Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

of the Fitzwillings unleash a clap of laughter over something I missed and he raises his head only to catch me looking at him again.

He levels me with that same unsmiling, unapologetic stare that takes my breath away.

I know I’m not imagining that, but I look away.

After the server delivers our food and beverages, Lucy says, “Hannah, we got interrupted. Tell me how you got the job?”

I sip my tea. “I suppose I didn’t choose this career path as much as I needed a job while I was in college.”

“You went to college here?” Gloria Fitzwilling asks.

“Yes. I fell in love with the UK after doing a summer abroad here during my undergrad in the US. I returned to do my MA in literature at the University of Bristol, about fifteen miles from where we are right now. That’s when Heart to Heart hired me as a seasonal employee. I suppose it was a season that never ended because I’m still here.”

Lucy sighs and dreamily pushes an oversized bite of bun into her mouth. It makes her look like a chipmunk.

“I don’t blame you,” she says around the brioche. “I would so move here if I could. I’d meet a real-life Mr. Darcy and have beautiful Darcy children.”

I slant another surreptitious glance at Brooding Darcy’s table, but it’s empty. Somehow he slipped away and I didn’t notice.

Story of my life.

“Oh my gawd—yes… yes… yes!” Polly Fitzwilling throws her head back and cries out orgasmically. “Darcy children means Darcy sex. Yes, please. I’d never get out of bed.”

Jerry slams his hand on the table, making the china cups and saucers rattle. “Of all the inane, vapid nonsense.” His insult halts conversation at our end. A couple of the Fitzwillings grimace, another presses her lips together. Jerry’s wife, Frances, looks embarrassed. Lucy glares at him.

I think the moment will pass, when Lucy says, “Why would you say something so rude, Jerry? We’re just having fun. Lighten up a little bit.”

My face freezes into what I hope is my practiced, pleasant tour guide expression.

Jerry’s face turns red. “You and your friends have been talking through the entire tour. It’s safe to say that I’m not the rude one, you stupid cow.”

“Okay, no—Nope!” I demand. “We’re not going to do this.”

“Yes we are.” Jerry’s chair scrapes the wooden floorboards as he stands and hulks over the table. “I’m sick of their incessant ridiculous babble.”

This is a first. I’ve never had to referee a fight between my charges.

Frances puts a hand on her husband’s arm and mutters, “Jerry, please. Sit down.”

He bellows, “Shut up, Frances.”

The restaurant falls silent. People turn around and stare.

“That’s enough.” My voice is low but firm. “Let’s be respectful of others or they’ll ask us to leave.”

“I’ll make this easy on everyone,” he says. “Frances and I will leave.”

“Jerry, please sit down,” Frances begs. “We haven’t finished our tea.”

“We’re not having tea, Frances. We’re leaving. Now.”

Watching Jerry take Frances by the arm and quick-walk her out of the dining room triggers a memory I’ve tried hard to forget.

It was a hot summer night in Orlando. I was thirteen. It was the last time Marla whisked me away from Gram’s house, where I lived. Marla promised that this time she would make things work. This time, we’d make a life together.

Of course, making it work entailed constantly walking on eggshells around her boyfriend, Ed, because I never knew what would make him fly into a rage. It was usually directed at my mother. But not always.

I stand to walk after Jerry and Frances and try to blink away the memory, but not before the mental soundtrack plays: The sharp crack of fist connecting with bone. Emergency sirens. My mother screaming at me as they wheeled her into the ambulance: This is all your fault, Hannah. This is all on you.

As cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, a vague sense of nausea washes over me. It’s been a long time since I thought about that night.

Today’s ill-timed phone call from Marla coupled with Jerry’s anger allowed the memory to seep through the cracks of the wall I’ve built between my childhood and my current life.

Outside, I call after Jerry and his wife. He whirls around to face me. “You need to learn how to keep your tour under control, Ms. Bond.”

This is not a classroom setting where people have to shut up and listen. The women have the right to enjoy the tour in their own way—even if it means giggling and whispering about a fictional character—but pointing that out now won’t help.

“Jerry, come back inside. Let Frances finish her tea—”

“Frances doesn’t want tea, but I want to talk to your supervisor.”

He’s thrusting his cell phone at me, jabbing it into my shoulder. I sidestep, trying to avoid the next blow, but my heel catches an uneven piece of cobblestone and I feel myself going down. As adrenaline begins pinpricking my skin from the inside out, a pair of strong hands grabs my torso and rights me before I hit the ground.

“Hey, buddy, take it easy, there.” The deep male voice is steeped in a Scottish accent. The words are as strong as the hands that saved me. “There’s no reason to shove a lady.”

I know it’s Brooding Darcy before I turn and see him. He’s taller than I realized, and sturdy. Judging by the way he’s scowling down at Jerry, he’s not playing around.

Clearly Jerry realizes it, too, because he takes a couple of steps back.

“This is none of your business,” Jerry says, but his tone isn’t quite as nasty as it was a moment ago.

“It becomes my business when I see a man making an arse of himself roughing up a woman on the street. Do we need to call the police to settle it?”

“No, we’re good here.” Jerry’s voice has a defensive edge. “You can go.”

A crowd of people has stopped to watch.

“No, you’re the one who needs to step away and cool off. I’ll stay