Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Which brings about a slew of other options. Once word had gotten out about my resignation from Caterva, I’ve had a few headhunters reach out to me. There’s been some interest from some other major corporations that have nothing to do with biotech, and I could start looking at that as a course for my future.
Regardless, today is about deciding what to do in Paris, the city I love and may be a permanent resident of soon. Shopping or eating?
My stomach growls and my heart calls out for a chocolate pastry.
My common sense just tells me to go for a walk, so I can at least have some exercise if I’m going to eat through my depression.
There’s a knock on my door that startles me since I’m still standing with my hand on the knob from letting Clyde out. I open the door so quickly the man standing on the other side is startled and actually jumps back.
I smile, and he holds out a white box tied with red ribbon to me. “Delivery for Miss Avril Carrigan.”
“That’s me,” I tell him as I accept the box. I don’t need the stamp of the logo for my favorite pastry shop on the top to know what’s inside. I can smell the chocolate croissants coming through the thin cardboard, and the warmth from the bottom of the box tells me they are fresh out of the oven.
The delivery man smiles and turns away. I shut the door and bring the box into my small kitchen, setting it on the counter.
I stare at it dubiously, figuring it’s just one more way Fabron is trying to butter me up to take the position at Révéler. We’ve had a few dinners together, another tour through the facility, and he’s had some of his executive board take me out for some wining and dining. But swear to God, he might be able to buy me off with confectionary delights.
Deciding to practice some self-control, I take a shower. I linger over my hair and makeup, deciding if I’m going to go out walking around Paris, I’m going to look good doing it. I put on a pair of black capris, a white blouse, and a zebra-print scarf around my neck. Tying my hair back into a low ponytail and adding bright red lipstick, I decide I look the part of a Parisian resident. I slip on a pair of comfortable black flats and head toward the door where my purse hangs on a wall hook beside it.
As I pass the kitchen counter, I look back at the box of pastries. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and my stomach growls loudly.
With a sigh, I give up every bit of self-control and decide to have just one. Or maybe half of one.
Torturing myself, I decide to make a cup of coffee first. This requires boiling water so I can use my coffee press, and that only makes my stomach growl harder since I’m starving for a chocolate croissant.
By the time I have the coffee pressed, poured, and adequately doped with sugar and milk, I’m practically slobbering over the box. I remove the ribbon and lift the lid.
The chocolate croissants and what look like mini-custard tarts aren’t what I notice first, but rather the square white envelope. I pull it out, figuring to find a short message from Fabron telling me to enjoy them. It will be a low-pressure sales pitch. I set the card on the counter and reach for a pastry.
I make myself eat it slowly, picking up bits of crust that flake off and licking my fingers to catch drips of chocolate. I sip at my coffee in between bites, making myself enjoy the slow pace by which I’m enjoying my breakfast. My life has always been in such a frantic rush, having a million things to do and not enough time to do it in. It’s hard not to just wolf it down and run out the door.
When I finish, I close the box up. I rinse my cup out and wash my hands. Strolling back to my room, I take a few minutes to brush my teeth again and reapply lipstick.
Heading back toward the door for a second time, I snag the envelope from the counter and open it. There’s a card inside that’s plain on the front. When I open it up, my heart immediately starts pounding as I recognize the handwriting.
I’m here. I’ll be waiting at the cafe where we first held hands.
Dane
I try to suck in air, but my lungs won’t work. I stumble a few feet back, coming up against one of the armchairs in my living room. Pressing the card to my chest, I stare blankly at my door.
Dane is here?
For me?
What does that even mean?
I pull the card away and read it again. I can glean nothing from the two lines he’d written. How did he even know I’d be home on a Wednesday morning and what my favorite pastry shop was? Although knowing Dane and his headstrong ways, he probably called up Fabron and demanded to know if I’d taken the job and then probably used his considerable resources and money to hack my credit card, which would show an embarrassing amount of purchases at Milo Couvreur Pâtisserie.