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

I needed the time to sort things out without her demanding to know why I’ve been so distracted.

I didn’t want to talk about it, which would’ve made her all the more determined to pry it out of me.

The truth is, I think I may have royally screwed things up with Aiden.

It started off as a beautiful night. The dinner was a fundraiser planned by the food industry to raise scholarship money for those who want to study the culinary arts but can’t afford tuition. It was called Dîner Dans le Noir—Dinner in the Black—which had a double meaning because we were all dressed in black and the scholarships would keep students from going into debt. The event was held in a mansion in the seventh arrondissement called Maison des Polytechniciens. Built in 1703, over the years, it has been the private residence of several different wealthy families. Currently, it’s owned by the Association of Friends of Polytechnicians, which lends it out for private events.

Everyone was dressed in black and the place was lit by candlelight. The food was delicious. Aiden was… well, he was Aiden.

After we left the dinner, I was regretting not wearing my lingerie because I was tempted to ask him to come over. Especially after we took a detour and he kissed me on the quay of the Seine.

He’d said he’d always wanted to do that.

I was thinking, Please don’t let this one be too good to be true.

As we walked and talked, getting closer to the apartment, I was pointing out potential stops for the tour. He offered to fly in and orchestrate a dinner for the end of the first day of the inaugural tour. He said we could call it the “moveable feast.”

At first, I thought he was kidding. I mean, how would that even work?

So I brushed it off—okay, maybe I kind of laughed it off. Not in a mean way. Or at least I didn’t intend for it to come across that way. But let’s just say that by the time we got to my door, the mood was different.

He lightly kissed me good night and went back to his hotel, and now I feel weird.

I’m not sure if I hurt his feelings by rebuffing his dinner idea. But you know what? It’s my tour. I don’t tell him how to run his restaurant.

I have a lot riding on making this tour a success, and I need to stick to what I know.

It’s only been a few days, but I haven’t heard from him since he got back to London. Maybe I won’t. Who knows? Maybe he’ll enter the Date From Hell Hall of Fame as The Egotist.

Then again, maybe that’s harsh. Especially when he’s never been a date from hell, and this time it was just as much my fault as anyone’s. I’ve been pretending to be too busy to call or text him, and now Marla’s home and that’s my current excuse for not reaching out.

“I spoke to Emma while I was in London,” Marla says from the bedroom where she is unpacking her bag. “She is going to call you, but she said if you’re willing to let me be your assistant, she sees no reason why y’all can’t hire me. She also thinks it’s absurd that you always try to be such an island, Hannah. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

I’m sitting at the desk in the living room, finalizing the tour route and pretending like I’m not wallowing over Aiden. I set down my pen.

“I’m not afraid to ask for help, and I don’t appreciate you talking about me to my boss. Why would you do that?”

This is a prime example of why working and living together isn’t a good idea. It makes me furious to think that Marla would zero in on what might be considered a professional weakness and use it against me.

Marla walks into the living room and stands by the desk. Her hands are on her hips and she’s wearing that look that I’ve learned means, I see your challenge, and I’m upping the ante.

“Talking about you? This isn’t even about you, Hannah. It’s about me getting a job in Paris so I can support myself.”

She sticks out her bottom lip like a child who is about to throw a tantrum.

“You’re right. It’s not about me. It’s never been about me, Marla. My entire life it’s always been about you. You couldn’t raise me because you got pregnant too young. You couldn’t tell me about my father because you slept with too many men. You’d take me from Gram when you were ready for me. Then you’d give me back when you had something else you’d rather do. We’re selling Gram’s house because you need the money. Now you’re here because there’s a cool apartment in Paris that gives you the chance to start over and you want me to give you a job so you can stay—”

My voice catches. My throat is burning, and I’m afraid that if I say another word, I’m going to cry.

I sit there frozen, barely breathing, willing myself to get a grip.

She stands there looking shell-shocked.

Finally, I find my voice. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go for a walk.”

I get up and go into the bedroom to get my coat. Marla follows me.

“We need to talk about this, Hannah. We’re not going to solve anything if you keep running away.”

“If I keep running away? Says the woman who, once upon a time, couldn’t stand to live in the same house as her only daughter. That’s rich, Marla, coming from a woman who cherished her freedom above all else. Well, you might think all we need to do is talk about things, and poof, everything will be perfect. But that’s not working for me. It’s not that simple.”

She shrugs, then swipes at the moisture that’s collecting in her eyes. “You’re right. I was a lousy mother. There’s no taking it back because I