But I don't want his family to know who I really am. I don't want anyone to know where we met.
We come to a stop in front of a gate that leads to a stunning garden. I know before he tells me that we’re here, we've arrived at his family home.
I would give anything for Savannah to see me now. This home is the stuff ofdreams.
Densely populated, Paris boasts many apartment dwellers and small homes. That doesn’t mean that palaces and private mansions haven’t lasted through the centuries.
Vibrant greenery lines the paved walkway that meanders past blooming flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and a stunning brick home that looks like a princess should be hidden somewhere in its depths.
“Oh, Fabien. This is amazing. Why did you ever leave?"
It's a rhetorical question, and I don't expect him to answer. But when a shadow crosses his face, I know I touched a nerve.
"I haven't, really. I love coming home. But sometimes I need distance from my family."
“They that crazy?"
"Doesn't everybody have a crazy uncle?" he says with a laugh. "No, it isn't just that. Yeah, we have our quirks. I just find it easier to do my job when I'm not constantly involved in every detail that happens here." He smirks. "And I like not taking women home to my mother’s house."
A foreign feeling stabs me. What the hellisthat?
Am Ijealous?
Oh, no. Nope. No way. I need to guard my heart against this. I shouldn't hate the thought of him with another woman. We're not even dating; I've been hired by him to make his life easier this weekend. Who cares if he's been with another woman or dozens or hundreds?
I try to brush it off. I force myself to sound blasé. “Well that makes sense. I wouldn't want to bring home a date to my mother’s home either, especially if we were spending the night together."
I wonder if I imagine that flash of jealousy I see in his eyes.
Wishful thinking?
My heart begins to beat a little faster.
He loves his family, but will they love me? It doesn't matter. I'm only here for a weekend. But I also don't want to spend the weekend in misery, no matter how much money I’m making.
We walk hand in hand toward the front entrance. I can see why this stunning home has been featured in magazines. The lush gardens and strategically placed wrought iron benches beckon one to sit and take a little breather. Whereas other homes may seem imposing, this one is warm and welcoming.
Before we make it to the front door, it opens and a beautiful woman who looks just like him, the same piercing eyes and strong chin somehow softened with a feminine gentleness, waves at us, as excited as a child.
"Fabien! This must be Nicolette. Welcome, welcome! We are so happy to have you."
He already told her my name?
Leaning toward me, he whispers in my ear, "Don't be so nervous. She'll love you."
What if I don't want her to? Can't we all just be polite for a few days?
"Maman, this is Nicolette. Nicolette, Avril. My mother."
She gives me such a warm embrace it almost brings tears to my eyes. God, I miss my mother.
"Your home is spectacular,” I tell her. "I could get lost in that garden."
"Fabien did when he was a little boy," she says with a smile. “And thank you."
Fabien winces. "We're still on the front step and we're already regaling her with tales of my childhood. This is not going to end well."
"Who is telling stories?"
