The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series)

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Everything
you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.

—George
Addair

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 a 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.

*
* *

Two

I
arrive at the house we’re rehabbing at eight in the morning, as usual. Hugo is
already there, crouched in front of the custom shower enclosure he installed
yesterday and inspecting the joints. He rises and greets me with a cheek kiss.

“Well
sealed?” I ask.

“Looks
like it, but I’ll confirm tonight. I want to caulk again and run more water
after the silicone sets up.”

I
smile. “You’re the most thorough builder I’ve ever worked with.”

His
cheeks color slightly. “Maybe it’s because I’m still relatively new at this.
Rookie zeal.”

I’ve
always thought it was a female thing to deflect a compliment, but, clearly, men
do it, too—some men, at any rate.

Despite
his words, Hugo looks mighty pleased.

I
arch an eyebrow. “Or maybe it’s because you’re a crackerjack. And a
perfectionist, to boot.”

A
big smile illuminates his friendly face. He picks up a half-full bag of powered
grout from the countertop and fidgets with it.

I
wonder for a moment what his intention is—seeing as he’s already grouted
the walls and the floor—and then realize it’s just to give his hands
something to do.

I
take a step back and survey the shimmery wall tiles.

Good
choice, Chloe.

I
knew they’d give this bathroom the festive feel my client likes.

Dropping
my head back, I inspect the ceiling and the light fixtures.

Neat.

I
turn to Hugo. “Your handiwork or René’s?”

“Mine.”
He’s still fidgeting with the grout bag.

I
nod. “At this rate,
mon ami
, you’ll get your contractor license in no
time.”

“About
that.” Hugo looks up at me.

At
that exact moment, the grout bag in his hands makes a soft pop, and its
contents seep out onto the floor.

“Damn!”
Hugo sets the bag on the countertop, picks up a hand broom, and begins to
sweep.

I
squat down next to him, holding the dustpan. “Hey, remember that incredible
matchstick village you made in seventh grade?”

“Yes,
why?”

I’m
not sure why I’m bringing this up, so I just plow on, ignoring his question. “It
was beautiful. Such attention to detail… It may have triggered my passion for
architecture.”

The
crease between Hugo’s eyebrows smooths, and the corners of his lips turn up
into a winsome smile. If I were into men with sunny dispositions, I would have
fallen for that smile back in high school. But I’m into an altogether different
kind of man.

“Well,
what do you know,” he says. “Your passion for architecture may have triggered
my career change. We’re a perfect match.”

Before
I open my mouth to agree, Hugo clears his throat and adds hastily,
“Professionally speaking.” His voice sounds funny, and he’s avoiding my eyes.

Huh?

Could
this be about that vague attraction we felt in our teens but never acted on for
the sake of our friendship? Or was he reminded that said friendship hadn’t
prevented me from skipping town seven years ago?

Anyway,
I prefer not to ask.

“You
were saying about your contractor license,” I prompt.

“Remember
I told you I’d finished the course, and they put me on the waiting list for the
exam?”

“Yes,
of course.”

“I
got a call last night—someone forfeited their spot, so I can take the
exam earlier than expected.”

“Cool!”

He
hesitates. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“Listen,
I’ll just tell them it’s too short notice. There’ll be another opportunity soon
enough.” He takes the dustpan from me and empties it into the debris bag. “It’s
not a big deal.”

“Yes
it is! You’ve been ready for months now, and God knows when they’ll organize
the next exam.”

“But
tomorrow is acceptance of work…” His expression is pained. “What if you need
me?”

I
pat his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. René will be here tomorrow
morning, but I doubt it will be necessary since we’ll be done this afternoon.”

To
be honest, it’s a bummer Hugo won’t be here tomorrow, but I refuse to hold him
back just so I can sleep easy tonight. He’s worked so hard and accomplished so
much in one year as a workman that he deserves a shot at getting his contractor
certification. Besides, his getting a license dovetails with my big plans for
our small business.

“OK…
if you’re sure,” he says, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

I
nod—and realize that my hand is still clutching Hugo’s well-muscled upper
arm. I let go, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. Regardless of our
history, we work together now, which means I need to watch my body language.
Or, to spell it out, stop groping my business partner’s upper body at every
lame opportunity.

Trouble
is, Hugo is gropesome as hell. Just like that huge teddy bear Claire gave me
one Christmas. I ignored it in public (what self-respecting thirteen-year-old
wouldn’t snub a stuffed animal?), but I cuddled it every night. When I moved
out at eighteen and told Claire she could give the bear away, it took me
several months to learn to fall asleep without its squashy presence.

Hugo’s
like that bear.

He’s
a black belt in judo, and has the body for it—tall and brawny—yet
he’s remarkably unthreatening. If anything, he’s reassuring. Must be his brown
eyes that hold enough kindness to make the Dalai Lama look like a villain in an
old spaghetti western. Or perhaps it’s his tousled mop of rust-colored hair. It
could also be his mild manners and soft, caressing voice. Even his bulging
muscles are cozy. And yes, I’m aware that “cozy” is an odd qualifier for
muscles, but as far as Hugo’s muscles are concerned, it totally works.

So,
yeah, I always feel like touching him, but it’s only because Hugo Bonnet is a
big, cuddly teddy bear that’s perfect for comforting hugs. Any other kind of
embrace with a teddy bear would be a sick, disgusting perversion.

They
don’t even have privates, for heaven’s sake.

Feeling
the color warming my ears, I turn to scrutinize the wall as if I saw something
on it. “You can take your exam tomorrow. Really.”

He
says nothing.

OK,
time to change the topic.

“Tell
me, do you still miss the south?” I ask, turning back to him.

“Sometimes.”
He smiles. “Although not as much as I used to. Nîmes is a lovely town, but
Paris is… well, it’s Paris.”

My
lips quirk—metaphors have never been his strength.

“Does
Diane like it here?” he asks.

My
foster sister arrived in the capital two weeks ago. She’s crashing with me
until she can find a job as a photographer or any part-time job that isn’t too
“shitty.” She’s given herself a month to do that. If she fails, she’ll go back to
Nîmes and try her luck there once again.

I
shrug. “Diane never
likes
anything. Or anyone, for that matter. She
tolerates things.”

Lucky
for her.

Were
she a more affectionate kind of person, I wouldn’t vouch for her life, what
with sleeping under the same roof as me once again.

“You’re
too hard on her,” Hugo says. “She’s a good girl, deep inside.”

“She’s
aggravating.”

She
really is… on occasion. And not nearly as much as I would’ve liked her to be.

OK,
let’s move on.
“And you still have no regrets about turning your back on the family business?”

“None
whatsoever.”

“Aren’t
your mom and dad upset?”

“A
little. But, hey, they’ve had a year to get used to that idea. Give them
another month, and it’ll all be water under the bridge.”

“Ever
the optimist, huh?”

“I
know my parents. They see the glass half-full.”

I
nod. “And what about the bakery?”

“They’ll
hate selling it when the time comes, considering how much they love it.” He
shrugs. “But they love their children more.”

From
what I remember of Yvette and Hervé Bonnet, Hugo’s words aren’t just wishful
thinking. I can’t recall ever seeing those two people sulk. Hugo and his sister
have inherited their parents’ upbeat outlook, bless their sweet hearts. Only
Jeanne counterbalances her kindness with a good measure of sass, while Hugo’s
more introverted.

“Bubble
Wrap Bonnet and Wool Bonnet,” Lionel used to call them when he was still well
enough to make jokes.

I
whirl around and march down the hallway to the family room.

We’re
almost done with this site. After a month of drilling, pipe fitting, and
redecorating, the place looks exactly how I’d imagined. I stroke the polished
wood of the railing that leads up to the second floor. René’s a first-rate
carpenter, one of the best in Paris, and he’s done a fantastic job with the
staircase and closets. This whole project has been great fun for many reasons,
the owners’ attitude being one of them. It’s rare in my profession to come
across a client who gives you free rein to redo her home the way you see fit.

Madame
Beauvais is one such client.

The
moment I saw this humble 1920s redbrick home, I knew exactly what I wanted to
do with it. It was obvious I’d keep the original fireplace and the flooring.
There was no question about which partitions had to go and which ones would
stay. As for the color scheme, it was a no-brainer, really, considering the
general style of the house, its orientation, and the materials I’d decided to
use.

In
short, I had a
vision
and a solid chance at giving my client full
satisfaction, provided my dream wasn’t ruined by poor workmanship. This used to
happen all the time in the baby days of my design-build firm.

But
not since Hugo turned up in Paris a year ago.

*
* *