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

right here until you do.” Darcy doesn’t budge, nor does he stop glowering at Jerry, who is clenching his fists and muttering a string of choice words under his breath.

“I don’t need this,” Jerry says. “Come on, Frances.”

I worry about Jerry’s wife, that she will bear the brunt of her husband’s misplaced anger. I’m opening my mouth to say as much, but Darcy beats me to it.

“Lady, you don’t have to go with him.”

Frances raises her chin a notch. “I’m fine.” She sounds annoyed. “I can handle myself.”

She directs the words at me. Like my mother, sometimes people don’t know how to accept help when it’s offered, much less ask for it.

“Frances, I’m here for you if you need anything.”

Her eyes flick from me to Jerry, who is already walking away. She hesitates, and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll defect. Then she turns and follows her husband.

“Yeah, your boss is definitely going to hear from me,” Jerry bellows over his shoulder as he moves down North Parade Passage, then disappears around the corner.

I need to call Emma before he does.

But first, I turn to Darcy, unsure of what to say.

Because what do you say in a moment like this?

Thanks, but I didn’t need to be saved?

What might’ve happened if he hadn’t intervened?

Most of the onlookers have started to disperse, but I’m painfully aware of the handful of stragglers who are still watching curiously, some from the bay window of the Sally Lunn dining room.

I decide on the polite response. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re American.” His tone is lighter, but his unwavering gaze is still as intense as it was when it was fixed on Jerry. Less angry, more…

More what? I don’t know.

“That I am.” After Jerry’s performance, I brace myself for him to tack on a barb about loud, ugly tourists.

“What exactly happened there?” he says. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

His tartan scarf is tucked inside his navy peacoat. His dark hair is disheveled and on the longish side but in a sexy way that makes me wonder what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning. I blink away the forward thought.

“I’m a tour guide. It’s the last day of our tour. He took issue with others talking during my spiels and the way I handled it. Apparently, he thought I could’ve done a better job. He’s off to inform my boss. Which means I need to call her before he does.”

I’m caught in the tractor beam of his gaze. Ridiculous, but it totally takes away my breath. My heart thuds against my ribs like a bird trying to break free and soar.

He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he shakes his head.

“Right, you’d best make that call.” He glances at his watch. “And I’d best be on my way or I’ll miss my train.”

“Thanks again.”

“Happy to be of service. Take good care of yourself.”

That voice. It’s as rich as butterscotch and twice as sweet. As I watch him walk away, I’m thinking I could curl up in that brogue and live a happy life.

That’s when I realize I didn’t even ask his name.

I open my mouth to call after him, but he’s already too far away.

A light snow starts to fall as he’s swallowed up by crowds of revelers peering into shop-front windows brimming with holly and ivy and the last of the holiday cheer.

If the Fitzwillings wanted to find Mr. Darcy on this trip, they missed their chance. I want to smile at the thought, but more pressing matters consume me.

Before going back inside, I call Emma, but I get her voicemail. “Em, it’s Hannah. I have a situation. It’s not life-or-death, just… an incident that happened a moment ago. Call me when you get a chance.”

In the meantime, I go back inside and apologize to the manager of the Sally Lunn House for the spectacle in the dining room.

I realize that I should make a contingency plan just in case Jerry shows up at Thermae Bath Spa and tries to cause trouble for the ladies. Guys like that are usually all bark, so he probably won’t. But you never know. Before Jerry, I’d never had a person on my tour stomp away in a huff.

Heads turn as I walk back to the table, but I focus my energies on my remaining ten charges.

“I’m sorry about that, folks.”

“Oh, Hannah!” Tears flood Lucy’s eyes. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go that way. We were only having fun. What in the world is wrong with that man?”

“It’s okay. It was his choice to leave. Please don’t worry.” What else can I say?

As if by divine intervention, my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

“I apologize, but I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”

I answer before I get outside so Emma’s call doesn’t sail over to voicemail.

“Hey, Em, thanks for getting back to me so fast. Hold on a moment while I go outside. I’m in Sally Lunn’s.”

The silence on the other end of the line lasts long enough for me to wonder if the call has been disconnected.

And then I wish it had been.

“No, Hannah, it’s not Emma. This is your mother. Why haven’t you called me back? I’m in London at Heathrow Airport and I need you to come pick me up.”

February 1927

London, England

Dear Diary,

Mum popped in for a visit today.

She made no pretense of what she thought of my new Eton crop hairdo.

In true Constance Braithwaite fashion, she gasped and grabbed a hunk of my hair, going on and on about how I’d ruined my beauty. How no man would want me now because I looked like a boy.

I wanted to tell her the Eton crop was a statement about a woman’s self-confidence, and that confidence, in turn, accentuated femininity.

Instead, I murmured that it was just hair. It would grow back.

Lorgnette in hand, Mum moved her disapproving eyes to my chemise, which I’d made myself out of remnant fabric