Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I would give anything for Savannah to see me now. This home is the stuff of dreams.
Densely populated, Paris boasts many apartment dwellers and small homes. That doesn’t mean that palaces and private mansions haven’t lasted through the centuries.
Vibrant greenery lines the paved walkway that meanders past blooming flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and a stunning brick home that looks like a princess should be hidden somewhere in its depths.
“Oh, Fabien. This is amazing. Why did you ever leave?"
It's a rhetorical question, and I don't expect him to answer. But when a shadow crosses his face, I know I touched a nerve.
"I haven't, really. I love coming home. But sometimes I need distance from my family."
“They that crazy?"
"Doesn't everybody have a crazy uncle?" he says with a laugh. "No, it isn't just that. Yeah, we have our quirks. I just find it easier to do my job when I'm not constantly involved in every detail that happens here." He smirks. "And I like not taking women home to my mother’s house."
A foreign feeling stabs me. What the hell is that?
Am I jealous?
Oh, no. Nope. No way. I need to guard my heart against this. I shouldn't hate the thought of him with another woman. We're not even dating; I've been hired by him to make his life easier this weekend. Who cares if he's been with another woman or dozens or hundreds?
I try to brush it off. I force myself to sound blasé. “Well that makes sense. I wouldn't want to bring home a date to my mother’s home either, especially if we were spending the night together."
I wonder if I imagine that flash of jealousy I see in his eyes.
Wishful thinking?
My heart begins to beat a little faster.
He loves his family, but will they love me? It doesn't matter. I'm only here for a weekend. But I also don't want to spend the weekend in misery, no matter how much money I’m making.
We walk hand in hand toward the front entrance. I can see why this stunning home has been featured in magazines. The lush gardens and strategically placed wrought iron benches beckon one to sit and take a little breather. Whereas other homes may seem imposing, this one is warm and welcoming.
Before we make it to the front door, it opens and a beautiful woman who looks just like him, the same piercing eyes and strong chin somehow softened with a feminine gentleness, waves at us, as excited as a child.
"Fabien! This must be Nicolette. Welcome, welcome! We are so happy to have you."
He already told her my name?
Leaning toward me, he whispers in my ear, "Don't be so nervous. She'll love you."
What if I don't want her to? Can't we all just be polite for a few days?
"Maman, this is Nicolette. Nicolette, Avril. My mother."
She gives me such a warm embrace it almost brings tears to my eyes. God, I miss my mother.
"Your home is spectacular,” I tell her. "I could get lost in that garden."
"Fabien did when he was a little boy," she says with a smile. “And thank you."
Fabien winces. "We're still on the front step and we're already regaling her with tales of my childhood. This is not going to end well."
"Who is telling stories?"
Avril ushers us in, and I'm not surprised to see that the inside of the home is as stunning as the outside. Maybe we can stay here more than a weekend, I think to myself. Wouldn't that be nice. I made a home in Corsica, but I like having some distance.
Focus, focus.
I turn toward approaching footsteps. "Nicolette, this is my brother Thayer.”
"Good thing you told me, since you two look nothing alike," I joke. There doesn’t seem to be a recessive gene in this family. His brother looks just like him, only a little more clean-cut. Whereas Fabien, with his hair a little too long and unruly and a five o’clock shadow across his jaw, is a veritable caveman in a business suit, his brother looks clean-cut and polished. Not a hair out of place, his clothes pressed and fitting him perfectly, and I suspect when I draw closer, he's going to smell really, really good.
But when he shakes my hand, it's warm but rough as if he's only gotten dressed up for the occasion but works with his hands quite frequently. He looks over at Fabien. "We need to talk, brother."
"We will. We had some trouble getting here, so we need some downtime before we discuss anything. Unless it's pressing?"
I love that he refers to an engine failure, an emergency landing, and an impromptu flight to Paris as “some trouble.”
Their mother looks from one to the other, her lips pressed in a tight, thin line. She opens her mouth as if to ask something, then snaps it shut and shakes her head. “If you knew something, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”