Up the Seine Without a Paddle Read online

  Up the Seine Without a Paddle

  The Travel Mishaps of Caity Shaw

  Book Two

  Eliza Watson

  What do you do when the City of Love doesn’t love you?

  Caity Shaw takes on Paris and her next event planner job with a bit more confidence—which is immediately shot down when she’s forced to take responsibility for a six-year-old brat. They’re kicked out of a famous museum, and she goes from being a glamorous event planner—for a funeral directors’ group—to a reluctant au pair. Just what she doesn’t need as she struggles to regain self-esteem whittled away by an emotionally abusive ex-boyfriend.

  Declan, Caity’s hot Irish coworker, helps her maintain her sanity and sense of humor when she is repeatedly thrown out of places in Paris. He also perpetuates her facade as an experienced planner, a goal she’ll never achieve if she’s spending her days at puppet shows. Caity and Declan spend evenings exploring Paris and researching her Irish grandmother’s mysterious past, uncovering secrets that could tear Caity’s family apart. Declan reveals his own secret, which might bring Caity and him closer, despite her attempts to keep an emotional distance from the charming womanizer. However, the only way to help Declan open up and heal might be to confide in him about her past.

  Caity finally has faith in herself—can she learn to have faith that others won’t judge her mistakes?

  Up the Seine Without a Paddle

  Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Watson

  All rights reserved by author.

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen at LLewellen Designs

  Interior formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Elizabeth Watson.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 0-9895219-8-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9895219-8-7

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Also by Eliza Watson

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Coming July 2017

  About Eliza Watson

  Also by Eliza Watson

  The Travel Mishaps of Caity Shaw Series

  Flying by the Seat of My Knickers (Book 1)

  Other Books

  Kissing My Old Life Au Revoir

  Writing Romance as Eliza Daly

  Under Her Spell

  Identity Crisis

  Writing Young Adult as Beth Watson

  Getting a Life, Even If You’re Dead

  Dedication

  To my courageous Irish ancestors who immigrated to America

  Patrick and Margaret (Murtha) Coffey, James Cullen, Patrick Daly, James and Mary (Murray) Flannery, John and Catherine (Grady) Flannery, John and Eliza (Butler) McDonald

  Acknowledgments

  The Travel Mishaps of Caity Shaw series would never have been written if it weren’t for my courageous Irish ancestors, who immigrated to America. My longing to discover their untold stories became a major turning point in my life, leading me to their homeland and down an unexpected path. I’m grateful to my mom, Judy Watson (née Flannery), for sharing my interest in our Irish heritage. I will forever cherish the memories of our numerous research journeys to Ireland. Thank you to all my living Irish rellies and friends, including Charlotte and Peter Molloy, and Des and Mags Carter, for answering my endless questions and helping me understand our cultural differences, like the meaning of “chipper” and how to pronounce aluminum like a true local.

  I would especially like to thank my husband, Mark, and all my friends and family for believing in me and supporting my writing in so many ways. I would have given up years ago without your encouragement. Thank you to everyone who read Up the Seine Without a Paddle and provided in-depth feedback, helping to make it a stronger book: Nikki Ford, Elizabeth Wright, Aimee Brown, Sandra Watson, Judy Watson, and Laura Iding. Thanks also to Sandra Watson for providing professional insight into Narcissistic Personality Disorder and the damaging emotional effect narcissists have on their victims.

  To Dori Harrell for your fab editorial skills and for always being available for questions. To Chrissy Wolfe for your final proofreading tweaks to the book. To Lyndsey Lewellen for another incredible cover and for capturing the spirit of Caity. And to Amy Atwell at Author E.M.S. for a flawless interior format and for always being so prompt and professional.

  Thanks to all my brilliant fans, who began this adventure with Caity in Flying by the Seat of My Knickers!

  Chapter One

  “Where is Little Henry?” My client Heather’s gaze darted through the crowd at Paris’s Musée d’Orsay. She blew past Henry’s mom, admiring a Monet. “Caity, have you seen him?”

  I shook my head and marched across the wood floor, weaving through the crush of people, and into the adjoining room. I spied the little blond boy’s chocolate-smeared hand reaching up to finger paint the pastel hues in Monet’s Haystacks.

  “Ne touchez pas!” shouted a museum security guard, racing toward Henry.

  Heart thumping wildly, I flew over and lifted the six-year-old up over the low rope he’d slipped past. I strategically positioned myself between the boy and the red-faced older gentleman spewing expletives I’d never been taught in three semesters of college French.

  “Je…suis…dessoûle…” I sputtered the apology, the guard becoming more enraged by each murdered word.

  So much for my professor’s assurance that the French appreciated foreigners attempting their language. Maybe that wasn’t the case when a priceless masterpiece was about to be vandalized.

  The guard looked ready to self-combust. “If you are no longer intoxicated, how do you find this behavior acceptable?”

  Intoxicated? I’d just said I was sorry, not that I’d been drunk. Hadn’t I? The man had me so frazzled I couldn’t think straight. He knew damn well what I’d meant.

  An audience had gathered, including Henry’s mom, Brooke, hovering near the exit. Heather waited next to her in fearful anticipation. Henry appeared oblivious to the commotion he’d caused, busy licking the chocolate off his fingers.

  “You must learn to control your child, madame.”

  I glanced over at Brooke in a pink Chanel suit and heels, blond hair pulled back in a twist, studying her pink-manicured nails rather than taking ownership of her little brat.

  “I’m sorry,” I told the guard. “It won’t happen again.”

  The man’s gaze sharpened. “Indeed it will not. Since you, madame, will never be allowed in here again. Ever.” He stabbed a finger in the air for emphasis.

  Only forty-eight hours in Paris, fifteen minutes in the art museum, and I was banned from the place I’d dream
ed of visiting since high school French. I scrambled to compose my rebuttal. That I was a mademoiselle, not a madame. I wasn’t married or this brat’s mother. That I wasn’t leaving until I saw Renoir’s Young Girls at the Piano, of which a print hung on my bedroom wall. I opened my mouth to protest when my coworker Declan materialized by my side, placing a calming hand on my arm. I snapped my mouth shut, my shoulders retreating slightly.

  “So sorry, mate,” Declan said in his good-natured Irish demeanor that most people instantly warmed to. Not this guy. “We’re minding the lad for friends. We’ll take him out straight away.”

  Declan placed a hand against my lower back, gently prompting me forward. I grabbed Henry’s slobbery, chocolate-covered hand and stalked toward the exit. Henry’s mom was now MIA. Used to nannies carting him around, no doubt, it didn’t faze the little boy to leave with virtual strangers.

  “Thanks,” I told Declan. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d probably have outed Henry’s mom and gotten canned.” What happened to being more self-sufficient this trip and not relying on Declan to always come to my rescue? “I can’t flippin’ believe I’m being kicked out of a museum over some other person’s kid.”

  We rode the escalator down to the second level, then took the stairs. I spied a chocolate stain on the sleeve of my favorite white designer blouse. I still owed money on the store’s credit card. So much for looking chic in Paris. A low growl vibrated at the back of my throat.

  I tightened my grip on Henry’s hand.

  “Ouch,” he yelped.

  I loosened my hold, inhaling a deep breath, attempting to cleanse the negativity from my body. After all, it was Henry’s mom I should be ticked at. Besides ditching her kid, being a poor role model and her lack of parental supervision had created the little monster.

  Before exiting the museum, my gaze swept through the sculpture-lined hall, then back across the arched, glass-tiled ceiling. A large gilded clock hanging at the front was a remnant of the former railway station, now a museum.

  Au revoir, Musée d’Orsay.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t even get to see the Renoir. The one painting I was dying to see.”

  We headed outside where the cool, fifty-degree fall temp did little to extinguish the rage surging through me. Wisps of hair blew into my eyes, and I blinked rapidly in protest, yanking the auburn strands back behind my ear. The breeze playfully tousled Declan’s brown hair, a clump falling perfectly against his forehead. His hair was longer than it’d been in Dublin, but still inches above his shoulders. I needed to find out his hair products. Besides smelling like freshly fallen rain, they’d withstood the harsh elements of Ireland.

  “Documented your name and passport number, did he?” Declan asked.

  I shook my head, slipping the French dictionary from my purse, wanting to know what exactly I’d said to the guard so I didn’t repeat the same faux pas.

  “Right, then. What’s he going to do? Take your snap from the security cameras and display it at the ticket counter, denying you entry?”

  I shrugged. “Probably.” I thumbed through the book’s pages.

  “Probably not. You’re grand. Come back later in the week.”

  I could already tell I was going to be lucky to have time to pee, eat, and sleep this meeting, let alone make a museum run. Somehow, I didn’t think this trip was going to be the vacation Declan had claimed it would be.

  I finally came across the phrase for I’m sorry, Je suis désolé. That was what I’d said. On the same page was a similar word, dessoûler, to sober up. My French pronunciation might suck, but there was no way that guy hadn’t known what I’d meant.

  I stuffed the book back in my purse.

  “Was this your first time kicked out of someplace?” Declan asked.

  I gave him an incredulous look. “Yeah, of course.”

  “See, another first for your list.”

  “It’s a first I could do without.”

  Like my first time dressing as a sausage. My older sister, Rachel, had hired me to work a meeting in Dublin for her employer, Brecker, a Milwaukee-based brewery, and I’d gotten stuck wearing a sausage costume. One of my most humiliating experiences ever.

  “I’ve been kicked out of several places, one place more than once.” Declan grinned, a mischievous glint in his blue Irish eyes.

  I arched a curious brow. Do tell.

  “I’m hungry.” Henry made a detour toward a long line of tourists at a hot dog vendor.

  “You just had lunch,” I said.

  “But I—”

  “Am not having a hot dog,” Declan said firmly. “We don’t need ketchup and mustard smeared all over bloody Paris.”

  Henry trudged over by us, giving his eyes an exaggerated roll. “This place is boring. I can paint better than that.”

  Declan’s gaze sharpened. “Boring, you say? The Paris police and Interpol were nearly put on red alert thanks to your shenanigans. That painting could easily fetch fifteen million dollars at auction, maybe more. Enough money to buy fifteen million chocolate bars to last the rest of your life.”

  Henry’s brown eyes widened. “Wow.”

  My gaze narrowed. “Seriously?”

  Declan nodded. “Conservatively. A chocolate handprint could have knocked several mil off the asking price. Not so boring, hey? Still think it’s okay to touch a painting, do ya?”

  Henry shook his head in defeat and kicked at the top of the cement steps leading down to the sidewalk.

  “You handled that well,” I told Declan, lowering my voice.

  He stretched out his arms and laced his fingers together, pretending to crack his knuckles. “Always act like you’re in control. If they smell fear, they’ll walk all over ya.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Heather marched toward us, her brown bob bouncing with determination, little stress lines around her brown eyes. She was about the same age as Rachel, late twenties or thirtyish. And just like Rachel, she’d give her kidney to help a VIP. However, my sister would probably go so far as to give her good kidney. “Thanks for handling that so professionally.” She shot an annoyed look at Henry jumping up and down, waving his hands in front of a human statue, determined to get the bronze-painted performer to blink.

  “I knew when their nanny canceled this would be a nightmare. Of course, he’s the top sales guy’s kid, so they made an exception, allowing him to come.”

  Speaking of which, where was Big Henry while this was all going on?

  I peered past Heather at Henry’s mom heading toward us. I shot Heather a warning glance.

  “There you are, Henri.” Brooke pronounced his name with a French lilt, which was likely one reason the kid never listened. He had no clue she was talking to him. She acted as if she’d been searching the streets of Paris for her kid, rather than hiding out in the toilette. “That was very naughty. Mommy told you not to touch anything in the museum, didn’t she? And Mommy told you if you didn’t behave, you wouldn’t get to go on the boat cruise tonight.”

  “I don’t care.” Henry stomped a foot for emphasis. “I wanna hamburger and fries.”

  Brooke let out an exasperated sigh, her perfectly arched brows narrowed in distress. She peered over at Heather. “My husband is being presented his Eternal Slumber Award tonight. This is a huge honor.”

  Butler and McDonald was one of the largest US funeral home chains. Twenty-five funeral directors had won this trip by planning the most unique themed funerals—a division the company was attempting to expand. A chill slithered up my back at the thought of what brilliant idea had earned Big Henry his award.

  “He’ll be furious if Henri ruins his night. Do you think someone could watch him?”

  “Of course.” Heather smiled sweetly. “I’m sure the concierge can recommend a sitter.”

  Brooke’s top lip curled back. “Oh, we could never leave Henri with some random French woman we know nothing about.” She peered over at me. “Maybe you could watch him. He seems to really like you.”

 
Oh yeah, we’d totally bonded while I’d hauled his butt out of the museum. No way was I skipping escargot on board a Seine dinner cruise for a Happy Meal.

  My gaze darted to Heather.

  “Absolutely,” Heather said. “I should be okay with just Declan helping tonight. There’s not a lot of logistics.”

  I clamped my teeth down on my lower lip. I prevented a French masterpiece from being vandalized and this was the thanks I got?

  “You’re a doll. Merci.” Brooke directed her gratitude at Heather. “I’m going to find Big Henry.” She marched off, her pink heels clicking against the pavement.

  Um, forget something, lady? Henry was still busy annoying the street performer. Unbelievable. Ditching her kid again and no apology that he’d gotten me banned from one of the most famous museums in the world, and no thank you for taking control of the situation!

  Voila, just like that. Two days in Paris and I’d gone from “glamorous” event planner to an au pair.

  Heather blew out a frustrated groan. “I’m so sorry you’re stuck taking Henry to dinner, even though I’m sure you’ve done the cruise lots of times.”