Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (3 page)

Why did it hurt to hear him say those words?
Had she expected him to announce he was changing his life after an evening with
her? Had she actually entertained the idea he had come to tell her he was
dumping his girlfriend because of their ground-shattering moment? She was such
a pathetic fool.

“Take good care,” she said, turning away to
fumble with the coffee machine.

She heard coins clank against the countertop
and then Mat’s retreating steps
.

It’s over,
she told herself.
Just a bit of drama that came and
went
.

She’d forget him in no
time.

***

Chapter Two

October

They were ready to start the job interviews.
Pierre and his two lieutenants—Jeanne and Didier—sat next to each
other on one side of the large teak table that dominated the bistro’s tiny
backyard. On the other side of the table, they’d placed a lonely chair for the
applicants.
La Bohème
had been a man short for a couple of weeks now,
which put an extra strain on everyone, but especially on Manon and Jimmy, the
front of the house servers. This was why Pierre had lined up four interviews
for this afternoon and was determined to hire one of the candidates on the
spot.

“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Jeanne said
puckering her face at the uncertain sky.

Didier shrugged. “It was your idea to do this
outside.”

“It’s not like we can’t move back in if it
starts raining,” Pierre said, browsing through the stack of paper in front of
him. “The first candidate arrives in ten minutes, so I suggest you both take
another look at their CVs and the questions I asked you to prepare.”

Jeanne scanned her copies. None of the four
candidates had waited tables before, but then, everyone had to start somewhere.
Two of them were students, so they’d probably be only interested in evening
shifts, which was fine.

“We’ll have to train whoever we hire from
this batch.” Didier shook his head disapprovingly.

Pierre put his papers down. “And so we will.
Regardless of how much pride we take in our trade, let’s face it—rocket
science it is not.”

“I disagree.” Didier gave him a disgruntled
look. “I did three years of specialized school before applying for my first
serving job. I was a
professional
compared to these greenhorns.”

“Well, there aren’t enough
professionals
to go around,” Pierre said. “So we have to make do with amateurs
.
”

Manon appeared in the doorway, bowed
ceremoniously and said far too politely, “Excuse me for interrupting,
messieurs-dames
,
but the first candidate has arrived. Shall I show him in . . .
um,
out
here?”

Pierre smiled. “Please.”

Manon stepped sideways, making way for an
elegantly dressed young woman. She walked slowly toward the empty chair and
greeted the trio with a bright smile.

One point for style,
Jeanne thought. She remembered the hardcore Gothic look
she’d been sporting when Pierre hired her six years ago. He must have been
feeling brave that day. Or desperate.

“Please, sit down.” Pierre pointed to the
lonely chair.

“You study communication and marketing,”
Didier said, scanning the woman’s CV. “Why are you applying for this job?”

“I need more pocket money than my parents are
giving me,” the woman said.

“Do you realize this is hard work?” Jeanne
asked.

The woman shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Jeanne was beginning to find her slightly
off-putting, but told herself not to jump to conclusions. Before she could ask
her next question, a phone went off in the woman’s purse.

“Excuse me,” she said with the same polite
smile and opened her handbag to retrieve a latest iPhone. “
Salut
,
”
she purred into the phone. “I’m fine. What about you? . . . No
kidding? When? . . . What did she say exactly?”

Didier cleared his throat.

Jeanne tapped her pen on the table.

“Shall we give you some privacy and return in
twenty minutes?” Pierre asked.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” The woman
beamed, the irony of Pierre’s words completely lost on her.

The interview panel exchanged amused looks,
marched inside the bistro, had a coffee and returned twenty minutes later.

The woman had finished her conversation.

“You’re really nice, you know? I’m sure we’ll
get along famously,” she said.

“Thank you for your time,” Pierre said.

“Is the interview over already?”

“We’ll be in touch,” Didier said,
poker-faced.

“Or not,” Jeanne added, reluctant to give her
false hopes.

The second candidate was an accounting
student who told them he was a “numbers person” and hated dealing with people.
The third one was a middle-aged woman who, within the space of fifteen minutes,
managed to tell them about her epic divorce, her landlord’s refusal to repaint
her apartment, the mistress of her former boss, and her recent thyroid surgery.
She blew her nose every thirty seconds using paper tissues she pulled from her
bottomless tote bag. She then neatly folded each used tissue and put it next to
the previous one on the table in front of her.

Jeanne crossed her fingers by the time the
last candidate lowered himself on the chair. The combination of his name, face,
and zip code on his CV suggested he was a son of North African immigrant
workers.

“Why have you applied for this job, Amar?”
Jeanne asked.

“I’m a pro football player, but I sustained a
nasty knee injury six months ago, and had to give up on football.”

“Are you saying that waiting tables is the
only alternative to professional sports?” Didier asked.

“No. But until I figure out what I want to
do, it’s a better alternative than many others I can think of.”

Well said, Jeanne thought.

“Waiting tables requires a lot of walking,”
Pierre said. “Would your injury allow it?”

“Without a problem. There’s a big difference
between walking between tables and sprinting around a football field.”

“You’re only twenty-one, and this would be
your first proper job. How can we be sure you’ll manage?” Didier asked.

“I guess you’d have to trust your judgment,”
Amar said with a small smile.

But Didier wasn’t finished yet. He opened his
notebook and read, “Please describe your best professional quality using
just
one word
.
”

“I’m very good at following the instructions
I’m given,” Amar said gravely.

Jeanne frowned, until she noticed the corners
of his mouth twitch. A second later, a sly grin spread on his face
.

She burst out in laughter.

“You’re hired,” Pierre said, smiling. “Can
you start tomorrow?”

A little after midnight, Jeanne closed the
bistro and headed home. She was dog-tired. Working double shifts for the past
three weeks had affected her physically. On one level, at least, it was a good
thing. The more her muscles ached and her head pounded, the less she thought
about Mat. She’d discovered this effect shortly after the unfortunate incident
at Lena’s engagement party and was determined to exploit it fully until she
purged him from her system.

Stepping into the lobby of her building,
Jeanne walked past the concierge’s loge and stopped in front of the door to her
apartment. Lucky thing she lived on the ground floor. She couldn’t imagine
climbing even one flight of stairs right now. As she fumbled with her keys, she
focused on one thing: a hot bath—a steaming, bubbly, foamy bath, with an
old Sting album in the background and a scented candle flickering on the shelf
above the tub. She’d soak until the last bit of tension, the last ache, left
her body and then she’d turn in. This was the best way to fall asleep as soon
as she hit the bed.

The apartment felt stuffy, so Jeanne opened
the window to the inner courtyard and began to run her bath. As she browsed
through her music collection, a thumping sound and a shrill female scream
pierced the air. Then a male voice shouted something unintelligible.

“Get out of here!” the woman yelled.

More racket followed, something heavy hit the
floor, and then a kid—a boy by the sound of it—shrieked, “Stop it,
please, stop it!”

Jeanne turned off the tap and rushed to the
window. The voices came from the concierge’s loge. The concierge, whose name
Jeanne couldn’t remember, had been hired by the condo a couple of weeks ago
after the previous one retired. Jeanne tried to remember what the woman looked
like. Small, frail, curly-haired, late twenties maybe? Her face was a blur. Did
she have a child? And who was she was fighting with? Should she intervene?

Someone slammed a door and a female voice
said soothingly, “It’s over, baby, he’s gone now. He’s just had too much to
drink. He didn’t mean any harm.”

Jeanne waited a little
longer to make sure the man wasn’t coming back before she closed her window and
went back to the bathroom.

***

Amar
jogged
over to the kitchen pass-through. “Table three want their steaks cremated.”

“Got it,” Claude replied.

Amar nodded and hurried back to the dining
room.

Jeanne smiled privately. They’d made a good
choice. In less than three weeks, Amar had learned an incredible amount,
improving his waiting skills and picking up the bistro jargon as he progressed.
The boy was a natural.

After another hour of hustle and bustle, the
last lunch customer left the bistro, and time slowed its pace from furious
gallop to a leisurely amble. Jeanne glanced at her watch. She had about three
hours until things got hectic again. Enough time to make a coffee and finish
the novel she’d started last week. That is, unless Didier wanted to chat.

A couple of weeks ago he’d become uncommonly
chummy, which was weird. They’d worked together for many years now, but they’d
never been friends. Now was hardly a good time to develop a friendship. Had he
forgotten they were rivals competing for the same prize—
La Bohème
?

Jeanne sighed. Pierre hadn’t yet given any
indication as to whom he favored. He and Didier went back a long way and saw
eye to eye . . . But Pierre was also known to have a
quasi-paternal affection for her.

Jeanne pulled her book from her purse and
hurried to the coffee machine. If she was quick, she’d be out of the bar area
and engrossed in her book by the time Didier showed up. And if she was lucky,
he wouldn’t intrude on her down time. Unless his sudden friendliness was part
of some diabolic plan to get her to withdraw her bid.

Like
that
was ever going to happen.

Jeanne picked up her fragrant cup and her
book and strode to her favorite corner by the window. As soon as her butt
touched the padded bench, she opened the book and started reading.

Someone cleared his throat above her. She
looked up expecting to see Didier, but it wasn’t him
.

“I need to talk to you, Jeanne, if you can
spare a minute,” Pierre said.

“Sure.” She shut her book. “I’m all ears.”

“Just a second, let’s wait for Didier to join
us,” Pierre said. “I want to talk to both of you
.
”

Jeanne cocked her head. “Are you sure?”

Pierre nodded.

As soon as Didier arrived, the two men sat
across from Jeanne.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase,” Pierre
said.

She glanced at Didier. He was leaning in, his
jaws clenched
.

“As you know, I’m retiring in a year,” Pierre
said. “Both of you have approached me about the bistro.”

Jeanne nodded.

“That’s correct,” Didier said.

“I’ve known you both for years, and love you
almost like my own children.” Pierre smirked. “And probably more than my
nephews.”

“Are you going to tell us one of your
children has finally expressed an interest in the bistro?” Didier asked, his
eyes narrowing.

Pierre waved his question off. “There’s no
hope of that. My children think running a restaurant is too much work for too
little money. And they’re right.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But you both love
this place—love this job—you’re competent, capable and motivated.
It’s breaking my heart to have to choose between you two.”

“So, what do you propose?” Jeanne asked.

“I don’t know,” Pierre confessed. “I just
wanted us to put it out in the open. I wanted the three of us to talk about
it . . . but I don’t have a solution yet. I’ve got a year to
figure it out—unless one of you changes their mind in the meantime.”

“Not me,” Jeanne said.