Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades) by Cassie-Ann L. Miller Page B

beaming. I’m so excited.
     
    I carry on singing as I glance around the room one last time to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. I’m all packed for our trip to Lucien’s hometown.
     
    I throw the bathroom door open and am in no way prepared for the sight that greets me.
     
    There’s a stunning woman sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing nothing but Lucien’s white button-down shirt and a menacing frown.
     
    “Wh-who are you?” I ask. I cling tight to the bath towel, holding my toiletries case defensively against my chest.
     
    Her eyes narrow as she stands to her feet and pads over to me, her long blond hair swaying with her movements. She towers over me, glaring at me from under her thick eyelashes.
     
    She holds up her phone, waving it in my face. In the screensaver photo, she and Lucien are standing face-to-face, foreheads touching. She’s in a white dress and there’s a glistening diamond on the ring finger of the hand cupping his cheek. “I’m Anaïs. Lucien’s wife ,” she snarls in a thick French accent. “Now, who the fuck are you?”
     

Chapter 27
     
    Julia
     
     
    Nothing can really prepare you for the moment when you first discover that you are nothing but a cheap imitation of your lover’s wife.
     
    Her hair is blond like mine but longer and thicker. Her eyes are blue like mine but deeper and more striking. Her limbs are long and elegant in a way that I immediately envy.
     
    “So, where is my husband and why are you in my house?” Anaïs growls accusatorily as she stands in front of me, her weight shifted to one elegant leg and her hand fisted on her slender hip.
     
    I try to stand tall, look her in the eye. After all, I haven’t done anything wrong here. “Lucien never mentioned you,” I say defensively.
     
    She hocks bitterly. “ Le bâtard. Le salaud ,” she mumbles under her breath.
     
    He is a bastard. Well, at least that’s something Anaïs and I can both agree on. Hey, who knows – we might have a thing or two in common.
     
    Aside from the blond hair.
     
    And the blue eyes.
     
    And the fact that we were both duped by the same handsome, lying Frenchman.
     
    “Do you fuck my husband?” she asks so angrily that I’m afraid to answer the question. Anaïs penetrates me for a moment with her angry stare before hocking venomously, spinning on her heel and heading towards the kitchenette. “ Du vin! Du vin! I need some wine!”
     
    I watch, still stunned as she rummages frenetically around in the cupboards before retrieving a wine goblet and a bottle of red wine. She busies herself opening the bottle, moving around the kitchen with a degree of choreographed familiarity, as if it’s something that she’s done so many times before.
     
    I should go. I should get dressed, grab my suitcase and go. That’s what my mind is saying, but my body remains immobilized, still in shock, still trying to process what is going on in front of me.
     
    She glances up after a while as if she had forgotten that I was still here. “ Mais pourquoi tu restes là? ” she says frowning deeply. “ Va-t’en ! Go away, stew-pid American girl,” she hurls with a dismissive flick of the wrist. She spews curse words at me and, it may be because of the speed at which the words fly out of her mouth or because of the fact that I’m still in utter shock, but my mind refuses to even attempt to understand and translate what she’s saying.
     
    I pull a steely breath, fighting back the tears burning the back of my eyes. I pull a dress from the top of my suitcase. It’s the flirty, green summer dress I was wearing the day I came back to Paris. The day I met Lucien and fucked him in the lavatory. The day I decided that, even though I was attracted to him, I didn’t want anything beyond a few illicit moments in an airplane washroom.
     
    How the fuck did I wind up here ? In Lucien’s apartment. Wrapped in a towel. Face-to-face with his wife.
     
    Fuck – I’m a silly