Read The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) for Free Online

stare at the two mounted police officers trotting down the
street.
    “Isn’t
this great?” Jeanne says. “They look so dignified, so… constable Benton
Fraser.”
    René
frowns. “Should I know him?”
    “Haven’t
you seen Due South ?” Jeanne gives him a moment to place the show and
then waves her hand. “Never mind.”
    “Their
backs are too stiff,” René says.
    Hugo
swallows another piece of sushi. “Whose backs? The riders’ or the ridees’?”
    “The
cops’.” René points at the men. “They’re uncomfortable. You can see they lack
practice.”
    “It’s
worth the effort, though,” I say. “Horses are a green means of transportation,
and Paris needs more of that.”
    René
serves himself more noodles. “Not as green as you think. Have you thought of
all the methane those horses release into Parisian air? The police should stick
to bicycles.”
    At
that point, one horse halts and drops a huge heap right in the middle of the
street.
    Jeanne
winces. “I retract my enthusiasm. Maybe they should just walk.”
    “Bicycles
don’t poop,” René says with a shrug.
    “Good
point.” Jeanne begins to pack away our empty tubs and used chopsticks. “I’ve
always admired the no-nonsense wisdom of the northern regions.”
    “Was
that a compliment?” René smirks. “Coming from a southerner, I can never be
sure.”
    “Just
because we’ve turned nonsense into an art form doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate
level-headedness,” Hugo says, coming to Jeanne’s rescue.
    I
can’t help adding my two cents. “The north,” I say as I pick up our crumpled
paper napkins, “may be France’s last bastion of common sense, but Midi will
always be its heart.”
    René
waves his hand in an I-give-up gesture while we southerners exchange triumphant
smiles.
    Only
mine fades a second later when I remember I’m not a real southerner the way
Jeanne and Hugo are.
    I
could be from the north like René, for all I know.
    Or
from another country altogether.
    Or
even from outer space, if I pursue this line of thinking to its logical
conclusion.
    At
about four in the afternoon, when the light flooding the front room is at its
warmest, I plant myself in its center and face the art gallery wall.
    I’m
on the fence about it.
    “Does
it help?” Hugo asks, stopping by my side.
    I
turn to him. “What, staring?”
    He
nods.
    “It
will, eventually.” I return my gaze to the wall. “I just need to concentrate
enough to picture each option in full detail.”
    “If
we go for gray, what shade would it be?”
    “Slate,”
I say without hesitation. “To give the place a more modern look.”
    He
crinkles his nose. “Jeanne is a traditionalist.”
    “Please.”
I cock my head. “She used to be a Goth.”
    “It
was a teenage thing—a way to say she had a personality.”
    I
narrow my eyes to show I’m not buying it.
    “When
no one’s around,” he says conspiratorially, “she listens to Celine Dion and
ABBA, and she loves hanging out with old folks.”
    “Traditionalist,
huh?” I shake my head. “Who would’ve guessed?”
    “Trust
me.”
    “So
are you saying we should just paint it white and leave it at that?”
    “How
about…” He pauses, thinking, and then points to the wall. “Slate for the bottom
half and white for the top half?”
    I
picture it in my mind’s eye. “Bottom third, not half, with molding to contrast
the two parts even more… Hmm…. It could work.”
    Hugo’s
eyes light up. “Baguette or chair rail?”
    “Chair
rail.” I give him a wink. “To satisfy Jeanne’s traditional side.”
    He
nods. “She’ll like it.”
    “It’ll
have to be spray-finished MDF so we stay within her budget.”
    “OK,”
he says all businesslike.
    I
catch a smug little smile on his face just before he takes off.
    And
then I catch myself smiling, too.
    At
six-thirty, René leaves, but Hugo and I continue working. We still have a week
to go but I’m beginning to stress. Hugo doesn’t seem stressed, but he