Sandrine spotted me immediately and ran over to me with open arms. We exchanged a typically French double cheek embrace.
“Ça va?” she asked.
“Ça va bien.” I replied. Merci beaucoup for helping me with Madame Paulette’s burial.
“Pas de problème. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Like many Europeans, Sandrine spoke perfect English though she liked to throw in a little French. I, in turn, could conduct a conversation with her in French, thanks to Madame Paulette’s tutelage.
Sandrine was one of my favorite and most respected store managers. She was bright, organized, and always one step ahead. She ran the store with both a smile and an iron fist. Recently, at the age of thirty-two, she had become engaged to a successful and handsome doctor.
“Do you have a little time? I’d love to take you out for a drink to thank you for helping me and to celebrate your engagement.”
“For you, I always have zee time,” she said brightly.
We ended up going to a lively café that was a few doors down from the store. Over champagne, we caught up on business and then moved on to personal stuff. She was getting married in April—it was going to be a big Jewish wedding at her family’s country home in Provence.
“My maman eez driving me crazy!” she sighed. “Everything she loves, I detest. Can you imagine… she wants jars of butterflies on every table that zee guests will set free after we say our vows!”
I laughed lightly. “At least you have a mother who cares about you,” I countered. A wistful expression fell over me. Sandrine was one of the few people, other than Kevin and Madame Paulette, who knew about my crack whore mother.
She twitched a guilty smile. “You’re right. She means well.” She sipped her champagne. “I hope you will come.”
I let her know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A big smile spread across her face.
“What about you, Gloria? Eez there anyone new in your life?”
Blushing, I shook my head and said, “Not really.”
“Gloria, I don’t believe you. Your face gives eet away. Spill zee beans as you Americans say.”
Draining my champagne, I broke down and told her all about Jaime—including the complications with Victor and Vivien, who she openly despised.
“Mon dieu! This eez heavy. But I would have given my tongue to zee cat to see Vivien’s expression when she saw you and Jaime kissing at zee restaurant. La putain!”
I couldn’t stop laughing. She’d just called Vivien a whore! Like Kevin, Sandrine could be so brutally honest. And a bit wicked. That’s why I adored her.
“So what does Monsieur Zahn-deur look like?”
The way she breathily said his name with her French accent sent me over the moon. I described Jaime to her, from head to foot, as if we were a painting in The Louvre. The words came so easy. In my mind, he was a work of art.
“He sounds like a hottie!”
I giggled. Usually the word “hottie” made me cringe, but the way she said it—HAH-tee—was charming. My cheeks heated.
My delightful French friend and colleague took a sip of her champagne. “Gloria, are you in love with him?”
“I’ve only known him for a week.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
A loud sigh escaped my lungs.
“Ah, Gloria, you are! You are! Mazel tov!”
I remembered Madame Paulette once telling me that sometimes l’amour slinks up to you like a cat; other times it attacks you like a lion. Jaime Zander was a sexy beast who had all but consumed me. I could no longer deny my feelings. Yes, I was hopelessly, helplessly head over heals in love with him.
My heart began to roar at the very thought of him touching me. Longing and lust surged through my body. I grasped my friend’s French manicured hand and murmured, “Sandrine, what should I do?”
“It eez simple. Don’t let him go.”
I smiled back. It never ceased to amaze me how wise French women were.
“But don’t tell him you love him until he tells eet to you.” More words of wisdom.
The check came. As we hugged good-bye, my sage friend whispered into my ear, “I’ll see the future Monsieur and Madame Zahn-deur at my wedding.”
When I got back to our hotel room, three dozen long-stemmed red roses, arranged in three tall crystal vases, awaited me. My heart melted. Mr. Zander was true to his word and a romantic.
I dipped my nose into one of the bouquets and inhaled deeply. The scent was divine. Intoxicating just like him.
“Hey.”
At the sound of his voice, I straightened up and caught sight of him stepping out of the bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes zeroed in on the deep “V” that emanated from it and then traveled up over his washboard abs and toned pecs. My gaze met his, and my breathing hitched.