applied a generous swipe of deodorant, used almost half a bottle of body spray, and applied a second coat of deodorant. It was going to be a very long day.
With a jaw-stretching yawn, Clara pulled on fresh underwear. She was glad she had packed a sunny yellow pencil skirt to go with her white, cap-sleeved blouse. At least she’d appear bright and chipper, even if she felt black and blue.
She dabbed concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles but, considering the lack of sleep she’d had in the past seventy-two hours, only an Arctic night would erase them. Perhaps she’d nod off on the trip home and dream a different ending to this affair, one in which Luc stayed, made love until sunrise, and fed her a buttery croissant for breakfast. He would clearly suffer at the news of her departure, barely hold himself together long enough to take her to the airport, where he would sink to his knees and declare his undying love. They would embrace a final time and plan to meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower one year to the day of their magical night. They would agree not to call or email, but every Wednesday at noon, a dozen red velvet roses would magically appear on her doorstep, accompanied by a hand-written poem, smudged by the drop of a tear. And she would know they were from Luc.
Or maybe she needed a good hard kick in the arse.
It wasn’t like she’d fallen in love.
Her feelings for Luc boiled down to simple math: two fairly attractive people plus Miami’s sultry heat multiplied by the number of times her champagne was refilled for the sum total of lust. Nothing more, nothing less.
Clara threw her toiletries into her satchel with a shake of her head. The blighter ran out so fast, he didn’t even get her last name, never mind address or phone number. Hairy Rodrigo in the fishnet shirt had more manners, to be sure. He’d have been a devoted suitor, serenading her on his mandolin, sneaking out while she slept so she’d wake up to a feast of fresh fruit and warm pastries.
Ewww.
The thought of Rodrigo’s back hair drifting into her cheese Danish was enough to snap her out of the world of fantastical men. They obviously didn’t exist in any culture.
“Lust, Clara Elizabeth Bean, should not, will not, override your good sense in the future,” she told herself. “Next time, you will remember to conduct yourself in a ladylike manner, and if you desire to succumb to your baser needs, you’ll remember to buy batteries for your vibrator!”
She shoved the outfit from the night’s rooftop soiree into her satchel, but her fingers froze on the zipper. Without thinking, she snatched the sundress out and brought it to her nose, wishing to the very marrow of her bones that she could smell evidence of Luc.
Nothing. No hint of aroma since the accident in Rome when she flipped off her scooter and cracked her head on the ancient cobblestoned street. When she regained consciousness a day later, Lydia, the emergency contact listed in her passport and who just happened to be in nearby Milan for a fashion show, was fussing over her.
Franco, the sexy Italian photographer who had talked her into getting onto the scooter without a helmet in the first place, popped in once or twice to assuage his guilt. He was, after all, the reason for her mishap.
“ Bella mia ,” he’d said. “I want to capture your beauty. Let the wind tease and toss your bee-oo-tee-ful hair!” If she’d kept her eyes on the road instead of looking at Franco, smouldering intensely behind the lens of his camera, she would have seen the gelato cart.
It took days for the swelling in her brain to go down and, though the skull fracture eventually healed, Clara was left without her critical sense of smell.
A food critic without olfactory ability was like a crippled athlete. The art of experiencing cuisine was dependant on one’s nose. With the help of Lydia, master of brilliant deception and willing to eat out a lot , and Biscuit, who turned out to be
With a jaw-stretching yawn, Clara pulled on fresh underwear. She was glad she had packed a sunny yellow pencil skirt to go with her white, cap-sleeved blouse. At least she’d appear bright and chipper, even if she felt black and blue.
She dabbed concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles but, considering the lack of sleep she’d had in the past seventy-two hours, only an Arctic night would erase them. Perhaps she’d nod off on the trip home and dream a different ending to this affair, one in which Luc stayed, made love until sunrise, and fed her a buttery croissant for breakfast. He would clearly suffer at the news of her departure, barely hold himself together long enough to take her to the airport, where he would sink to his knees and declare his undying love. They would embrace a final time and plan to meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower one year to the day of their magical night. They would agree not to call or email, but every Wednesday at noon, a dozen red velvet roses would magically appear on her doorstep, accompanied by a hand-written poem, smudged by the drop of a tear. And she would know they were from Luc.
Or maybe she needed a good hard kick in the arse.
It wasn’t like she’d fallen in love.
Her feelings for Luc boiled down to simple math: two fairly attractive people plus Miami’s sultry heat multiplied by the number of times her champagne was refilled for the sum total of lust. Nothing more, nothing less.
Clara threw her toiletries into her satchel with a shake of her head. The blighter ran out so fast, he didn’t even get her last name, never mind address or phone number. Hairy Rodrigo in the fishnet shirt had more manners, to be sure. He’d have been a devoted suitor, serenading her on his mandolin, sneaking out while she slept so she’d wake up to a feast of fresh fruit and warm pastries.
Ewww.
The thought of Rodrigo’s back hair drifting into her cheese Danish was enough to snap her out of the world of fantastical men. They obviously didn’t exist in any culture.
“Lust, Clara Elizabeth Bean, should not, will not, override your good sense in the future,” she told herself. “Next time, you will remember to conduct yourself in a ladylike manner, and if you desire to succumb to your baser needs, you’ll remember to buy batteries for your vibrator!”
She shoved the outfit from the night’s rooftop soiree into her satchel, but her fingers froze on the zipper. Without thinking, she snatched the sundress out and brought it to her nose, wishing to the very marrow of her bones that she could smell evidence of Luc.
Nothing. No hint of aroma since the accident in Rome when she flipped off her scooter and cracked her head on the ancient cobblestoned street. When she regained consciousness a day later, Lydia, the emergency contact listed in her passport and who just happened to be in nearby Milan for a fashion show, was fussing over her.
Franco, the sexy Italian photographer who had talked her into getting onto the scooter without a helmet in the first place, popped in once or twice to assuage his guilt. He was, after all, the reason for her mishap.
“ Bella mia ,” he’d said. “I want to capture your beauty. Let the wind tease and toss your bee-oo-tee-ful hair!” If she’d kept her eyes on the road instead of looking at Franco, smouldering intensely behind the lens of his camera, she would have seen the gelato cart.
It took days for the swelling in her brain to go down and, though the skull fracture eventually healed, Clara was left without her critical sense of smell.
A food critic without olfactory ability was like a crippled athlete. The art of experiencing cuisine was dependant on one’s nose. With the help of Lydia, master of brilliant deception and willing to eat out a lot , and Biscuit, who turned out to be
Similar Books
