Read Online Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene - Free Book Online

“That’s it. The end of the plan. You’re in Paris. I’m going back to South Bend. We’re not hurting anyone if no one else ever knows anything about this. I mean, you and I could hurt each other. But it’s just about you and me. No one else.”
    He took another bite, but he was watching her bright eyes. She’d pulled on a shirt by then. His shirt. A blue one. It made her look like the most feminine bit of fluff ever born. Times ten. Something made him want to argue with the plan, but he couldn’t put a frame on it. It should be exactly what he wanted—sneaky, free sex—yet somehow, the last bite of delectable omelet didn’t want to be swallowed.
    â€œYou’re going to shake the fiancé when you go back.” Will didn’t phrase it like a question, although it was. For whatever reason, he needed to know.
    She bounced up to refill both their mugs. “Well, that was my theory, too, when I tried to call him on Saturday morning. But now I think that stinks. It would be plain wrong and cowardly to try to say anything serious to him in a phone conversation. So there’s nothing I’m going to do about Jason until I get home.”
    He put down his fork altogether. “But then you’re going to shake the guy.”
    â€œHey. This is the deal. You and I are going to be our own personal Vegas. What’s between us this week stays between us. But there’s no point in doing before-and-after analyses. I mean, you’re not coming home to South Bend, right?”
    â€œRight,” he affirmed.
    She nodded, as if to say they were both in agreement.
    Only they weren’t.
    Will couldn’t very well babysit her all day. She had a ton of stuff to do, all of which was fraught with peril—for a tourist, an American, an adorable woman who was an American tourist, and specifically for Kelly, who didn’t seem to have the directional sense of a stone. But he left her maps. He left her lists. He left her money, his cell phone, his telephone number at work and instructions to check in every two hours so he’d know she was okay.
    At the doorway, when he was leaving for work, she interrupted all his considerate help to say mildly, “You really think you’re a lazy, live-for-today, happily irresponsible, completely recovered Catholic, huh?”
    Which just went to show, he thought when he climbed into his Citroën, that you could make love to a woman for three days straight and still, she didn’t know you at all.
    Twenty minutes later, he parked the car—feeling victorious when he fit into a spot smaller than a dime—and ambled into the office with a lazy stride.
    The building was older than the guillotine, dark, crowded and drafty. “Bonjour, m’sieur,” said Marie, of the Antoinette temperament. She ran the place, something he’d realized the day he applied for a job here.
    He greeted her, then the office staff in the bull pen, then Yves, the owner. His boss was a prince of a guy, devoted to his family, but he both looked like and had the temperament of a high-strung terrier. Talk about a worrywart. He sprang up the instant he saw Will.
    â€œYou managed to connect on the Wisconsin thing yesterday?”
    â€œYup. No problems. All fixed.” Except for having to do that wrangling on a Sunday, but not like doing a few phone calls at home killed Will.
    â€œSeveral calls came up early this morning, backup on shipments. Catalog proofs are on your desk. Looks good to me, but if you can get to that today…and that advertising affecting Lucerne and Copenhagen…”
    Will listened a while longer, took it on, then aimed for his office—such as it was. A trailer closet was bigger than his cubicle. There was just enough room for him to drop to the desk chair and wade into the five pounds of files and samples and folders and debris.
    Kelly wasn’t here, of course. If she saw the place, she might