♫ But baby there you go again, there you go again, making me love you
Yeah I stopped using my head, using my head, let it all go ♪
(Maroon 5—One More Night)
Several times throughout the next day, Coralie pinched herself.
Once when she woke in Ryan's embrace, his scruffy chin scratching against her temple.
Another time when she drank coffee in her plush robe, staring out at the street below.
And once more as the car dropped them off at their destination for the day—the Place de la Concorde.
This trip to Paris was a fairy-tale, a fantasy come true. She struggled not to imagine the smog-ridden city of San Francisco awaiting her once her carriage became a pumpkin and her handsome prince returned to his normal life without her.
Yet she stuffed those images to the back of her mind as they strolled hand-in-hand towards the Champs-Élysées. They started at the very beginning, which was Place de la Concorde, where they were empty-handed but for iced-coffees and a bag of croissants they shared while admiring the Arc de Triomphe from afar.
They meandered past vast green parks with joggers getting a whiff of the morning air, couples walking their dogs, distracted employees hurrying to their workplaces while juggling phones and briefcases.
When they passed the Grand Palais, a phenomenal building that sprawled out for what seemed like miles, Ryan promised to take her there next time.
Next time? He's implying this will happen again?
The giant museum, exhibition hall, and historic site took Coralie's breath away as they continued towards the area of the avenue she most anticipated—the shops.
When they arrived at the busier section, traffic had picked up—whether it be the compact cars on the wide road, or the tourists cramping the massive sidewalk. Coralie couldn't figure out where to look. Ahead, at the Arc de Triomphe? Or at the curious onlookers sitting at cafés with plates of pastries? Or at the shop vitrines with mannequins wearing exquisite clothes she wouldn't dare try on?
Upon seeing her eyes bulge at one store—Zara, a staple from her childhood—Ryan insisted they go inside.
"Are you kidding? That place is insanely expensive!" Her jaw dropped as they entered the enormous space, and she sighted a dress the likes of which she'd never even dream of wearing. "It's not what it used to be when we were kids!"
"Are you kidding? Zara is nothing compared to some of the places farther down the boulevard. It's not that bad. Hey," he gestured at the dress she'd been fixed on, "you want to try that on?"
Her throat dried as she approached the mannequin and reached out to touch the dress. Its silky feel reminded her of a sexy set of lingerie, and its ruby red color drew her attention away from any other outfit in the vicinity. It was a style she'd hoped one day to wear, but she worried it wouldn't flatter her slightly curvy figure.
"This would never fit me."
"Bullshit." Ryan waved an associate over and muttered some requests in French that Coralie had no means to understand—they spoke too fast.
But next she knew, Ryan had shoved her into a fitting room with a leather pouf and a spotlight-lined mirror that revealed her reddening cheeks and shocked expression.
"RyRy—" she started to complain, but he tossed in a multitude of other dresses and jeans and tops he thought would fit her.
He stood guard before the fitting room, the heels of his sneakers visible under the thick burgundy curtain.
"Try everything on, and show me. I'll decide if things fit, because I see your beauty."
Face overheating, she obliged, removing her jacket and shirt and leggings.
What's the point? Why does he want me to embarrass myself like this?
It was a waste of time. She appreciated his kindness, but why stuff her into a fancy fitting room and wait for her to model out fancy clothes she'd never wear? And why this store? He was at the head of a massive luxury brand, one that had its own location on the avenue; one where he'd surely get discounts, if not free items upon request.
As she started zipping up and buttoning and posing in front of the mirror, her woes dissipated. Ryan had excellent taste, and everything he'd urged her to try brought out the best parts of her.
And the decadent ruby red dress, to her utter astonishment, fit. She hadn't given him her size, yet he'd figured it out.
As the sleek, weightless fabric fluttered down to above her knees, she grinned.
Ryan peeked his head in. "Fuck." His eyebrows inched up as he took her appearance in. "That is sexy." He trailed a finger along her waist and bit his lip. "But do you like it?"
She snorted. "Like it?" She twirled and clapped when the hem of the dress twirled with her. One of her favorite things as a child were dresses that whooshed around her. "It's divine! But first, I can't afford it, and second, I'd have nowhere to wear it—"
"—hush." Ryan pulled out and shut the curtain. "Take it off, and hand me whatever you want to keep."
"Ryan!" She ripped the drapes aside, showing herself to other customers nearby. A few ooh'd at her, and one employee gave her a giant thumbs up. "You can't buy this for me. Come on. This is—"
He covered her mouth and kissed her forehead. "I can, and I will. You'll wear it tonight, for dinner. No arguments."
Torn between gratitude and confusion, she shut herself in once more, stripping the dress and delicately handing it to him. She then threw in one pair of jeans, one top, and told him she liked the black pumps that went with the dress.
Though they stopped for lunch, the shopping process repeated a few more times. Once in the Galeries Lafayette—which Coralie referred to as the French Macy's—and then in Louis Vuitton, where she gushed over a tiny purse that cost as much as her rent. She almost cried when Ryan purchased it in secret, while she was busy fawning over the most extravagant wallet she'd ever seen.
As they wandered on, Ryan pointed out Le Lido, a cabaret restaurant where he'd reserved them tickets for that night.
"Ah, so that's why you bought me the dress, and the shoes," she lifted the Louis Vuitton bag and squealed, "and the purse? For this super-secret soiree you told me nothing about?"
Winking, a finger pressed to his lips, he tugged her close as they made their ascent towards the Arc de Triomphe.
Luckily, their hotel was only a few streets down, so they walked to it. But by the time they landed in their room, both were exhausted and in pain from head to toe. They'd risen early and entered so many stores and carried so many bags, they felt as though they'd been awake for days, jogging up and down the avenue.
"I had no idea it was that long!" Coralie removed her usually comfortable tennis shoes and massaged her feet.
Checking his watch—their reservations were for seven p.m.—Ryan chuckled. "Without stopping in every store or to take pictures, we would have been done in less than an hour." He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "How about a quick nap? We have some time, and I need you awake and alert tonight."
Coralie yawned as they removed their clothes, snuck under the covers, and passed out.
***
In her gorgeous dress, hair pinned up, makeup perfected, Coralie almost blended in with the crowd at Le Lido. Rows of white-linen tables were set up on sumptuous crimson carpeting before the stage, and she squirmed on the inside when she and Ryan were seated.
The food was high class, the red wine was of the best quality, and of course, her supper companion was a vision in his black suit with a tie matching her outfit.
Yet, despite the marvelous day they'd spent together, and this luxurious dinner event, something didn't sit right in Coralie's tummy. It wasn't the food—she savored every bite—or the liquor or the thrill of the half-dressed dames dancing; it was the situation.
There she was, sipping on wine that she'd need an entire paycheck to pay for, decked in a dress even Delilah wouldn't pull off, sitting beside a man she fan-girled over and who, for some reason, cared about her.
And this perfect man had no room in his life for her. He belonged to someone else, yet he was with her.
She couldn't stop gushing over how easily he'd thrown his credit card to the clerks, how he hadn't batted a lash at each expense, how exhilarating it felt to be so taken care of. So Pretty Woman like; which prompted her to cringe.
That was when the logical, conscience-driven side of her filled her with doubt. She wondered how he got away with this excursion to Paris, how he'd fooled his spouse, and how he pulled off spoiling Coralie as he had. Surely he had his own separate bank account from Gemma, meaning she wouldn't find out about all the money he'd spent on her. But she still felt guilty.
Why her? Why so frivolous, why so eager to buy her things she didn't need, things she probably wouldn't be able to shove into her suitcase? She wasn't used to anyone pampering her so much, and rarely over-indulged with her own money, having learned to save her dollars for rainy days.
"Hey." Ryan seized her forearm gently and shook her back to life. "You okay?"
They were at the hotel bar, digesting their supper, talking about the show, relaxing before heading upstairs.
Coralie couldn't relax. Her thoughts loaded with flashes of them being caught, of their relationship ripping to shreds barely seconds into its beginning.
Does he know what he's doing? Is he being careful?
"Have you..." she cleared her throat, "have you spoken to your wife lately?
Taken aback, Ryan set his drink down on the counter and cocked his head. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, we've been glued at the hip since I arrived, and you've barely touched your phone, and I... I want to make sure you're being cautious." She played with the blue straw sticking out from her mojito, sensing the alcohol altering her thoughts, worsening them.
"Cautious?" He frowned as he tapped his fingertips to the rhythm of the song playing in the background—Maroon 5's One More Night, a shocking choice for an upper-scale bar in Paris. "Gemma has no clue what I'm doing. To her, this is a business trip, and she's aware I'm overworked during those."
"But... you're checking in? Acting as you usually would?"
Though his sharp gaze pierced through her, she maintained it, desperate for him to reassure her, to promise all was well. Desperate for him to tug her close and kiss her and swear to her he'd protect her if Gemma were to discover them.
"Half-answering her texts, as usual."
He flipped to the bar and ordered another drink. He offered one to Coralie, but she declined, already regretting mixing mojitos and wine.
"But you... you should be more discreet, RyRy." She sucked in a deep breath. "She can't find out, it's... too soon. We... we don't know where this is going, and you can't jeopardize it."
He picked up his fresh glass, but then slammed it onto the counter and groaned. "I'm not jeopardizing anything. She thinks I'm on a work trip, and that's that. And this," he motioned at her, then at himself, but kept his eyes on his beverage, "isn't going anywhere. It can't go on forever, you're clear on that, right? I won't leave her, nor my kids. So relax, would you?"
Though these were the words she'd needed to hear, the ones to slap her in the face and remind her their situation was temporary, they hurt. They were the dagger plunging into her heart, dragging her back to reality, clarifying her former reasons for trying to cut him out of her life.
She slurped down the rest of her mojito, grabbed her purse, and jumped down from her stool.
"Cora?" Ryan squinted at her as she fetched her room key from a pocket in her bag. "Where are you going?"
She walked away, her feet swelling from the tight heels and her ankles unstable from the booze or the disappointment—she couldn't tell.
"Bed. I'm tired."
***
Coralie wasn't sure what time Ryan crawled under the sheets—if he ever did—but when she woke the next morning, he wasn't beside her. In his place was a small, rectangular-shaped box wrapped in chiffon with a scarlet ribbon tied around it, and a hand-written note, saying "Sorry. Forgive me?"
Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and found Ryan typing on his laptop, seated on the sofa. She said nothing and took hold of the box, loosening the ribbon, watching as the chiffon slid off. The words "La Maison du Chocolat" were scrawled across the lid, and when Coralie removed it, she gasped.
Macarons—that bastard. He knows me too well.
Upon hearing her, Ryan spun around and flashed her a weak smile. "There's coffee, too."
Coffee and macarons were sure-fire ways to her heart; but it wouldn't be enough, and Coralie deflated at the realization.
It was too late; last night, he'd said what she'd feared but had no doubt about deep down. He'd woken her up—and not in the sexy, mind-blowing manner he had days prior, with his head between her legs.
They would never be together, and their escapades and nightly rolls in the sheets and cozy bathtub moments wouldn't go on forever. And romantic, lustful being that she was, Coralie got attached. She'd grown used to him, which was what Delilah had warned her about; what she'd warned herself about.
At her lack of an answer, Ryan sauntered over and sat by her. He reached for a macaron—vanilla, her favorite—and offered it to her, as if it were a peace treaty, a plea for her forgiveness, a bargain for them to not argue.
"Ryan..." Her eyes blurred, and though she took the macaron and stuffed it into her mouth to stop herself from talking, she had no way to stop the tears.
"Babe, look..." He captured her hand; his was cool, tense, trembling. "I adore you. I still consider you my best friend, always will. But I... I can't justify leaving Gemma, not like this. Not my girls. I realize the way I announced it was brutal, but... alcohol—"
"—don't you dare blame your cruelty on alcohol." She chewed, struggling to suppress a moan of satisfaction as the texture melted onto her tongue and the flavors exploded in her mouth. To look at him would only worsen the breaking of her heart. She'd hoped to avoid this, and she'd once been on the right path by denying him.
But then he'd showed up in San Francisco, seduced her, and she'd given in, unable to resist the temptation, unable to ignore the way he animated her, desired her.
"If only we had..." He squeezed her hand and tilted her chin to gauge her expression. "All those years ago, if we had—"
She tore from his grip and swiped at the macarons, sending them flying all across the bed.
"No! You don't get to say that, not you!" Her jealousy, her guilt, her disgust with her decisions transformed into rage at Ryan's deception, at his ease with broaching such a delicate subject, at his simple dismissal of her pain.
"Cora—"
She shoved him out of her way and stood up, adjusting her tank top so that her cleavage wouldn't spill out and tempt him.
"You can't console me if you're the one who's hurting me, dammit! You came to me, remember? I feel like this because of you!" She backed away, shaking her head, awash with anger—but mostly directed at herself for succumbing to him. "You can't waltz back into my life twelve years later, confess your feelings, sweep me off my feet, then tell me we're temporary! No! I'm... I'm still in love with you, and this isn't fair!"
Though his eyebrows raised and he sat up straight, shoulders stiff and unsure what to do with his hands, Ryan said nothing. He didn't say he loved her back, didn't apologize, didn't even use his pretty pout to persuade her to calm down.
She twisted, nearlytripped, and tumbled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
♥♥♥