Honeymoon in Paris Read online

  I wouldn’t let him get away with this.

  Running my hand down his rippled abdomen, I reached lower and still lower until I found the spot that made him go crazy. I could hardly contain myself, though, as he slipped his fingers inside of me and pressed so deeply I had to bite my lip to stop from moaning. I matched his intensity with each stroke of my hand and watched as he closed his eyes and succumbed to the pleasure.

  Suddenly he grabbed my hips and positioned me perfectly beneath him, then with an intense gaze that said I love you, I want you, and so much more, he thrust into me. This time I couldn’t help but let out a low moan.

  He pressed into me in slow, deep thrusts as he slipped the other strap off of my shoulder and cupped my breast in his hand. He lowered his face to my chest and ran his tongue over the tip of my nipple, the feeling of him inside of me, of his hands and lips on me, sending a ripple of pleasure through my core.

  I took his face in my hands and looked him in the eye as he continued to move over top of me. “Luc, you are the only one who’s ever made me feel this way.”

  That sexy grin reappeared, his sweet eyes lighting up as he leaned in to kiss me. He nibbled my bottom lip as he wrapped me tightly in his arms and pushed harder and firmer inside of me. “I want to see you,” he said. “I want to see your gorgeous body on top of me.”

  Luc rolled to the side and hoisted my hips up and onto his, another muffled cry of pleasure escaping my lips as the length of him shot inside me. He pushed into me more forcefully now from below, his hands cupping both of my breasts, his eyes full of an intense desire, a longing, a love I’d never seen before in any other man’s eyes. Luc’s need to be with me and to love me made me lose all control, made me give myself to him fully and completely.

  I rolled my hips back and forth over top of him, running my hands up his glistening torso and resting them on his firm chest.

  Luc slid his hands underneath the slip that now bunched at my hips, then pulled me harder and faster onto him, his eyes closing as he bit his lip to hold back a moan. “Charlotte, tu es trop belle. Tu me rends fou.”

  Nothing made me hotter than when Luc spoke French to me in bed. I leaned over him, kissing him with every ounce of wild passion that poured out of me, reveling in the perfect feel of his body, his love, his strength wrapped around me. He held me firmly against his pulsating body, thrusting into me almost violently as his breath quickened, his kisses, his touch becoming more urgent, more forceful. My core ached with desire until an explosion of pleasure set off inside of me. I muffled my cries into Luc’s shoulder, my body resting on top of him as he continued to thrust faster and harder into me. Finally, I felt him grow firmer, his hands gripping my hips as he pushed one more time, going so deep I could hardly breathe.

  Our bodies collapsed against each other, warm, sweaty, and totally and utterly in love. No one had ever made love to me the way Luc did. Every single time we romped under the sheets was different, incredible, mind-blowing, and full of surprises.

  TWELVE

  Hours later, a tiny knock on the bedroom door woke me from my sleep.

  “Papa,” Adeline’s soft voice called through the night.

  I shot out of bed, thankful that I’d put on a T-shirt and yoga pants before falling asleep. This whole living with a child situation was new to me—mostly in a good way, but new nonetheless.

  “Are you okay, Adeline?” I whispered to her in French, noticing Luc snoring soundly on his side of the bed. I’d never heard him snore before; hopefully that wouldn’t be one of our new norms in this whole marriage deal.

  I refocused on Adeline’s distraught face, the dim light from the streetlamp outside revealing a large tear running down her cheek.

  “I don’t feel good,” she responded in French, clutching her fuzzy white teddy bear. “I want my daddy.”

  I knelt down, took her hand, and led her out into the hallway, closing the door behind me. “Your daddy is really tired, sweetie. He needs to get some sleep. How about I take you back to your room and read to you until you fall back asleep. Will that be okay?”

  She stomped her little feet, her purple nightgown swaying back and forth. “Non! I want my daddy!” And then the tears came. Big, round, wet tears, streaming down her face.

  I scooped Adeline up into my arms and carried her back into her bedroom. I didn’t mind that she was kicking me the whole way. I wanted to try to make this right. Now that I was here to stay, it couldn’t always be her daddy comforting her. I wanted her to learn to love me too.

  I laid her down in her pink bed, flicked on the lamp, and sat down beside her, testing the back of my hand on her forehead to see if she was still running a fever. She didn’t feel that warm, but then again I’d never done this before, so I really didn’t have a clue.

  She pushed my hand away and glared up at me, her almond-shaped emerald eyes tired, red, and sad. I’d always wondered where she’d gotten those beautiful green eyes; now, after meeting Brigitte, I knew. Adeline’s smile, her nose, her normally sweet demeanor, all resembled Luc. But those eyes—those belonged to Brigitte.

  I wondered if I would ever look at Adeline again and not see her mother looking back at me.

  “I don’t want you here,” she said in French, turning her back to me and curling into a tight ball underneath her pink, fluffy comforter. “I want my mommy to come back. I want her to live here with me and daddy. Not you.”

  Maybe I should’ve woken Luc up after all. How do you even begin to explain divorce to a four-year-old?

  I resisted my urge to rub her back and kiss her on the cheek, knowing she would just shrug me off and get even angrier. Instead I searched the room for something to help me with a three A.M. explanation of divorce and step-mothers to a sick, tantrum-throwing four-year-old.

  Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that twenty-four hours after sleeping off a champagne hangover in Marcel Boucher’s bachelor pad, I would be so happy to find a family of four stuffed penguins.

  What has my life come to?

  I grabbed the penguins from Adeline’s overflowing stuffed animal bin and walked to the other side of the bed where she was facing the wall, her eyes purposefully squeezed shut.

  “I know you don’t feel like talking to me right now, so we’re going to talk to your penguin family instead.” I propped all four of the penguins up on the side of her bed. She kicked her little feet under the covers and kept her eyes closed.

  “This is Daddy Penguin,” I began. “And this is Mommy Penguin. One day Mommy Penguin and Daddy Penguin had a little baby penguin, and they named her Adeline.”

  I wanted to say, Adeline is a stubborn little penguin who needs to open her eyes and pay attention because Charlotte Penguin is exhausted and doesn’t feel like putting on a penguin puppet divorce show at three o’clock in the morning, but I felt that a sarcastic penguin show wouldn’t help matters.

  Instead, I continued. “Mommy Penguin and Daddy Penguin love their little Adeline Penguin more than anything in the whole world.”

  Unfortunately, after meeting Mommy Penguin the day before, I could see that she clearly had her priorities, and her daughter wasn’t one of them. Brigitte’s little visit here this morning didn’t fool me one bit. She was jealous that Luc was already remarried, and she wanted to get her little paws in here and screw things up for us. Again, I chose to bite my tongue and, instead, plodded onward.

  “One day, Mommy and Daddy Penguin decided that they needed to spend time with other penguins so they could be truly happy. But that doesn’t change how much they adore their sweet Adeline Penguin.”

  Adeline’s eyes were open now. “But why do they have to spend time with other penguins? Amélie’s mommy and daddy don’t spend time with other penguins.”

  Amélie was Adeline’s best friend. Of course Amélie’s mommy and daddy didn’t need to spend time with other penguins because her mommy wasn’t a drunken, jealous, raging little actress who dated men twice her age and crashed her ex-husband’s hon
eymoon.

  I only hoped Brigitte would get her act together at least a little bit by the time Adeline was old enough to understand everything. Otherwise Adeline would surely see her mother acting out in the tabloids, and one day in the not-so-distant future, she would realize my penguin rendition of the way her family had broken up was not at all the truth.

  “Every penguin family is different,” I said. “And what works for one penguin family doesn’t always work for another family. Having more penguins in the family can be more fun! I mean, don’t you want to play with more penguins too?” God, I was really reaching here.

  Adeline sat up, her little eyebrows scrunched in confusion, her long auburn hair sticking to her cheeks. “I guess so,” she said hesitantly.

  Whew.

  “Me too! So when Mommy and Daddy Penguin decided they’d love to invite some more penguins into their life so that Adeline Penguin could have a bigger, better penguin family, that’s when Daddy met Charlotte Penguin.” I introduced the fourth and final penguin to the scenario, as Mommy Penguin took a nose-dive to the floor. Oops.

  “Daddy Penguin fell in love with Charlotte Penguin, and as soon as Charlotte Penguin met Adeline Penguin, she fell in love with her too!”

  “But Mommy still loves Daddy,” Adeline insisted. “She told me that today. And she wants to live here. Can she move in too, so all four of us can live together?”

  Hmm, seems I was getting more intel on what had gone down during the ex-wife’s house call this morning from the four-year-old daughter than I was from my own adult husband. And what was wrong with Brigitte that she would tell her young daughter these things? No wonder Adeline had been a mess all night.

  I brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and put Charlotte Penguin in her lap.

  “I’m sorry your mom told you those things and confused you today, sweetie. The truth is that while she loves you very much, and while your mom and dad will always care for each other, your mom has a very busy career as an actress, and she can’t move in with us.”

  Adeline’s face darkened, making me worry that I was doing this all wrong. Should I have left the parenting to Luc? Especially in these early weeks of our marriage?

  Her thick lashes lowered as she gazed down at Charlotte Penguin in her lap.

  “You see, I’m a really nice penguin too, and I love you and your dad so much,” I said softly. “I promise that the three of us are going to have so much fun together. You just have to trust me. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  She lifted those huge emerald eyes to mine, and just when I thought she was going to burst into tears or throw Charlotte Penguin in my face, she opened her little arms and wrapped them around me.

  I don’t think I’d ever felt my heart swell as big as it did in that moment.

  Holding Adeline tightly against my chest, I kissed her on the forehead and made a silent promise to never abandon her, no matter how difficult this whole blended family business could be. She was only a little girl, and she deserved to be loved.

  I knew what it felt like to believe like your mother didn’t love you as much anymore, that she had other priorities, and that you weren’t one of them. It was a hurt so deep, I couldn’t bear to think about it. And I was twenty-six.

  I could only imagine what it felt like to a four-year-old girl.

  I knew I couldn’t replace her mom. But as I rocked Adeline in my arms until she fell asleep, watching her tiny chest rise and fall with each breath, I recognized that deep down in my heart, I wanted to try.

  After putting Adeline back to bed, I remembered the message I’d sent to my contact in New York earlier. Stifling a yawn, I padded out to the living room and opened up my laptop to sign into my e-mail. But to my disappointment, my in-box was empty. Which meant that when I awoke in only a few hours, the first things on my agenda were finding a job and coming clean with Luc.

  Just as I was about to head back to bed, the Paris journal sticking out of my purse caught my eye. I definitely had a few new ideas to add to The Girl’s Guide to Tying the French Knot, and I’d had so much fun writing the day before, I figured why not add to it? I grabbed a pen and got to work, making sure to add a note on how effective a penguin puppet divorce show can be when dealing with young step-children.

  Come tomorrow morning, I’d have to find a real job, of course, but as the words flowed effortlessly from my pen, I couldn’t ignore the little voice inside my head telling me that maybe, someday, this would be my real job.

  THIRTEEN

  Giggles filled my ears as a violent bouncing rocked my body and something hit my head.

  “Charlotte, wake up! Tell me another penguin story, Charlotte. Tell me, tell me!”

  Still clad in her purple nightgown, bed head and all, Adeline bounced up and down at the foot of the bed, then threw another penguin at my face.

  “Charlotte, wake up!” she cried in French.

  Oh, dear God. Where was Luc?

  The loud squeaking sound coming from the ancient shower head in our minuscule bathroom told me he’d avoided the penguin massacre by hopping in the shower. I forced myself up and scooped Adeline into my arms.

  “Looks like someone is feeling better today, hmm?” I said as I tickled her sides and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Tell me another penguin story. Now,” she ordered, her pretty green eyes turning all serious.

  “Your dad has to get ready for work, and you have to go to school, so we’ll do more penguin stories tonight after dinner, okay?”

  Adeline lurched from my grasp and stomped her tiny feet on the bed. “I. Want. It. Now!” she screamed, hurling another penguin at me.

  Too tired to deal with my penguin-wielding step-daughter, I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand and shuffled into the kitchen. After only a few hours of sleep, a strong cup of French café was certainly in order.

  Just as I got the espresso machine brewing, Adeline appeared in the kitchen, all four penguins in tow. She batted her thick lashes at me.

  “S’il te plaît, Charlotte,” she begged in her sweetest, most adorable begging voice.

  Wow, this girl had learned a thing or two about manipulation. I could only guess who she’d picked up these skills from.

  “Adeline, I told you already. We’ll have time for stories tonight. Right now we need to eat breakfast.”

  Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, and she lifted her foot to begin her stomping tantrum.

  “Wait!” I called out, remembering that I could play this manipulation game too. “Penguins like Nutella crêpes, don’t they?”

  Joy immediately replaced the tears as she jumped up and down, her auburn hair flying all over the place. “Penguins love Nutella crêpes!” she cried out.

  Whew.

  As Adeline seated all four penguins at the kitchen table alongside her, I poured my first steaming cup of espresso for the day (there would certainly be at least three more), then got cracking on my crêpe promise. In between batter pours, I checked my phone and found that a slew of text messages had come in from the girls between last night and this morning.

  As to be expected, the news wasn’t good.

  Lexi: Hey ladies, has your boyfriend/husband seen our incriminating photos yet? Dylan isn’t speaking to me. He’s certain it was me on that balcony. I am certain that it wasn’t. Which one of you was smooching Marcel last night?

  Me: Lexi, how do you know it was Marcel on the balcony? The picture is too dark to tell.

  Lexi: I have super X-ray vision. Kidding. I just know. So come on, fess up. Who kissed sex-on-a-stick Marcel Boucher?

  Fiona: I don’t remember anything after we arrived at Marcel’s flat. By some stroke of magic, Marc hasn’t seen or heard about the tabloids yet. Please, God, let him stay hidden under a rock until those sodding tabloids find their next victims.

  Me: Don’t you think it’s strange that we don’t remember anything? Could we have been drugged?

  Lexi: Char, it’s called memory loss induced by TEN glass
es of champagne. You girls had at least that much. I still refuse to believe that whoever kissed Marcel wouldn’t remember, though. Char, are you divorced yet?

  I added another crêpe to the stack and quickly texted the girls back.

  Me: Still married as of this morning. Was up until 4 a.m. performing a penguin puppet divorce show. Don’t ask. I don’t remember anything either. So sorry I got you all into this mess.

  Two minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

  Lexi: Don’t apologize. I haven’t had that much fun in ages. Dylan and I are always fighting these days, and I needed to blow off some steam. Sucks we got caught, but at least we’re famous now. Still desperately want to know who was on that balcony…

  Fiona: Screw famous. Marc’s evil mother Madame Rousseau just arrived for her twelve day visit and shoved a copy of that heinous tabloid in Marc’s face. Life = officially over.

  Oh, God. What a disaster. After my horrific run-ins with Madame Rousseau the year before, the thought of having her in my home for twelve days and, worse, having her as a potential future mother-in-law made me nauseated. Not to mention the fact that she would make Fiona’s life pure hell now that those photos had been released. Poor Fiona.

  I gave Adeline and her penguins a Nutella crêpe, then hightailed it back to the bedroom to have one more look at that tabloid. How did Lexi know for sure that it was Marcel on the balcony? As far as I knew, I was the only one who was aware of Fiona’s late-night tryst with Marcel, so how could Lexi be positive it hadn’t been Nicolas?

  I found the magazine lying on the floor next to our dresser and flipped to the incriminating balcony photo.

  I held it under the light, but it was still too fuzzy to make out. It appeared as though the guy had dark hair, which meant nothing because both Marcel and Nicolas had dark (fabulous) hair. The photo was mainly of the guy’s back, so you couldn’t see more than a dark, blurry silhouette of the girl.