Read Online The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) by Alix Nichols - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alix Nichols
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alarmed by her incongruous response. Or both. But
above all, it’s just so Diane.
“I’ll
sleep over at Clotilde’s,” she adds in the same breath, as if this was somehow
related to her previous remark.
“Wow,”
I say. “I didn’t realize you two had grown so tight in just a few weeks.”
“She’s
fun.” Diane blows me a kiss. “Call me if you’d rather not be alone tonight, all
right?”
“Yes,
Mommy,” I say in a squeaky nasal voice before she pulls the door shut behind
her.
OK,
I better get cracking.
I
look around my apartment, drawing a mental list of everything that needs to be
taken care of on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Diane did the laundry and
scrubbed the bathroom yesterday. This leaves me with the dishes, cleaning the
floor, balcony gardening, grocery shopping, bills, and three sets of drawings
and specifications for potential clients.
Now
that we’re done with La Bohème and ready to begin our new project
tomorrow, it would be good to line up a few more for next year. Doing this when
I started out two years ago would’ve been pointless. No matter how thoroughly I
tried to plan things, my inexperience sabotaged my good intentions, and every
job I took on ended up needing additional funding and time.
As
the dishwasher begins to rumble, I shudder at the embarrassing memories from
that first year. And it wasn’t just me who botched things up—everyone I
hired sucked just as much as I did. Or more.
The
first electrician I worked with liked to disappear “for family reasons” at the
most critical time in the project and reappear a week or two later looking
suspiciously tanned. The plumber must have faked his license because I knew
more about pipe slopes than he did. Neither of them had any inclination toward
learning new skills, so I always had to look for additional hands for tasks
such as painting and carpentry.
I
open the French windows and step out on to my tiny balcony. This is my number
one favorite spot in the whole apartment. Because of the population density and
height limits, most Parisian balconies look into their neighbors’ interiors.
Mine is at the top of the tallest building on the block, and even though I
can’t see any landmark monuments from here, I can watch the roofs of the
buildings around me.
And,
boy, do I love watching the roofs of Paris!
It’s
a real shame that the weather makes my urban paradise unfit for use half of the
year. But today is blissfully mild, what with the Greenlandic cold wave finally
gone. This means I’m going to take a break from Game of Thrones and do
some cozy reading outside tonight. It would do me a world of good to wrap a
wool throw around my shoulders, sink into a floor cushion, eyeball the roofs,
and then lose myself in a book.
My
balcony being too small, I had to choose between plants and a table with
chairs. I went for plants, figuring I could use floor cushions in lieu of
chairs and a tray for a table. The best of both worlds. Come to think of it,
that’s what architecture is all about—reconciling function and beauty
within a given space.
I
kneel down and tend to a sturdy rosemary bush, then to a sprawling jasmine, and
finally to a sickly little olive tree. I bought them in spring, and so far they
have resisted a balcony garden’s killer duet of heat and wind.
Be
strong, my darlings. Winter is coming .
And
I should definitely stop watching Game of Thrones for a while.
OK,
next up—vacuum cleaning.
As
I maneuver the humming implement around my bed, I realize it was exactly a year
ago that a fellow architect referred René to me. Oh, the joy of finally working
with a real professional! A few weeks later, Hugo reentered my life, and the
three of us soon became a well-oiled machine. We’re so efficient at what we do
that I’ve begun to dream about the next step—evolving from a design-build
firm into a “fix and flip” developer a few years down the road.
Which
brings me face to face with the question I’ve been
above all, it’s just so Diane.
“I’ll
sleep over at Clotilde’s,” she adds in the same breath, as if this was somehow
related to her previous remark.
“Wow,”
I say. “I didn’t realize you two had grown so tight in just a few weeks.”
“She’s
fun.” Diane blows me a kiss. “Call me if you’d rather not be alone tonight, all
right?”
“Yes,
Mommy,” I say in a squeaky nasal voice before she pulls the door shut behind
her.
OK,
I better get cracking.
I
look around my apartment, drawing a mental list of everything that needs to be
taken care of on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Diane did the laundry and
scrubbed the bathroom yesterday. This leaves me with the dishes, cleaning the
floor, balcony gardening, grocery shopping, bills, and three sets of drawings
and specifications for potential clients.
Now
that we’re done with La Bohème and ready to begin our new project
tomorrow, it would be good to line up a few more for next year. Doing this when
I started out two years ago would’ve been pointless. No matter how thoroughly I
tried to plan things, my inexperience sabotaged my good intentions, and every
job I took on ended up needing additional funding and time.
As
the dishwasher begins to rumble, I shudder at the embarrassing memories from
that first year. And it wasn’t just me who botched things up—everyone I
hired sucked just as much as I did. Or more.
The
first electrician I worked with liked to disappear “for family reasons” at the
most critical time in the project and reappear a week or two later looking
suspiciously tanned. The plumber must have faked his license because I knew
more about pipe slopes than he did. Neither of them had any inclination toward
learning new skills, so I always had to look for additional hands for tasks
such as painting and carpentry.
I
open the French windows and step out on to my tiny balcony. This is my number
one favorite spot in the whole apartment. Because of the population density and
height limits, most Parisian balconies look into their neighbors’ interiors.
Mine is at the top of the tallest building on the block, and even though I
can’t see any landmark monuments from here, I can watch the roofs of the
buildings around me.
And,
boy, do I love watching the roofs of Paris!
It’s
a real shame that the weather makes my urban paradise unfit for use half of the
year. But today is blissfully mild, what with the Greenlandic cold wave finally
gone. This means I’m going to take a break from Game of Thrones and do
some cozy reading outside tonight. It would do me a world of good to wrap a
wool throw around my shoulders, sink into a floor cushion, eyeball the roofs,
and then lose myself in a book.
My
balcony being too small, I had to choose between plants and a table with
chairs. I went for plants, figuring I could use floor cushions in lieu of
chairs and a tray for a table. The best of both worlds. Come to think of it,
that’s what architecture is all about—reconciling function and beauty
within a given space.
I
kneel down and tend to a sturdy rosemary bush, then to a sprawling jasmine, and
finally to a sickly little olive tree. I bought them in spring, and so far they
have resisted a balcony garden’s killer duet of heat and wind.
Be
strong, my darlings. Winter is coming .
And
I should definitely stop watching Game of Thrones for a while.
OK,
next up—vacuum cleaning.
As
I maneuver the humming implement around my bed, I realize it was exactly a year
ago that a fellow architect referred René to me. Oh, the joy of finally working
with a real professional! A few weeks later, Hugo reentered my life, and the
three of us soon became a well-oiled machine. We’re so efficient at what we do
that I’ve begun to dream about the next step—evolving from a design-build
firm into a “fix and flip” developer a few years down the road.
Which
brings me face to face with the question I’ve been
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