The Devil's Own Chloe
Bistro La Bohème, #7
You & Me
in Paris, #3
by Alix Nichols
Genre: Chick Lit/Romantic Comedy
FREE: July 16-18
BLURB
The Devil's Own Chloe is a feel-good romance that tackles
some big issues and delivers a shy-guy hero you won't want to forget!
Young Parisian architect Chloe Germain
hires childhood friend Hugo Bonnet as a builder. Lethally toxic to loved ones,
Chloe keeps them at arm's length to protect them.
Or so she thinks.
Patient and strong, Hugo prides himself
on being able to fix anything. Trouble is, he's never tried repairing a chasm
in someone's soul before.
Will his love save Chloe or will fixing
her leave him broken?
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EXCERPT
One
It’s Saturday night, known
to the mated population of Paris as Hump Night. The singles call it Hunt
Night. Single women—except the confirmed bachelorettes who’ve embraced
celibacy—refer to it as Manhunt Night.
I’m a dyed-in-the-wool
bachelorette who engages in regular hunting and occasional fishing.
Even gathering is not
beneath me.
My kind is so rare,
especially among the pre-nasty-divorce crowd, that some consider us an anomaly
while others refuse to believe in our existence.
But we definitely
exist.
At least I, Chloe
Germain, do.
For now.
What a shame
humanlike robots are nowhere near industrial production yet! I envy those
who’ll be born at the end of the century, when stunning PAs (Personal Androids)
will make it unnecessary for people like me to be intimate with strangers.
Note to the universe:
In the event you reincarnate me in female form a hundred years from now, please
look at the “Dreamboat” file on my computer. I’ve spent many an evening in
front of it designing my bespoke three-dimensional PA, man parts and all.
And what glorious,
tip-top man parts they are!
Oh well.
Maybe I’ll turn out
to be one of those lucky individuals whose libido dries up by their
mid-thirties. Just another decade to go, and my weekends could be free from
hunting and all the associated awkwardness.
I’d love that.
But I’m not holding
out hope.
Right now, I amble
down the crowded Boulevard de Sébastopol, trying to sashay my hips with
surgical precision so the movement gets noticed and appreciated but doesn’t get
misinterpreted. My goal is to produce a sway that conveys, “Here comes an
emancipated woman looking for some fun tonight,” and not, “I’m a slut—do me.”
Problem is the vast
majority of men fail to see the difference between the two.
As is often the case,
I give up the runway walk after a few minutes, blaming my uncooperative hips.
Instead, I undo another button on my shirt and clutch my purse with my pepper
spray a little tighter.
I haven’t needed the spray
yet, but you never know.
As I approach Café Lolo,
I spot a man smoking a cigarette at a table on the sidewalk terrace. He’s by
himself, and his dispassionate demeanor tells me he isn’t expecting anyone. I
halt just a couple of steps from him as if debating what to do. After three
seconds of fake hesitation, I sit at the closest table and take a better look
at the Candidate.
His espresso cup is full,
which means he won’t be leaving just yet. That’s a good sign. An even better
sign is that the man is skinny and aloof. He has a bad boy leather jacket and a
don’t-mess-with-me haircut. Oh, and did I mention the dark stubble peppering
the bottom half of his gaunt face?
So my type.
“Got a light?” I ask,
leaning in.
He looks me up and down and
pulls out a lighter.
As I sit back with my
cigarette between my lips, I consider which pickup line to use next.
“You come here
often?” he asks.
Thank you.
“Not really. You?”
“Yeah, I live nearby.”
“Oh, so you’re a
local.” My lips stretch into a friendly smile. “What’s the best feature of this
neighborhood?”
“You plan to move
here?”
I shake my head. “Just
being curious.”
“What you consider good may
be bad from my perspective.” He cocks his head. “I don’t know you well enough
to answer that question.”
It’s tempting to ask if
he’d like to get to know me better tonight, but I stop myself. Women who are
too forward scare men off. I don’t mind driving away the caring and marrying
types. But I’ll bet anything the Candidate isn’t one of them.
“Good point,” I say.
“Let me be more specific. Are there any good music bars in this area?”
“You’re two steps
from Bastille,” he says. “Take a wild guess.”
Does he sound peeved, or am
I reading him wrong? As a matter of fact, I find myself unable to read him at
all.
Maybe he isn’t a good
candidate, after all. Maybe I should leave right now, before I’ve ordered
anything, and try my luck elsewhere.
“I’m sorry,” he says
as I put out my cigarette. “That came out ruder than I meant it.”
I give him a probing look.
“Let me try again.”
He gives me an unpracticed smile. “Of course there are good music bars around
here. And, by the way, my name is Fabien.”
“I’m Chloe.”
Fabien sets a few coins on
the table. “I could take you to an Irish pub around the corner if you like
Celtic music.”
I tilt my head to one side.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s OK,” he says,
impassive.
He is perfect.
“All right, then.
Let’s check it out.”
In the pub, we half listen
to a rocksy Breton band playing folksy Breton songs. I make lackadaisical
comments from time to time. Fabien gives an occasional nod. Our main activity
is consuming large amounts of beer.
“What’s your line of
work, Chloe?” he asks when the band finishes their encore song and the bar
begins to empty.
“Home renovations.
Yours?”
“Business.”
He doesn’t elaborate,
and I don’t insist.
It’s not as if I care.
One of the waiters places a
check on our table, and another one begins to flip chairs onto tables.
“I guess it’s time to
go home.” I grab the bill. “Let me treat you.”
He snatches it from
my hand. “No way. It’s on me.”
I object, he insists, and
the ritualized back-and-forth ends with him shoving the check in his pocket and
handing the server a fifty.
When the server brings the
change, Fabien leaves him a generous tip.
So far so good.
“Do you live with your
parents?” he asks as we step out into the night.
Every time I get this coded
proposition, it reminds me of my first year in Paris as a naive small-town
freshman at the École de Versailles. I spent a good half of that
year debating if Parisian men routinely inquired about my living arrangements
out of politeness or a genuine interest in my person.
“A hotel room would be
better,” I say.
Fabien says nothing, just
stares at me.
I stare back, trying to
guess his next move. Will he seal the deal or back out?
“Follow me,” he finally
says.
Yes!
Congratulations, Chloe, on
yet another successful manhunt.
We get down to
business pretty much the moment we step into the room, and it’s just as I
expected. Fabien performs well. I manage to peak with a little help from my
fingers, which is totally fine by me.
Two hours later,
we’re dressed again and ready to part ways.
“Salut,” I say
as soon as we’re outside the hotel entrance.
He looks taken aback, and
I’m pleased.
Men are always the ones to
decamp after casual sex while their female partner is holding her breath for a
“Can I see you again?” So, yes, doing this feels good. It feels like a small
but much-needed contribution to restoring the balance of yin and yang in the
universe. Not that I believe in that New Age-y crap for a second.
“Um… yeah, take
care,” Fabien says. He doesn’t budge, though.
I turn on my heel and march
to the nearest métro station before he can suggest we do this
again sometime soon. Or worse, ask me out for a drink.
I don’t do drinks, dinners,
movies, dates, or relationships.
My life is a love-free
zone.
Anything that resembles feelings or
might be fertile soil for affection triggers a glaring neon
sign in my head that screams, “Run!” The sign isn’t for my benefit. It’s to
protect the innocents who don’t know what’s coming for them. Innocents who
have no idea what I’m capable of.
If souls can be reborn, I’m
the newest reincarnation of the mythical King Midas, who turned everything he
touched into gold. Only my gift is less profitable and more macabre.
I turn everyone who loves
me into dead meat.
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Author InfoAlix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a Kindle Scout and Dante Rossetti Award winning author of critically acclaimed romantic comedies. At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper. Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made Amazon bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog. **For exclusive content, giveaways and special offers, including a bonus book, subscribe to the monthly newsletter on her author website: www.alixnichols.com.**
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