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

He leans in, and for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me on the lips, but he whispers a soft kiss on my cheek.

Without another word, he gets into his car and leaves.

It is late afternoon as I let myself into the lobby of the apartment building. I’m in another world as I press the call button for the elevator and take the short ride up to the next floor.

But I land firmly back to earth when I walk into the clean apartment. It looks like a different place dust- and cobweb-free—like the difference between Kansas and Oz. I’m speechless as I take in everything as if for the first time. The shoes are still sitting by the door, only now I can see the worn leather and fraying laces clearly. Rather than the ashy gray of before, they’re a deep, rich cognac brown.

The jacket hanging on the coat tree is a vibrant cobalt blue. The umbrella is magnificent yellow. Everything has been cleaned and returned to its original place, and I’m sure I have Marla to thank for that.

As if on cue, she appears in the living room. “Well, what do you think? She cleans up pretty good, doesn’t she?” Marla is standing with her hands on her hips, gazing around the room and looking pleased with herself.

As she should.

“It’s unbelievable,” I say. “How long have they been gone?”

“They left about a half hour ago. A van came and whisked them away.”

“That’s efficient. I’m glad we didn’t try to clean this place ourselves. We would’ve barely made a dent.”

“It was a nice gift from Gabriel,” Marla says. “Speaking of… How was your afternoon? I’m surprised to see you back so soon.”

I glance at my watch. “We were out for more than four hours.”

She tsks. “And you had the whole night ahead of you.”

Her insinuation of failure irks me.

“He wants to cook for me tonight.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Her eyes grow wide.

“He’s cooking? At his place?”

I wait for her to invite herself.

“Well, that’s more like it.” Her brow arches and the corners of her mouth curl upward. “You know what that means, right? I hope you brought your sexy underwear.”

“Marla, really? Stop it. Just don’t.”

I have exactly one pair of sexy undies. They’re in London in the way back of my dresser, where they’ve remained since the day I purchased them. I don’t even remember why I got them. I think they still have the tags.

“You didn’t bring your sexy panties, did you?” she says.

“We came here to work.”

“It’s Paris, Hannah. How could you not bring good underwear?”

She says this the way some parents might admonish their daughters for getting a bad grade or denting the car.

“I’m sorry to be such a mortal disappointment to you, Mother.”

She makes a weary face to show how deeply I’ve wounded her. “You can’t wear granny panties on a date in Paris with a Frenchman. I guess we’ll have to buy you something new on the way back to the hotel.”

After missing all those years of back-to-school shopping, my mother is making it up to me by taking me shopping for sexy underwear. Cool.

“Gabriel is not going to see my underwear tonight. That is, if I even go.”

“Hannah, you have to go.”

“No, I don’t.”

Marla clears her throat. “What I mean is a night out is exactly what you need. Gabriel is a good-looking man. He seems interested in you. You’re in Paris. Why not live a little? Since I’ve vowed to become a new woman in Paris, it’s only fair that you work on yourself, too.”

AS WE CLOSE UP the apartment and get ready to go back to the hotel, Marla holds out her phone. “Look, it’s only a thirteen-minute walk from here to the Galeries Lafayette department store.”

“Is this the GPS you used yesterday at the train station?”

Marla gives me the stink eye.

All kidding aside, I really don’t want to buy new underwear. Gabriel tempts me in the most primal way. My cotton granny panties will be my chastity belt. For extra protection, I won’t shave my legs, either.

“Now we know where to go if we need to go shopping,” I deflect. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Hannah, you need to go shopping. You need new underwear.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hannah, I’m going to be blunt with you because I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. Frenchmen aren’t like the English boys you’ve been dating. Frenchmen expect a certain level of… sophistication.”

English boys?

First, I contemplate asking her how she knows so much about Frenchmen and sophistication. But I really don’t want to know. Then I consider telling her there hasn’t been an English boy since Charlie, but she doesn’t know about him and I don’t want to explain.

Instead, I say nothing and think more about my options for tonight.

I just met Gabriel. He’s our lawyer, and just because he’s sexy as hell and I’m thinking of letting him cook for me doesn’t mean I want him for dessert.

But what if I do?

It’s been a very long, dry season.

I can’t believe I’ve let Marla get into my head, but I think about what she said about loosening up, and I have to admit she’s not wrong.

We take the short walk to the Galeries Lafayette. The department store occupies an entire city block. It’s a stunning sight both inside and out. Four floors are organized around an enormous Neo Byzantine–style dome made of ethereal stained glass. The overall feel is art deco. Gold leaf arches and railings shimmer in the natural light flooding in through the dome, making the merchandise in the great hall glisten and sparkle like diamonds.

I’m gaping, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in like a tourist.

We make our way to the lingerie department on the fourth floor. It’s huge and seems to have everything from workout clothing and sleepwear to stockings, garters, slips, panties, and bras in every conceivable level of