Honeymoon in Paris by Juliette Sobanet

paint. The sleek, impersonal décor didn’t fit with what I’d seen of Nicolas’ personality the day before. And with no sign of Nicolas anywhere, that meant we’d spent the night in Marcel Boucher’s Parisian bachelor pad.
    Dear God.
    Empty champagne and wineglasses littered the black coffee table, proof of our wild night—the details of which I could not remember for the life of me. Suddenly a splash of something pink and sparkly lying on the floor caught my eye. I lowered my gaze to find a lacy black thong lined with tiny pink jewels thrown carelessly next to the couch.
    Please don’t let that thong belong to any of my friends,
I begged silently.
    The freaky blood-red paintings in the living room were quickly redeemed when Marcel led me out to a beautiful balcony overlooking the River Seine. The early morning sun bathed the bustling city in a soft, orange glow, momentarily making me forget about all of the drama that had transpired since the day—and the night—before.
    Somehow Paris always had that effect on me.
    I scanned the rows of gorgeous Parisian apartment buildings across the river, watching as the green-and-white Six Train crossed the Seine on its way to Passy, one of my favorite shopping neighborhoods, and the quaint little
rue
where Luc had bought me the world’s best
pain au chocolat
the day before.
    Marcel lit a cigarette, then cleared his throat, snapping me out of my Paris haze and back to the present.
    “What did Nicolas tell you last night in the limo?” Marcel’s normally sexy jawline tightened as he blew a puff of smoke directly into my face. The charming, heartthrob actor who’d sauntered through the club last night had disappeared. Instead, standing before me was a jaded, pushy rich boy.
    “He just wanted to talk to me about Luc. He was hoping to reconnect with him, that’s all. Why do you want to know? What’s this all about?”
    Marcel took a step closer to me, the stench of alcohol and smoke on his breath making my stomach curl. “After you leave my apartment, I don’t want you to talk to my brother ever again. There’s more to our past with your husband than you will ever know, and if you want to keep your marriage intact, I suggest you stop digging and leave it alone. This is for your protection, Charlotte.
Tu comprends?
”
    A chill slithered through my body as I took a step back from Marcel. The resemblance to his sleazy father Vincent was suddenly overwhelming. “Yes, I understand. Just show me where Fiona is and we’ll get out of here.”
    “She is sleeping in my bedroom. I tried, but I could not wake her this morning. It was quite a night, you know.” With a lift of his brow and another puff of his cigarette, the shirtless Marcel left me alone on the balcony, wondering exactly
what
had happened last night—and what or
whom
I needed protection from.

    “Dude, I’m dying,” Lexi said as she pushed her gargantuan black sunglasses up her nose and plopped her forehead on my shoulder in despair. “I haven’t drunk that much since… since I can’t remember when. What even happened last night?”
    The mood on the Metro was somber as we all tried to keep our breakfasts down and wished we were about eight years younger. Passing the twenty-six mark really did reduce alcohol tolerance.
    “It’s best not to try to remember,” Fiona said, pressing her cheek up against the cool window, her eyes drawn shut.
    After Marcel’s warning on the balcony earlier, I’d discovered the normally conservative and very British Fiona curled up in a topless ball underneath Marcel’s sheets. Fiona’s black dress crumpled up in one corner of the master bedroom and her heels and bra strewn in another confirmed my fear that outrageously high champagne consumption combined with Marcel Boucher’s irresistible allure had led her astray. And I could only assume that the jewel-studded thong on display in Marcel’s living room had belonged to Fiona, although I would never have pegged her to