Read Online Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Greene
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nerve-racking, thatâs all. Donât be scared if you get a few panic attacks. Every bride has them. Youâre going to look so gorgeous.â
Kelly sank into a corner of the couch, rubbing her forehead. Her mom was on a tear. Itâd be easier for Congress to reform health care than get a word in edgewise for quite a while.
ââ¦and your Aunt Willa was talking about getting you an Oriental carpet. Wouldnât that be a fabulous wedding present? And Susanna called me again. Sheâs still scandalized that you two have already found an apartment together. I told her, get a life, what century was she living in, anywayâ¦â
By the time the call ended, Kellyâs mug was sitting cold and her stomach was kneading guilt into lumps like bread dough. Willâs face flashed into her mind. She replayed his face, their lovemaking, this crazy, wild encounter she seemed to be having.
Her lifeâher real life in South Bendâall came back at the sound of her motherâs voice.
In real life, she couldnât possibly be sleeping with a stranger. The real Kelly Rochard could never be in this apartment. Couldnât possibly have turned into a brazen, lusty, amoral hussy, much less with a stranger.
Only she had done all those things.
She wanted to look in a mirror and see if she recognized the face, because she no longer seemed to be Kelly Rochard. She wasnât sure what woman had suddenly taken up residence in her body, or where the totally responsible, serious Kelly had gone. She felt angry with herself. Ashamed. Confused.
Yet when she thought it would have been so much better if sheâd never come to Paris, never met Willâ¦
Her heart clunked as if a mountain had crushed it.
Maybe she was being terribly, terribly selfish, but she couldnât regret a single moment with Will. Couldnât give him up. Not now. Not yet.
And before she could further tangle herself up, going down that impossible emotional road a minute longer, she rose from the couch, figuring on getting dressed and taking off. Then she stopped, sucked in a breath and dialed Jason.
She didnât really want to talk to him, didnât want to pursue any kind of serious conversation with him on the phone. But if she didnât call, heâd worry and start wondering why she hadnât called. And since she was already miserable, she figured another heap of guilt couldnât make any difference.
Jason should have been home from work by about then, yet his voice mail kicked in after four rings. She left a message that she was fine, hoped he was, and sheâd catch up with him soon.
All right, she told herself, that was enough trauma for one morning. Instead of driving herself crazy, she had a new plan. To visit her fatherâs old address, the whole reason sheâd come to Paris to begin with. And yeah, of course she had the whole mugger mess to work on. Her mom was faxing copies of her ID records to the consulate, then wiring money to the bank Will had suggested. But one way or another, she was going to make something positive of this day.
As she pulled on pants and walking shoes and a cream hoodie, it struck her as mighty ironic that the loss of identity was a double whammy. The mugger may have stolen her paperwork ID, but the identity sheâd really lost had nothing to do with paperwork.
Hopefully finding out something about her father would help her with that.
Willâs phone rang just as she was chasing out the door. It was Will.
âI told you Iâd check in. You havenât been mugged in the past hour, have you? No more crises? No more questions? You know where youâre going, how to get there? I left you enough money?â
It was flabbergasting. How the sound of his voice sent a sizzle straight to her nerve endings.
In one second, she was a guilt-ridden, ashamed, responsible young woman whoâd grown up on the straight and narrow.
And the next she turned into a
Kelly sank into a corner of the couch, rubbing her forehead. Her mom was on a tear. Itâd be easier for Congress to reform health care than get a word in edgewise for quite a while.
ââ¦and your Aunt Willa was talking about getting you an Oriental carpet. Wouldnât that be a fabulous wedding present? And Susanna called me again. Sheâs still scandalized that you two have already found an apartment together. I told her, get a life, what century was she living in, anywayâ¦â
By the time the call ended, Kellyâs mug was sitting cold and her stomach was kneading guilt into lumps like bread dough. Willâs face flashed into her mind. She replayed his face, their lovemaking, this crazy, wild encounter she seemed to be having.
Her lifeâher real life in South Bendâall came back at the sound of her motherâs voice.
In real life, she couldnât possibly be sleeping with a stranger. The real Kelly Rochard could never be in this apartment. Couldnât possibly have turned into a brazen, lusty, amoral hussy, much less with a stranger.
Only she had done all those things.
She wanted to look in a mirror and see if she recognized the face, because she no longer seemed to be Kelly Rochard. She wasnât sure what woman had suddenly taken up residence in her body, or where the totally responsible, serious Kelly had gone. She felt angry with herself. Ashamed. Confused.
Yet when she thought it would have been so much better if sheâd never come to Paris, never met Willâ¦
Her heart clunked as if a mountain had crushed it.
Maybe she was being terribly, terribly selfish, but she couldnât regret a single moment with Will. Couldnât give him up. Not now. Not yet.
And before she could further tangle herself up, going down that impossible emotional road a minute longer, she rose from the couch, figuring on getting dressed and taking off. Then she stopped, sucked in a breath and dialed Jason.
She didnât really want to talk to him, didnât want to pursue any kind of serious conversation with him on the phone. But if she didnât call, heâd worry and start wondering why she hadnât called. And since she was already miserable, she figured another heap of guilt couldnât make any difference.
Jason should have been home from work by about then, yet his voice mail kicked in after four rings. She left a message that she was fine, hoped he was, and sheâd catch up with him soon.
All right, she told herself, that was enough trauma for one morning. Instead of driving herself crazy, she had a new plan. To visit her fatherâs old address, the whole reason sheâd come to Paris to begin with. And yeah, of course she had the whole mugger mess to work on. Her mom was faxing copies of her ID records to the consulate, then wiring money to the bank Will had suggested. But one way or another, she was going to make something positive of this day.
As she pulled on pants and walking shoes and a cream hoodie, it struck her as mighty ironic that the loss of identity was a double whammy. The mugger may have stolen her paperwork ID, but the identity sheâd really lost had nothing to do with paperwork.
Hopefully finding out something about her father would help her with that.
Willâs phone rang just as she was chasing out the door. It was Will.
âI told you Iâd check in. You havenât been mugged in the past hour, have you? No more crises? No more questions? You know where youâre going, how to get there? I left you enough money?â
It was flabbergasting. How the sound of his voice sent a sizzle straight to her nerve endings.
In one second, she was a guilt-ridden, ashamed, responsible young woman whoâd grown up on the straight and narrow.
And the next she turned into a
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