Up the Seine Without a Paddle Read online

  He nodded hesitantly. “Ah, sure.”

  Why didn’t he want me posting a picture of us when he had pics with other girls on his page? Like one with our coworker Gretchen in a minidress, hanging all over him in Santorini, Greece, last week. So much for hoping I’d never see the bitch again. However, Declan’s younger sister, Zoe, had commented, asking Gretchen where she’d gotten her lovely knock-off Prada purse. I’d almost spewed diet soda out my nose from laughing so hard. Gretchen never responded to dispute the bag’s authenticity. Zoe apparently realized Gretchen’s handbag wasn’t the only fake thing about her.

  I posted the pic and tagged Declan.

  I was up to forty-eight Facebook friends. Declan was the only friend I could remotely relate to. My cousins posted pics of their weddings, babies, first home purchases, recipes…domestic stuff.

  Something tugged at the bottom of my shirt. I glanced down at a dirty-faced little boy in torn jeans and holey tennies, peering up at me with somber brown eyes, holding out his hand. I slipped change from my pants pocket and placed a fifty-cent euro coin in his palm.

  “Où est votre mère?” I asked, assuming he spoke French and that his mother was nearby.

  A lady walked over, wearing a long green cotton dress, with a brown shawl wrapped diagonally across her front, swaddling a baby. She snatched the coin from the boy’s hand and slipped it inside the shawl with her baby. How sad. A baby and little boy out panhandling at night rather than being at home tucked in bed. He was around Henry’s age.

  I gave the mother a few more coins. Her brown eyes lit up, and she smiled graciously. Similarly dressed women with children holding out their hands flocked around me. I reached into my purse for more change. Declan placed a hand on my lower back and steered me away from the group.

  “Watch it, now. While you’re giving them money, their kids are cleaning out our pockets. You’re going to get robbed or go broke trying to save the entire city.”

  I was already broke. Precisely why I shouldn’t be giving away money, but it killed me to see these destitute women with children. Had their deadbeat husbands deserted them? Had they never married them? Never taken responsibility for their own kids?

  “If I save just one woman, I’ll be happy.”

  I wanted to save a woman like Martha had saved me. Even if I didn’t have what it took to be a women’s counselor—uncomfortable and unsure how to react in emotionally intense situations—I could still help abused women in other ways.

  “Just don’t be giving away all my money,” Declan said.

  His money?

  My body tensed. My jaw tightened. Declan sounded like my ex, Andy. I’d gone most of the day without thinking about that bastard! I thrust Declan’s two fifty-euro bills at him. I’d put dinner on my credit card to verify whether the Hôtel Sophie had released the hold on my two hundred euros. They had. Declan grasped my hand, curling my fingers around the bills, securing my hand in his.

  “Just because you loan me money doesn’t mean you can tell me how to spend it. What to buy, eat, or…”

  Declan looked taken aback and confused over my reaction, like he had in Dublin when I’d flipped out over him taking control of the tour. I eyed his hand still wrapped around mine. I scolded my stomach for fluttering and snapped my hand back. Declan fidgeted with a button on his shawl-collared navy wool sweater, as if unsure what to do with his rejected hand.

  Money was merely one way Andy had controlled me and our relationship. I would never again allow anyone to tell me what I could or couldn’t do with my money. When Andy had bought something for the condo, it was his taste and what he preferred because he was paying for it.

  My heart raced. My breathing quickened. I peered up at the Eiffel Tower’s twinkling lights, inhaling a deep cleansing breath like Martha had taught me…

  “Sorry,” Declan said. “It’s not a big deal.”

  It was a huge deal.

  This was the second time Declan had said something stupid, reminding me of Andy, making me question his sincerity along with his character and my judgment of it. Was it him, or was it me? Regardless, why did I allow a stupid remark to trigger such an intense emotional reaction? Random comments or actions no longer reminded me of Andy as frequently, and I was getting better at acknowledging the triggers, but I had to learn to control my reactions to flashbacks. I didn’t want to lose Declan’s friendship over my split personality.

  When I’d told Martha about the pepper-spraying incident in Dublin, she’d asked if I’d explained my behavior to Declan. I’d lied, telling her I had. After everything Martha had done for me, I felt guilty for lying to her. I’d also lied and told her that I’d confided in Rachel. I didn’t want Martha to think I was a hopeless case and give up on me. She’d commended me on taking this critical step toward recovery and assured me that confiding in loved ones about my emotionally abusive relationship with Andy would help me heal. That people who cared about me would support me and not judge me.

  What if Declan did judge me?

  I certainly judged him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Money is a sensitive issue. My mom has loaned me some lately, and it’s caused problems.”

  “You’re going to need more if someone steals yours.” He pushed my hand toward my purse, slung diagonally across my front, and I reluctantly slipped the bills inside.

  Suddenly, bright lights began dancing frantically around the tower’s calm, twinkling ones. They appeared to be leaping off the structure, like a fireworks display. A welcome distraction from our conversation. I switched my phone to video and taped the light show, my oohs and ahhs captured on audio. Declan took over filming so I could make an appearance in the video. The light show ended as abruptly as it had begun, the amber lights still glowing peacefully against the evening sky.

  Declan handed me my phone, peering past me, his gaze narrowing. “Where’s the ticket queue? There’s always a queue.”

  We walked over to the building with a yellow awning reading Caisses—Ticket Office.

  The window had closed ten minutes earlier.

  I let out a disappointed whine. “I shouldn’t have bought souvenirs and had our picture taken.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t realize the last lift was at eleven, even though it’s open until midnight.”

  “That’s okay.” I smiled, trying to maintain the positive attitude Declan claimed I possessed. “There won’t be a light show during the day on the group’s tour later this week. It was worth the trip here.” However, it would have been nice to have gone up at night and without fifty attendees. With my luck, I’d have to remain at the bottom, consoling an attendee with a fear of heights.

  “I know a place with a view of the tower. Brilliant food and great craic. Fancy some wine?”

  “I’d definitely fancy some wine.”

  * * *

  We crossed a bridge to a restaurant with outdoor seating. The scent of mint and cinnamon mingled in the air. Next to the host’s stand, a belly dancer’s hips swayed in rhythm to exotic flute music, rather than an accordion player strolling between tables playing “La Vie en Rose.” The coins dangling from her red sequined bra-top flirted with her toned tummy. Matching coins on a sheer red scarf and flowing skirt shimmied against her hips. She twirled a long chiffon veil around her body. She had to be freezing. Almost fifty degrees was a fairly pleasant temp, if you were from Wisconsin and you weren’t nearly naked.

  “Hope you like Turkish,” Declan said.

  I had no clue. I’d never once said, Hey, let’s go out for Turkish tonight. I didn’t know Turkish restaurants existed outside of Turkey. Another first anyway. Technically, I supposed I could now claim I’d eaten at a Parisian café.

  I had the host snap our pic with the belly dancer before seating us at an outdoor table near a tall heater. We joined the diehard tourists determined to take in the ambiance of alfresco dining with a view of the Eiffel Tower. I slid across the red embroidered tapestry-covered bench that matched the tablecloth. I posted our pic w
ith the dancer on Facebook and tagged Declan.

  A loud cheer erupted. We followed everyone’s gazes to a waiter balancing three glasses of beer stacked on his head. The waiters at the French café next door eyed him with bored disdain, while I admired him in awe.

  “Omigod. What if one falls?”

  “Then they all fall. But I’ve never seen that happen.”

  Our waiter walked up—a young guy with dark hair and eyes dressed in a red satin shirt and black slacks. He introduced himself as Burak, from Istanbul. I wasn’t sure where Istanbul was in relation to Paris. I knew it was in Turkey anyway. I’d have to Google it.

  “Do you have Guinness?” I asked.

  Burak shook his head and rattled off unfamiliar beers.

  “I’ll have a red wine please.”

  Declan suggested a Turkish wine from the menu. “It’s grand. We could get a carafe.” He wore a hesitant look. “If that’s okay…”

  He was being overly cautious, not wanting me to wig out about him selecting the wine. I smiled with approval, regretting my earlier meltdown. “Sounds good.”

  “You have to try mezes, bits of appetizers. That woman puking on the boat killed my appetite. Now I’m famished.”

  A few minutes later, Burak appeared, balancing our wineglasses on his head. Everyone clapped.

  “Wait,” I told him. “Hold that pose.”

  I asked his coworker to take our pic. Burak remained still, wearing a strained smile, sweat beading on his upper lip. The waiter snapped several pics. Burak heaved a relieved sigh. He set our glasses on the table and walked off, wiping the sweat from his brow. Burak appeared a bit stressed in the pic. I looked much better than I had in the Dublin pub, with my hair flattened from the sausage costume.

  Ten minutes later, Burak delivered the mezes displayed in white bowls on a red serving platter that resembled an ornate Persian rug. The selection included eggplant salad, red pepper walnut dip, and mint yogurt dip with pita bread. I took a sip of wine, savoring the blackberry and plum flavors.

  “I have some brilliant news,” Declan said. “I was waiting to surprise you when we could celebrate. I told my mate Peter I’d be seeing you this week, and he rang tonight that he found a Coffey rellie of yours.”

  My eyes widened with excitement. “That’s awesome.”

  We clinked glasses, toasting the discovery. “Sláinte.”

  “It took him a while since there aren’t any Coffey men still in the area. A fella thought his granny might be related, and she is. Her name’s… Feck.” Panic seized Declan’s face, his gaze glued to a young woman crossing the street. She zoned in on us, waving madly, calling out Declan’s name.

  I arched a curious brow. “A Guinness Girl?” I’d coined the term in Dublin after he’d confessed to previously sleeping with Gretchen thanks to too much Guinness.

  “A psycho.”

  The blond girl rushed to our table and slid her skinny-jean-clad butt onto the bench next to Declan, sitting practically on his lap. She placed a kiss on each of his cheeks before planting a lingering one on his mouth. My gaze narrowed on their locked lips, my jaw tightening. I stared in disbelief. Declan wasn’t passionately returning the kiss, yet he wasn’t pushing her away either.

  What the hell? He always backed away from me before a kiss.

  He finally drew back, their lips separating.

  Not a Guinness Girl, my Irish ass.

  My body went rigid. Hannah, our tour guide in Ireland, hanging all over Declan was nothing compared to this chick’s lips devouring his.

  She wore little makeup—naturally, and annoyingly, pretty with shiny blond hair. Her tight, low-cut black blouse showcased the tops of her size 36D boobs and black push-up bra. I discreetly slipped off my beret and wanted to strip off my oversized Paris T-shirt so I didn’t look like a dorky ad for the Paris tourism department. If I had on my hideous orange work shirt, at least she’d know I’d been forced to wear it.

  “Fanette,” Declan said. “Ah, what are you doing here?”

  “I was at a café near here, and I saw the post on Facebook with the dancer. I was like, I know that place. Remember? So I thought I would come say hi.”

  She knew this place, as in Declan had brought her here before? Was she the reason Declan had been hesitant about me tagging him in our picture at the Eiffel Tower? Fanette reinforced my fear that Declan had a woman in every city from Dublin to Dubai.

  With an uneasy smile, he introduced me and Fanette.

  She gave me a faint nod, arching a discriminating brow. She eyed my T-shirt with an amused smirk, clearly determining I wasn’t a threat. “Hello.” She focused back on Declan. “I cannot believe you did not tell me you would be in Paris. This is so nice.” She looped her arm with Declan’s and snuggled up against him.

  I surged from the bench. “I should get going.”

  “Yes, we should,” Declan said.

  I forced a strained smile. “No, you stay. Have a drink with Fanette and catch up. My hotel isn’t far. I’ll find it.” Even though I couldn’t pronounce or even spell the name of the street it was on!

  Declan’s expression turned serious. “I’m not letting you walk back to your hotel by yourself.”

  “You are not at the same hotel?” Fanette looked delighted.

  “The street’s well lit, lots of people out,” I said.

  The pepper spray was in my suitcase at the hotel. I’d splurge on a taxi. As if I could rely on Paris taxi drivers to drop me off where they were supposed to!

  “Yes, the street is much light,” Fanette said.

  “I’m taking you back.” Declan tossed euros on the table to cover our bill and said good-bye to a pouty Fanette.

  I marched to the curb, waving frantically at an approaching taxi.

  Declan followed, Fanette hot on his heels, calling out, “Where are you staying?”

  I hopped in the taxi. Declan jumped in behind me, glancing over his shoulder at Fanette. “Au revoir.”

  The taxi pulled away from the curb.

  Declan handed me my beret I’d apparently left on the bench.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  He looked over at me. “I didn’t shag Fanette.”

  Yeah, right.

  I stared out the window. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You can sleep with whoever you want.” Drop the jealous ’tude! “I’m not upset about that,” I said calmly. “I’m ticked because some snooty chick just crashed my first time at a Paris café. Totally rude.”

  “You don’t believe me. You think because I shagged Gretchen, I shag women all the time on the road.”

  No, I also thought that because of Hannah and what Rachel had told me about Declan being a total womanizer.

  “No, not all the time.”

  I hadn’t slept with him.

  “Right, then. Just most the time.”

  “Why does it matter if I think that?”

  “Because we’re friends. I care what you think. Hell, you were offended that Antoine, some bloke you don’t know, wouldn’t believe you hadn’t drank the minibar dry. For all he knows, you make a living scamming food from minibars.”

  Why did it bug me that he’d just said we were friends. Friends was a good thing. I had no friends. Except for Declan. I’d lost my best friend, Ashley, a year ago over an argument about Andy, whom she’d been right about in the end. She hadn’t responded to my Facebook friend request or recent e-mail.

  He dropped his head back against the seat in frustration. “I never should have let you post those snaps. She’s been stalking me on Facebook.”

  Then unfriend her! As if he deserved my sympathy because I could relate to being stalked online. Although he wasn’t aware of that fact. And I’d been stalked because I’d slept with one wrong guy, not possibly hundreds of girls. After Fanette, Gretchen, and Hannah, I was starting to think that sleeping with Declan made women lose it. That he drove women to becoming psycho stalkers. I was already teetering on the edge of sanity. I wouldn’t let Declan give me t
he final nudge.

  He let out a defeated sigh. “Don’t believe me then.”

  A sick feeling tossed my stomach, and not because the taxi driver was swerving in and out of lanes like he was in the Grand Prix. I felt like Declan and I were dating and I’d just caught him making out with Fanette and he was trying to convince me that he wasn’t sleeping around. I hadn’t even slept with Declan, and I had this icky feeling, knowing I could never trust him to be faithful. Trusting him to have my back and to keep my secrets, like my work screwups, was a whole different trust level.

  He had all this faith in me and my abilities, but I didn’t have complete faith in him. Was it because of his playboy reputation, or was it because he was a man? Had my relationship with Andy ruined me for all men, for life?

  I plastered on a smile and calmly lied. “I believe you. Besides, it’s none of my business. I don’t care who you sleep with.”

  But I did care. I cared way too much, and Fanette just proved that. I could lie to myself and Declan all I wanted, but there was no denying the icky feeling in my stomach. A feeling I’d never experienced before and never wanted to again. Did Declan realize I was lying? Could he sense how I felt? How did I feel? A mere physical attraction to Declan shouldn’t be causing these intense emotions. Jealousy, anger, betrayal, hurt… My emotions were all over the place!

  What happened to standing on my own? To not needing a man? I’d unknowingly gotten into a bad relationship the last time. I wasn’t walking into one with my eyes wide open this time. Besides, Declan didn’t “do” relationships. I obviously couldn’t be merely friends with Declan without wanting more. I had to keep our relationship strictly professional.

  How? I hadn’t a clue.

  Chapter Six

  Awkward silence filled the taxi, except for Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” playing on the radio. I peered out the window, attempting to lose myself in the Paris lights rather than flashbacks of Declan and Fanette’s kiss, and my embarrassing reaction to it.

  A ding signaled an e-mail. Mom. I’d told her we had to communicate solely via text and e-mail since an international phone bill had eaten up a chunk of my Dublin paycheck. I’d only been able to expense half the bill. I’d upgraded my international plan this trip but was still nervous about racking up charges.