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

how you
take your coffee in Paris—or anywhere in France, for that
matter—but that’s how I like it. And Jeanne is kind enough to humor me.
    I
prop my elbows on the antique countertop that I’ve cleaned, waxed, and covered
with two layers of plastic film.
    “Please,
can I peel this off?” Jeanne tries to make a hole in the plastic with her nail.
    I
point at the offending finger. “Hands off my counter.”
    She
arches an eyebrow at me. “ Your counter?”
    “Yes,
sweetheart, my counter. As long as this bistro is under renovation,
everything here is mine, including the walls, the floor, and this magnificent
bar.”
    “I
see.”
    “So
the plastic stays.” I arch an eyebrow of my own, mimicking Jeanne’s expression.
“Am I being clear?”
    Jeanne
throws her hands up and turns toward the coffee machine. “Bossy pants.”
    Alcinda,
the concierge with the yellow headband, is next to get her fragrant cup. She
closes her eyes and smells her espresso before taking a tiny sip. “Ah, the bliss.
I wish I could make this cup last forever.”
    “Don’t
worry, honey,” Jeanne gives her a wink. “I’ll make you another.”
    “That’s
very kind of you, but I need to head home as soon as I finish this to check on
my husband.”
    “Is
he sick?” I ask.
    Alcinda
lets out a heavy breath.
    “He
believes he’s being tailed by tax inspectors,” her friend says.
    Alcinda
nods with another sigh. “It’s because he spent some time with aliens last year
when I was visiting my mom in Portugal.”
    “I
don’t see the connection,” Manon says.
    “It’s
elementary, Watson,” a familiar voice says from behind me.
    Hugo .
    I
spin around on my barstool and stare at him.
    “Morning,”
he says before turning back to Manon. “Everyone knows there are illegal aliens
on Earth. Everyone knows they have no intention of returning to their
inhospitable home planets.”
    The
corners of Manon’s mouth begin to twitch. “So?”
    “So,
if they’re staying, they should pay taxes.” Hugo leans on the counter. “The
problem is they’re hard to locate. So tax inspectors follow Alcinda’s husband
in the hopes he may lead them to the aliens.”
    “That’s
exactly what he claims,” Alcinda says with a smile, and then she narrows her
eyes at Hugo. “Are you paranoid, too?”
    “No,
I’m not,” he says before pointing at Jeanne and then at me. “But my sister and
my boss might disagree.”
    I
take in his mischievous smile, and my whole body sags with relief.
    “I
can certify,” I say pointing at Hugo, “that this man doesn’t have a persecution
complex.”
    I
nearly add that if anyone is paranoid around here, it’s me because I’ve been
catching sight of my ex-lover in random places over the last few weeks.
    But
I bite my tongue.
    Some
confessions are better kept for a shrink.
    “Too
bad,” Alcinda says with exaggerated disappointment in her voice.
    I
turn to her and realize I’d been looking at Hugo—not her—the whole
time. My apprehension goes away. He clearly wants us to move on, to continue
the way we’d been before last night.
    And
it’s working.
    I
want to hug him for making this so easy.
    “Thank
you for the coffee,” Alcinda says to Jeanne as she climbs down from her
barstool.
    Jeanne
gives her a toothy smile. “My pleasure.”
    Alcinda
pushes a handful of coins across the counter toward Jeanne, who pushes them
back. They continue at it for a few more passes, pressing hard against the
protective film.
    “My
counter!” I growl as I snatch the coins and hand them to Manon, who drops them
in the drawer of the cash register.
    Alcinda
and her friend leave while the rest of us finish our coffee and chat about this
and that. Jeanne announces her plan to throw a wine tasting party for her and
Mat’s friends once the bistro reopens. It’ll be an occasion for her to
celebrate the renovation and for Mat to nurture his relationships with his
Parisian supporters.
    “Do
they matter for local elections?” I