What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (8 page)

“You may not be able to understand this, but to me there’s nothing more
beautiful than the sight of a blonde’s hair pulled up, and a few flaxen
tendrils coiling down her alabaster nape.” Pepe closed his eyes, his index
retracing a coiling movement in the air.

Rob shook his head in dismay.

Pepe opened his eyes. “If I was on death row and was granted a last wish,
I’d ask to see a blonde’s nape one more time before they inject me.”

“There’s no death penalty in Europe,” Lena said.

Pepe raised an eyebrow. “I travel widely. Including to places where it
hasn’t been abolished. So you never know.”

“Right. You never know,” Lena said.

“And how was your day, Lena?” Rob asked.

“I—” Lena began, but was interrupted by the ringing in her purse.
Must be Dad. “Sorry, I need to get this.”

She moved out of the way and answered her phone.

“Still in love with Paris?” Anton asked.

“Absolutely.” She tried to convey her enthusiasm while speaking in a
hushed voice. “I think I could live here, you know, like forever.”

“Easy, girl. This is
not
the plan, remember? The plan is that you
stay in Paris for a few months. A year, tops. Then you return to Moscow and
start working with me.” He sounded disgruntled.

“Dad, I’m not sure . . .” Lena felt the familiar guilt
clenching her stomach. She
was
sure. She knew perfectly well what she
wanted to do with her life, and it didn’t include working with her father.

“Dad, that’s
your
plan, not mine. I really don’t think I’ll be
working with you. I’m sorry I’m disappointing you, but I’ve found my vocation.
And you know what it is.”

After a long silence Anton finally spoke. “Lena, I’ve always wanted the
best for you. I sent you to Switzerland so that you could get the best
education money can buy, a European polish, languages. I wanted to give you the
right tools for your future.”

“And I’m grateful for all that, I really am!”

“But eventually you have to return home, baby. You belong here. I built
this company so that you could take it over one day. You
must
take it
over one day.”

“Daddy, you’re only forty-six! Why all this talk of me taking over the
company?” Suddenly a wave of panic washed over her. “Is something wrong? Are
you hiding something? What is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong, pumpkin. As it happens, I had a medical checkup last
week, and I seem to be in perfect health. It’s just . . . I don’t
know, maybe it’s my midlife crisis finally kicking in.”

Anton snorted, then got serious again. “My business is my legacy. And you
are my only child, who’s now grown and about choose a career. This is the
perfect time for me to start involving you, mentoring you. Can’t you see that?”

“But Dad—”

“No buts. You have a duty toward me. Unlike your mother, I’ve always been
a good parent to you. For the past twelve years, I’ve been your only parent.”

The last statement was grossly unfair, and they both knew it. But Lena
was weary of reminding him that the reason her mom had been absent for half of
her life was much more complicated than he made it sound.

So instead, she tried another tack. “Anyway, your plan is doomed. You
have a hopeless nerd for a daughter.”

“Not a problem. In my book being a nerd is a qualification. I was a
nerd once, too, remember? I was a computer programmer before becoming a
businessman. Can it get nerdier than that?”

“An astrophysicist?”

“It’s thanks to my nerdy beginnings that I now have an edge over my
competitors.”

Lena considered making an observation that being a computer nerd was
slightly more relevant to running an IT company than being a translator. But
she doubted she could win this argument with logic, if she could win it at all.

“By the way, I’ve got some news about the negotiations,” he said.

“Over Raduga?”

“Yes. I think I finally managed to grind them down.”

She was happy to hear it—buying the edgy start-up was a cornerstone
of his plan to expand into a new area. “Congratulations, Dad! I know this means
a great deal to you.”

“They haven’t formally accepted my offer yet, but I expect they will in
the coming days.”

“I’m sure they will. This is big and you worked so hard on it.”

“We could work on the next one together . . .”

“Dad,” she pleaded. “I study literature and translation, and that’s what
I want to do as a career. Not use my language skills for business. Can’t you
understand this? Please?”

Anton paused and then said in an upbeat voice. “Baby, let’s talk about
this later, OK? For now, you’re in Paris, writing your thesis so you can get
your master’s degree. That’s fine with me and, from what I gather, more than
fine with you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

As Lena hung up, the lightness she had reveled in
since last night was gone. She tried to tell herself she still had time—a
lot of time—to sway her father and avoid open conflict. But she also knew
her chances were slim.

Rob paced his room, trying to get a grip. Good thing he had quit smoking,
because this gig he’d signed up for would have warranted a pack before every
phone call. The part of the job that required he spend as much time as he could
around Lena was a no-brainer. It was like getting paid to watch football and
drink beer. Only better. But the part where he had to call Boris and report
everything he’d gleaned about her father’s plans made him feel dirty and
ashamed.

He grabbed his phone and called Pierre to remind him that in three days
he was taking two weeks off to prepare for his final exams and thesis defense.

Next, he dialed Boris’s number.

* * *

The day was hot, way too hot for early June. Sticky heat permeated the
air, dampening people’s clothes and pasting them to their bodies. On a day like
this, only tourists ventured out midafternoon while Parisians—and Lena—stayed
indoors.

Finally, just before nine in the evening, a cool breeze arrived. Lena
opened her window and was relieved that it no longer felt like a blast from an
oven. Rush hour was over, and she could hear the sounds coming from the
sidewalk terrace: clinking of silverware against plates, quiet laughter, and
relaxed conversation. Diners filled the bistro and waiters darted between
tables, taking orders, bringing food, and opening wine bottles.

Lena grabbed her purse and ran downstairs before the last table was
occupied. She took a seat on the terrace, ordered her dish, and opened her
book. But she couldn’t concentrate on reading. The evening was extraordinarily
pleasant—or maybe her senses were unusually heightened. The aromas of
fried garlic and fresh coriander from the kitchen mixed with the citrus and
sandalwood perfumes of the diners around her. The smells intertwined happily
and played backdrop to the sweet fragrance of jasmine snatched by the breeze
from someone’s balcony. If paradise existed, this is how it would smell, she
thought.

Oddly, she also felt as though she could hear every word of every
conversation around her. People spoke ever so softly, their voices devoid of
urgency, their eyes filled with contentment to be with their loved ones. It
didn’t matter that they said the most trivial things to each other. Their words
fluttered like butterflies with the sole purpose of establishing a connection
to share the sweetness of this summer evening.

Lena’s pulse ratcheted up as she saw Rob step out onto the terrace. He
took a sip of his espresso and looked around. When he spotted her, he smiled
and made a beeline toward her.

“How do you feel about Cyril?” he asked.

“Who’s Cyril?”

“A rising star of French
chanson
. He’s really good.” Rob placed
two tickets on the table. “The concert is at L’Espace at eleven.”

Lena blinked several times, processing the situation.

“Jeanne gave me these an hour ago,” he said. “She got them from a friend
who’s a friend of Cyril’s.”

“Why isn’t she going herself?”

“She was supposed to go with her boyfriend, but he had a motorbike crash
this afternoon.”

“Is he OK?”

“A broken arm. Jeanne’s going to the hospital.”

Rob gave her a questioning look.

“Oh. It’s nice of you to have thought of me—” Lena began.

“It’s for a reason. Remember the song about the Eiffel Tower I massacred
the other day?”

Lena nodded.

“Cyril will sing it, and some classic pieces by Brel and Gainsbourg, in
the second part of his gig.”

How could she say no to that?

They made it to L’Espace a few minutes before the beginning of Cyril’s
act. The place was a stone’s throw from Trocadero. Bigger than a live music bar
but too small for a concert hall, L’Espace was packed with a heterogeneous
crowd that reflected Cyril’s broad fan base. Curious to see the “rising star,”
Lena stood on tiptoe and arched her neck.

“Urgh. I’m too short.” She blew out her cheeks in frustration.

Rob knitted his brows. “Come with me.”

He grabbed her hand and began to push their way through the crowd toward
the side of the room.

“There’s a bench by the wall,” he said, turning his head to Lena. “You
can stand on it.”

Even though the distance to the bench was only a couple of meters, they
progressed at a snail’s pace. Taking baby steps behind Rob, Lena wished they’d
moved even slower. She wished the room had been bigger and the crowd denser.

She wished the wall had been sliding away as they approached.

After telling her about the bench, Rob never turned back, apparently
unaware of the effect his firm grip was having on her. He seemed fully focused
on getting her from point A to point B with as little shoving as he could
manage. She couldn’t detect a hint of a caress in the way his palm enveloped
hers. His fingers were perfectly motionless. He’d taken her hand for purely
practical reasons, she told herself.

But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he held her. She closed
her eyes. His skin was warm—almost hot—against hers, and his hand
gloriously big. Ooh, the bliss. It was as if all the nerve endings in her hand
had been bared and primed. How else could she explain the intensity of the
pleasure that flooded her senses from such a trivial touch?

She opened her eyes—the bench was now within arm’s reach.

“Excuse me,” Rob said to someone Lena couldn’t see. “Could you step aside
for a sec, so my friend could climb on top of this?”

He gave her a little push and, once she stood on
the bench, released her hand. It took her all her strength not to say, “No!”

When Cyril finished his last encore and the applause died away, the
arrows on the clock above the bar pointed at five to two. Lena jumped off the
bench and gave Rob a bright smile. “Cyril
is
really good. I liked his
songs just as much as the classic hits in the second part.”

He grinned. “I may be tone deaf but I have impeccable taste in music. I’m
glad you enjoyed the performance.”

“I’ll buy his album tomorrow.” She began to rummage through her bag. “Shall
I call us a cab?”

Rob glanced at his watch. “If we run to Trocadero right now, we can catch
the final light show of the of day on the Eiffel Tower. It’s special.”

Lena didn’t need much convincing to prolong their evening together.

They got to the plaza just as the sparkling lights on the Iron Lady
across the Seine burst into a magical show.

“We can sit over there.” Rob pointed at the vacant spot on the steps
leading down from the plaza, and they wedged themselves between two groups of
camera-wielding tourists.

“Hold your hand out, like this,” he said, stretching his own arm. “You
see? It looks like you’re touching the tip of the Eiffel Tower. I can take a
picture of you, if you want.”

Lena whipped out her phone. “Let me take one of you first.”

She was giddy with excitement. “So how is this show different from the
others?”

“During the regular evening shows, the background yellow lighting never
goes off. But now it’s more like fireworks.”

They sat in silence for several minutes watching the lights dance.
And then, within a second, the Eiffel Tower was swallowed up by the night. The
effect was spectacular.

Lena turned to Rob. “Wow.”

She didn’t want to go home. Sitting here, in this warm summer evening, so
close to Rob that their thighs nearly touched, made her feel acutely alive. It
was a wonderful feeling.

“Which one is your favorite Cyril song?” she asked.

“Let me see . . . The one about the stray dog.”

“Oh yes. What was the refrain?” She recited, “
Grooming is for poodles.
Training is for hounds
—”

Rob joined in, singing off key. “
I traded my leash for dignity. Got
any scraps, anyone?
” He smirked. “During my first three years in Paris,
that’s pretty much how I felt about my life.”

Lena didn’t dare ask why.

“Which one’s your favorite?” he asked.

She stretched her legs. “Hmm. ‘Maybe I’m the One’. . . I guess.”

“What about ‘The Clown’?”

“Urgh. It made me feel uncomfortable. But it’s nice to know I’m not the
only person on Earth who’s scared of clowns.”

He chuckled. “I won’t be offering you circus tickets then.”

“God forbid. I completely freaked out both times my parents took me to
the circus when I was little. When I wasn’t terrified of the clowns, I was
afraid the lions will eat their tamer, or the acrobats will fall off the
trapeze and break their necks.”

“You should try bungee jumping as immersion therapy,” he said.

She made round eyes and shook her head. “Can we change the topic, please?”

“Sure. How about paragliding?”

She ignored his question. “So, what’s the plan after you graduate?”

“In the short-term, finding a good job. Preferably, in the energy sector.
In the long-term, running my own business.”