Read Online What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) by Alix Nichols - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alix Nichols
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final exams and thesis defense.
Next, he dialed Boris’s number.
* * *
The day was hot, way too hot for early June. Sticky heat permeated the
air, dampening people’s clothes and pasting them to their bodies. On a day like
this, only tourists ventured out midafternoon while Parisians—and Lena—stayed
indoors.
Finally, just before nine in the evening, a cool breeze arrived. Lena
opened her window and was relieved that it no longer felt like a blast from an
oven. Rush hour was over, and she could hear the sounds coming from the
sidewalk terrace: clinking of silverware against plates, quiet laughter, and
relaxed conversation. Diners filled the bistro and waiters darted between
tables, taking orders, bringing food, and opening wine bottles.
Lena grabbed her purse and ran downstairs before the last table was
occupied. She took a seat on the terrace, ordered her dish, and opened her
book. But she couldn’t concentrate on reading. The evening was extraordinarily
pleasant—or maybe her senses were unusually heightened. The aromas of
fried garlic and fresh coriander from the kitchen mixed with the citrus and
sandalwood perfumes of the diners around her. The smells intertwined happily
and played backdrop to the sweet fragrance of jasmine snatched by the breeze
from someone’s balcony. If paradise existed, this is how it would smell, she
thought.
Oddly, she also felt as though she could hear every word of every
conversation around her. People spoke ever so softly, their voices devoid of
urgency, their eyes filled with contentment to be with their loved ones. It
didn’t matter that they said the most trivial things to each other. Their words
fluttered like butterflies with the sole purpose of establishing a connection
to share the sweetness of this summer evening.
Lena’s pulse ratcheted up as she saw Rob step out onto the terrace. He
took a sip of his espresso and looked around. When he spotted her, he smiled
and made a beeline toward her.
“How do you feel about Cyril?” he asked.
“Who’s Cyril?”
“A rising star of French chanson . He’s really good.” Rob placed
two tickets on the table. “The concert is at L’Espace at eleven.”
Lena blinked several times, processing the situation.
“Jeanne gave me these an hour ago,” he said. “She got them from a friend
who’s a friend of Cyril’s.”
“Why isn’t she going herself?”
“She was supposed to go with her boyfriend, but he had a motorbike crash
this afternoon.”
“Is he OK?”
“A broken arm. Jeanne’s going to the hospital.”
Rob gave her a questioning look.
“Oh. It’s nice of you to have thought of me—” Lena began.
“It’s for a reason. Remember the song about the Eiffel Tower I massacred
the other day?”
Lena nodded.
“Cyril will sing it, and some classic pieces by Brel and Gainsbourg, in
the second part of his gig.”
How could she say no to that?
They made it to L’Espace a few minutes before the beginning of Cyril’s
act. The place was a stone’s throw from Trocadero. Bigger than a live music bar
but too small for a concert hall, L’Espace was packed with a heterogeneous
crowd that reflected Cyril’s broad fan base. Curious to see the “rising star,”
Lena stood on tiptoe and arched her neck.
“Urgh. I’m too short.” She blew out her cheeks in frustration.
Rob knitted his brows. “Come with me.”
He grabbed her hand and began to push their way through the crowd toward
the side of the room.
“There’s a bench by the wall,” he said, turning his head to Lena. “You
can stand on it.”
Even though the distance to the bench was only a couple of meters, they
progressed at a snail’s pace. Taking baby steps behind Rob, Lena wished they’d
moved even slower. She wished the room had been bigger and the crowd denser.
She wished the wall had been sliding away as they approached.
After telling her about the bench, Rob never turned back, apparently
unaware of the effect his firm grip was having
Next, he dialed Boris’s number.
* * *
The day was hot, way too hot for early June. Sticky heat permeated the
air, dampening people’s clothes and pasting them to their bodies. On a day like
this, only tourists ventured out midafternoon while Parisians—and Lena—stayed
indoors.
Finally, just before nine in the evening, a cool breeze arrived. Lena
opened her window and was relieved that it no longer felt like a blast from an
oven. Rush hour was over, and she could hear the sounds coming from the
sidewalk terrace: clinking of silverware against plates, quiet laughter, and
relaxed conversation. Diners filled the bistro and waiters darted between
tables, taking orders, bringing food, and opening wine bottles.
Lena grabbed her purse and ran downstairs before the last table was
occupied. She took a seat on the terrace, ordered her dish, and opened her
book. But she couldn’t concentrate on reading. The evening was extraordinarily
pleasant—or maybe her senses were unusually heightened. The aromas of
fried garlic and fresh coriander from the kitchen mixed with the citrus and
sandalwood perfumes of the diners around her. The smells intertwined happily
and played backdrop to the sweet fragrance of jasmine snatched by the breeze
from someone’s balcony. If paradise existed, this is how it would smell, she
thought.
Oddly, she also felt as though she could hear every word of every
conversation around her. People spoke ever so softly, their voices devoid of
urgency, their eyes filled with contentment to be with their loved ones. It
didn’t matter that they said the most trivial things to each other. Their words
fluttered like butterflies with the sole purpose of establishing a connection
to share the sweetness of this summer evening.
Lena’s pulse ratcheted up as she saw Rob step out onto the terrace. He
took a sip of his espresso and looked around. When he spotted her, he smiled
and made a beeline toward her.
“How do you feel about Cyril?” he asked.
“Who’s Cyril?”
“A rising star of French chanson . He’s really good.” Rob placed
two tickets on the table. “The concert is at L’Espace at eleven.”
Lena blinked several times, processing the situation.
“Jeanne gave me these an hour ago,” he said. “She got them from a friend
who’s a friend of Cyril’s.”
“Why isn’t she going herself?”
“She was supposed to go with her boyfriend, but he had a motorbike crash
this afternoon.”
“Is he OK?”
“A broken arm. Jeanne’s going to the hospital.”
Rob gave her a questioning look.
“Oh. It’s nice of you to have thought of me—” Lena began.
“It’s for a reason. Remember the song about the Eiffel Tower I massacred
the other day?”
Lena nodded.
“Cyril will sing it, and some classic pieces by Brel and Gainsbourg, in
the second part of his gig.”
How could she say no to that?
They made it to L’Espace a few minutes before the beginning of Cyril’s
act. The place was a stone’s throw from Trocadero. Bigger than a live music bar
but too small for a concert hall, L’Espace was packed with a heterogeneous
crowd that reflected Cyril’s broad fan base. Curious to see the “rising star,”
Lena stood on tiptoe and arched her neck.
“Urgh. I’m too short.” She blew out her cheeks in frustration.
Rob knitted his brows. “Come with me.”
He grabbed her hand and began to push their way through the crowd toward
the side of the room.
“There’s a bench by the wall,” he said, turning his head to Lena. “You
can stand on it.”
Even though the distance to the bench was only a couple of meters, they
progressed at a snail’s pace. Taking baby steps behind Rob, Lena wished they’d
moved even slower. She wished the room had been bigger and the crowd denser.
She wished the wall had been sliding away as they approached.
After telling her about the bench, Rob never turned back, apparently
unaware of the effect his firm grip was having
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