The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) by Alix Nichols Read Free Book Online

riveted to a plump blonde in flare jazz pants and a form-hugging top
who’s up on a podium by the mirrored wall. She fumbles with her music
equipment. Two dozen other women of various ages and shapes are scattered
throughout the available space, all staring at the blonde and waiting.
    I’m
still not entirely clear on how Jeanne and Manon managed to talk me into
joining them for their Zumba class this morning. They’ve been taking it since
September at the gym that recently opened next door.
    They
love it.
    Manon
is on a mission to lose weight so she can fit into the designer jeans she
bought on sale. Too bad because her curves are beautiful. It’s a shame they
can’t be transferred onto my scrawny frame rather than just melting away. What
a waste! Manon also claims that as a headwaiter, her appearance needs to
convey more authority. How the disappearance of love handles can increase a
person’s perceived authority is beyond me.
    But
Manon seems convinced.
    Jeanne,
with her unbelievable body, doesn’t need or want to lose any weight. But she
happens to enjoy Zumba.
    Diane,
who got up exceptionally early this morning and didn’t know what to do with
herself, is just along for the ride.
    As
for me, I’m not a huge fan of gyms and working out. Besides, losing weight is
the last thing on my mind, what with being stuck in XS since puberty. I don’t
particularly love dancing, either.
    Why
I am here, then?
    Oh
come on, Chloe, you know why —to postpone facing Hugo after last night’s mishap.
    I
spent a good part of the night replaying it in my head and asking myself
unanswerable questions. How will he react when he sees me in the morning? Can
we both manage to act like nothing happened? Will we be able to go back to how
comfortable we were around each other before?
    Can
we salvage our friendship?
    Will
he want to?
    Because
I sure as hell do.
    Now
that I might lose it, I realize just how much I cherish it. In the seven years
between my moving to Paris and Hugo’s following suit, we only saw each other a
few times when I visited Claire and Diane in Nîmes or when Hugo visited Jeanne
in Paris. We’ve messaged on Facebook sometimes, but nothing meaningful or
regular. Yet I never doubted he was still my friend. Had I been in any kind of
trouble, he would’ve jumped on the first northbound train to be by my side as
soon as he could.
    I
would’ve done the same for him.
    But
I’d never asked him to come over, not even on that “total meltdown” week five
years ago. It would’ve been too risky, considering my Midas touch.
    Ah,
the story of my life.
    The
good news is I’ve become an ace at keeping my dear ones at a big enough
distance to prevent them from caring more than necessary—and yet close
enough so they don’t give up on me.
    Because
if they do, I’ll give up on myself.
    “OK,
ladies,” our unlikely Zumba instructor says in a high-pitched, overly eager
voice. “My name’s Tiff. Let’s roll!”
    She
pauses and looks expectantly at the women in front of her.
    We
stare back.
    I
look to Jeanne for guidance.
    “She’s
subbing for our regular instructor,” Jeanne whispers. “I’m not sure what she
wants us to do.”
    Tiff
turns her profile to us, cupping her hand around her ear. “I can’t hear you.”
    Several
women shift uncomfortably and look at one another.
    “Are
you ready to roll?” Tiff calls out rally-style.
    The
response is an uncomfortable silence until someone to my left shouts, “Yes!”
    “Good!
Thank you,” Tiff yells back. “That’s what I want to hear.”
    I
turn discreetly, curious to see the kind soul who dared to express such
un-Parisian level of enthusiasm. The uncommonly upbeat citoyenne is a
stout middle-aged brunette. She sports a bright yellow, terry cloth headband
that looks like something right out of the eighties.
    The
brunette grins, looking genuinely pleased.
    Tiff
half squats, spreads her knees, moves them close together, and then draws them
apart