“Bienvenue,” said the flight attendant in her thick French accent as I entered the plane. “Where are you seated?”
I held out my ticket. “Thirty-one D.”
Her eyes popped open. “Er. One moment, please.”
I stood in the entrance, ignoring the glares of the waiting passengers behind me, including one hoity-toity woman wearing a Cartier watch who looked like she wanted to walk right over me.
A year ago? I might have let her.
“Excuse me!” she called to the attendant with an accent that marked her as extremely American. “Hello, we are trying to get on the plane! I don’t see why this woman gets special treatment while the rest of us wait!”
The flight attendant looked understandable frazzled while she consulted with one of her co-workers about my ticket.
But, along with getting a degree in culinary arts, a makeover, and a social life in Paris, I had also acquired a backbone. The shapeless skirts and frumpy sweaters had been traded for more tailored silhouettes. Glasses had been replaced with contacts that made my green eyes pop. My dark hair had been snipped to a chin-length bob, and I’d even learned how to apply a little bit of makeup.
According to Louis Bekhti, up-and-coming stylist and one of the good friends I’d made in Paris, I was the embodiment of French girl chic and needed the attitude to go with it.
I wasn’t French. And I doubted I would ever be truly chic. But whoever says beauty is skin deep hasn’t learned to draw a cat-eye and julienne carrots with equal precision.
“She’s just doing her job,” I told the Cartier woman.
“AndI’vejust been waiting forever,” the woman snapped. “These people are as slow as molasses.”
“Thesepeopleare just trying to do their job,” I said. “Va te faire cuire un oeuf?”
The number of elegant French insults related to eggs had always delighted me, but this was the first time I’d ever had the opportunity to use one for real.
I leveled the Cartier woman’s death glare with my own. She looked away first.
“I’m sorry,madame, but there has been an error with your seat.”
I turned to the flight attendant. “What’s that?”
“Another passenger was issued the same one and has already been seated. Economy is completely full.”
My jaw tightened. Maybe the universe didn’t want me back in New York. Maybe this was a sign I was supposed to stay in Paris for good.
God knew part of me wanted to.
“However,” the flight attendant continued in French with a lower voice, “we do have one seat available in first class. Come with me.”
I blinked. “Oh, um.D’accord.”
I followed her across the galley and into the first-class cabin, where she pointed to an empty row. “The window, please.”
I nodded as if it were the most normal thing in the world for someone like me to be sitting in first class. Until last year, I’d only been on a plane twice in my entire life. “Wow. Thank you.”
“No, thankyou,” she said with a grateful smile before walking back to the front of the plane.
The remaining passengers boarded while I made a few notes in the Moleskine journal where I kept recipe ideas, then took out my Kindle to begin the romance novel I’d downloaded for the trip. Normally, I was a cinnamon roll kind of gal, but lately, I’d been veering toward the Darcy types: tall, imperious watchdogs whose stoic exteriors hid a fiercely protective instincts and even bigger hearts.
Maybe it was because I’d been a watcher most of my life, but after a year on my own, I was more than ready to be seen.
What would that be like in New York?
“Seat four B, yeah, thanks. Here’s my jacket, and I’ll take a double Hendricks and tonic when you can. Or whatever your top shelf is.” There was a thump as a man landed in the seat next to me, along with a heady whiff of expensive cologne. “Well, hello, there.”
I looked up from the first page of a marriage of convenience that was not at all convenient and promptly lost all feeling in my toes.
