since childhood. Their whole lives had been intertwined. She’d loved him for a long time, although it had taken a tragedy for her to realize that her love went much deeper than friendship.

It was that friendship and closeness that she’d missed most. Waking up next to someone who really knew her.

She felt an ache behind her ribs.

Philippe stroked his finger across her cheek. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.” She didn’t tell him why, of course, because she knew he wouldn’t be interested.

He smiled. “Lie down.”

“Philippe—”

“I’m going to give you a foot massage, that’s all.”

She lay down and closed her eyes. She’d worry about everyt

hing tomorrow. Make decisions tomorrow. For now she just needed to rest. She was completely exhausted.