Deceived - Part 2 Paris (3 page)

Fuck me!

No - fuck him!! 

I fucking quit!!!

I was so ramped up I could barely breath. I tore a sheet of copy paper out of the printer and scratched out a short letter.

Dear Mr. Collins:

I hereby formally give my resignation effective immediately on this 12th day, of the sixth month, of the year 2012.

Go fuck yourself!

Sincerely,

Chloe Swanson

I left the letter, square in the center of his desk, so he would see it first thing upon his return to the office. I stopped by my desk only long enough to grab my purse from the drawer and blazed a trail for home, hissing mad like a boiling teakettle.

***

The day had broken humid and overcast when I turned aside from my disconnected cell phone and finally climbed out of bed. Two days had passed and I was still in my pajamas with a tail drooping discouragement. I didn’t belong to myself, I was out of myself. I drifted on from this to a vision of my life, a bleak wasteland, devoid of human relationships of the most profound kind, deficient in the one thing that every man and woman strives for in the universe... love.
In striving for a love relationsh
ip, we all seek to find the Holy Grail, to find a connection that reunites us with the universe
so that we no longer feel separate, but whole again.

As bad as it was, I finally decided the pity party was over and I switched my cell phone back on after two days of blocking myself from the
world. I had needed that time to think. I had to reassess my direction in life, start scouring the websites for job postings. Maybe New York wasn’t the place for me
after all. I padded out to the kitchen to wrap my hands around a cup of coffee, one of life’s guiltless pleasures, when my cell went off.
 Humph. Probably Elyse. She’s gonna kill me for not answering her
for two days
.

I was surprised to see Ryan’s name glowing on the screen.

“Hey Ryan. What’s up?”

“Chloe, where have you been?  Everyone is worried sick about you. Did you lose your phone or what?”

“Ah, well, about that.... I had my phone turned off.”

“Elyse called me worried about you. She told me that you quit. What the hell happened? Why would you quit a job in this economy, don’t you know how hard it is for people to get jobs? Sorry for the rapid fire questions but...”

“I can’t face Patrick again. There is no way I can continue working for him after everything that’s happened. However, I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be okay and I’m ready to move on with my life. In fact, I’m starting a job search today.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear,” he sighed with relief. “You better give Elyse a hollar as soon as we’re done talking though,” he chastised me. “So, a job search, eh? Parlez-vous francais? ”

Did he just ask me if I spoke French?
I hadn’t used French since I took classes in college to fulfill my foreign language requirement.

“Oui, Monsieur Barrick,” I replied. “Pourquoi ne demandez-vous?’  I said. Yes, I did speak French, lying slightly since I
really only remembered a few phrases.

“Listen, I have a proposition for you. Since you are out of work at the moment and I am opening a new gallery in Paris in a few weeks, I was wondering if you would like to come with me as my personal assistant there and help me get it off the ground. You know, help me set up the opening. But of course, it would only be for a month or two, and we would have to leave soon...  like
this
Friday soon.”

Oh my fucking God, are you kidding me
?

“You better not be fucking with me Ryan, cause I’m gonna come over and kick your ass if you are! I’ve always wanted to go to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre,” I answered eagerly over my beating heart. I was literally jumping up and down screeching into the phone.

“Well, I thought you could use a break from the craziness of the last few weeks. Besides, I could really use your help,” he admitted, chuckling in a hearty voice.

“But what about your assistant Louis? Why wouldn’t you bring him instead of me
?”

“Somebody has to stay in New York and take care of business at the galleries here,” he pointed out.
“Ryan, you are awesome! I’m your
guy,
I
mean, girl for the job. Count me in.”

I threw down my phone, spun around in a circle, feeling buoyant, floating on air, after learning of all the upcoming events that would set my new life in motion.  

“Welcome to Air France,” the smiling blond flight attendant said with a cute French accent, extending her arm guiding me to the left. As I inched my way down the cabin aisle past her, I tried not to bump my carry-on bag into her sharply dressed figure.

Friday had finally arrived. The last couple of days had been a whirlwind trying to pack for my trip with Ryan to Paris. I always had a hard time consolidating all my clothes into the limited amount of luggage allowed. It baffled me how some people could do the, “I’m only bringing a carry-on bag”, thing to avoid going t
hrough baggage claim. I had laden myself with bags, jacket, scarf, purse and anything else I could manage to hang on my body, in an attempt to use it like a pack mule, and extend my “allowable luggage” to include my body itself.

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me...” I apologized my way down the first class cabin craning my neck to find my seat number.

“Chloe, we sit over here to the left,“ Ryan said. “I’ll be up front and your seat is a little farther back,” he said pointing with his chin.

Ryan had booked his ticket weeks ago and fortunately, he managed to get me a seat on the same flight, however we were not
seated next to each other. That didn’t matter though, I was ecstatic. Ryan had generously booked us in First Class. Not only had I never been to Europe, I had never flown First Class before. Who knew what other “
firsts
” I would encounter on this trip?
I felt like my cocoon days were over and I finally morphed into a butterfly...well maybe not a butterfly, but I was ready to be adventurous and try new experiences. I guess I had found the remedy to help me get over Patrick. This trip to Paris was the magic potion I needed.

“Sure Ryan,” I said as I clunked past the restroom, my gaudy oversized tote bag obnoxiously scratching the wall.

“They’ll take good care of you here. Be sure to reserve the complementary neck massage and by the way, all the drinks and meals are free but go easy on the champagne, he jokingly warned. “I don’t want to have to carry you and all your crazy bags off the plane.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll behave on the flight but I can’t promise anything after that,” I replied with one eyebrow raised.

I had to pinch myself and give a mental "woo-hoo" as I turned to search for my seat number. Finally, I spotted my seat completely in the back, the last row of First Class
and someone was already sitting in the seat next to mine, hunched over, arranging a bag or something. I groaned to myself, hoping it would not be an oversized old guy with bad teeth and greasy hair, who would want to talk my ear off the entire flight. As I approached my row, the huddled figure in the seat looked up and my eyes were met by a pair of dark deep set eyes, framed in a very handsome square face. He pushed back a few strands of long dark hair that fell out of place as he got up and my eyes froze on his powerful chest and shoulders.

Jackpot! Well, hello
there.

Failing miserably in an
attempt to be nonchalant, I literally choked out my words. “I, I,
think this is my seat,” I rasped out in a freakishly high hoarse voice due to the moisture stuck in my throat, pointing at the seat next to him.

“No problem.” He graciously moved aside allowing passage.

Making a fool of myself like a clumsy circus clown, I nearly collided with his taut body and I blundered my way to my seat.

As he was leaning his torso back to avoid getting sucker punched by my tote bag, he mockingly said, “Ha, I thought weapons weren’t allowed on planes.”

My blood flashed red in my cheeks as I fumbled with my gear, stowing the largest part in the overhead bin but keeping all the important sundries nearby.

“Sorry, I’m an over packer, seriously luggage challenged. I never have enough,” I mumbled in a feeble attempt at humor between my intermittent glances to check him out.

He stood at the seat next to me and watched as I was settling in, his dark eyes were riveting, boldly assessing my every move. Each time I looked up from my shuffling, I noticed he was watching me intently. His perusal of me added to my feeling of self-consciousness and something intense flared through our interaction.
He was hot
...
Extremely hot!

My stolen “peeks” revealed a skin tight T-shirt that hugged his body. The muscles rippling under his shirt quickened my pulse, tempting my hands to reach out and stroke his well-built physique. His firm biceps bulged out from the short sleeve of his shirt, pushing the sleeve up just a little to accommodate the girth of his upper arm, the tip of a tribal tattoo escaping. My nerves were beginning to show in my sweaty palms.

I also discerned that he was tall, about six feet - two, just the right height for me. His hair was trimmed in the back but long on top so that when it became unruly, wavy strands fell forward. He ran his hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to restrain the unruly locks. The gesture was unnerving. Each time he made it, the motion drew my attention to the muscle on his upper arm as it flexed, when pushing his hair back into place.
This guy was more than hot! He was sexy as hell!
 

Scooching past him to finally take my seat, I avoided eye contact, for fear of revealing the lust in my eyes, or maybe the drool on my chin. He was young, early twenties, gorgeous and sooo fresh. My will power waved goodbye and much like Elvis Presley, left the building.

As the stewardess’s went through all the standard procedures preparing to take off, I powered off my cell phone, vigilantly aware of the hunky guy next to me, oozing copious amounts of invisible pheromones for the reptilian part of my brain to process. Humans have a lower part of the brain that reacts involuntarily, often referred to as the reptilian brain, which handles functions we don’t have to think about like breathing. Mine was
gladly working overtime and got harder to keep under control.
Damn those chemical substances!

“
So, first time going to
Paris?” He prodded for more info. “You are going there for a model shoot, or something, right?  I mean, you look like a model.”