Love Unrehearsed
Page 39
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“Oui. Oui. Um, parlez-vous anglais?”
“Oui. Yes. Can I help you?” Now that the language barrier was bridged, it was time to get down to business.
I tried to check the street without being obvious, pretending to glance at clothing but more worried about the unknown men who had followed me. God, when did I turn into this paranoid mess? I spent my entire life not being frightened or having to look over my shoulder, worried that some asshole with a digital camera was going to catch me doing something embarrassing. And now I was on heightened alert of my every mannerism.
Even something so naturally innocent like scratching a boob or a butt cheek could be captured as the next photo to grace a gossip magazine cover. Suddenly the thrill of finding some new Parisian designer clothing was gone and replaced by fear and suspicion.
My first time in Paris was quickly turning sour.
I wondered how different things would be if I were here with Thomas. No one would give a shit about me then.
I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing his ruggedness vividly.
My mental reprimand swooped right in behind that.
I can’t believe I allowed that thought to cross my mind! That was so not fair to Ryan.
Like he has any control over this, the voice in my head berated. My situation was still within my control, knowing that there are concessions to be made when being involved with someone as famous as Ryan. The choice comes down to either dealing with the public attention or passing up true love for anonymity.
I decided to pass up the leather jacket instead; an easy choice at eighteen hundred euro. I really didn’t need to spend that kind of money; not when I had to replace an expensive bar refrigerator. After all this time, I still couldn’t bring myself to feel comfortable using Ryan’s credit card. While most women would think nothing of spending his money, money that I didn’t earn or that we had pooled together, I could not. It went totally against the grain for me. Maybe if he were here with me I’d feel differently. It would have been something we did together. A twenty-two-hundred-dollar jacket would feel like a gift. But alone, it just felt like I was abusing his generosity.
After about an hour of meandering through the surrounding shops, and with no signs of my two unwanted friends, I headed straight back to the hotel with my meager purchases. No sooner did I reach the first in-tersection than I spied the two men I was trying to avoid spring up from seats at the outdoor café across the street.
Shit. I felt the cold sweat break out. They were able to cross in my direction; traffic was hindering me from crossing at my corner.
I stepped closer to a tall man who was dressed very Euro-chic; when he glanced down at me I smiled, hoping to attract a new, safer sort of friend. I practically jogged to keep up with his long strides, but I was determined to stay next to him. The two assholes were a few paces behind me.
Just as I started to feel relieved that the hotel was in sight, a new panic swelled. The front of the hotel was surrounded by a mob-sized crowd. Police were cordoning off the sidewalks as more people continued to gather.
I squeezed my way through the tightly packed crowd, trying to avoid the two creeps following me. When I finally made it to the end of the line, a police officer stopped me, blocking my way to the front doors.
“No, I’m a guest of the hotel. My fiancé is inside.” I tried to keep my voice down and dug into my purse. “My name is Taryn Mitchell. I am engaged to Ryan Christensen.” My admission was instantly refuted as if I had just told the biggest joke. “
Oui, mademoiselle, as are all of these women as well!”
I was incensed at being the focus of his ri-dicule. I frantically searched my tiny purse, only to realize that I never got an ID badge for the event, nor did I have my passport.
“Unless you have proof of your stay, I cannot let you enter. Back away from the gates,
s’ill vous plaît.”
I tried to plead one more time, as this situation was turning dire. Several officers gathered, obviously intrigued by my issue; however, I was quickly dismissed as some delusional fan.
The officer’s tone became harsh. “Mademoiselle, back away. Now! I will not warn you again.”
I tried calling Trish but the call immediately rolled to voice mail. I didn’t have David’s number and calling Ryan was out of the question. Panic and a low-battery light were causing my nerves to twitch.
Mike, please pick up. Why is no one answering their damn phones?
More women were gathering. The crowd was getting unruly and my two hours were just about up. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.
“Oui. Yes. Can I help you?” Now that the language barrier was bridged, it was time to get down to business.
I tried to check the street without being obvious, pretending to glance at clothing but more worried about the unknown men who had followed me. God, when did I turn into this paranoid mess? I spent my entire life not being frightened or having to look over my shoulder, worried that some asshole with a digital camera was going to catch me doing something embarrassing. And now I was on heightened alert of my every mannerism.
Even something so naturally innocent like scratching a boob or a butt cheek could be captured as the next photo to grace a gossip magazine cover. Suddenly the thrill of finding some new Parisian designer clothing was gone and replaced by fear and suspicion.
My first time in Paris was quickly turning sour.
I wondered how different things would be if I were here with Thomas. No one would give a shit about me then.
I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing his ruggedness vividly.
My mental reprimand swooped right in behind that.
I can’t believe I allowed that thought to cross my mind! That was so not fair to Ryan.
Like he has any control over this, the voice in my head berated. My situation was still within my control, knowing that there are concessions to be made when being involved with someone as famous as Ryan. The choice comes down to either dealing with the public attention or passing up true love for anonymity.
I decided to pass up the leather jacket instead; an easy choice at eighteen hundred euro. I really didn’t need to spend that kind of money; not when I had to replace an expensive bar refrigerator. After all this time, I still couldn’t bring myself to feel comfortable using Ryan’s credit card. While most women would think nothing of spending his money, money that I didn’t earn or that we had pooled together, I could not. It went totally against the grain for me. Maybe if he were here with me I’d feel differently. It would have been something we did together. A twenty-two-hundred-dollar jacket would feel like a gift. But alone, it just felt like I was abusing his generosity.
After about an hour of meandering through the surrounding shops, and with no signs of my two unwanted friends, I headed straight back to the hotel with my meager purchases. No sooner did I reach the first in-tersection than I spied the two men I was trying to avoid spring up from seats at the outdoor café across the street.
Shit. I felt the cold sweat break out. They were able to cross in my direction; traffic was hindering me from crossing at my corner.
I stepped closer to a tall man who was dressed very Euro-chic; when he glanced down at me I smiled, hoping to attract a new, safer sort of friend. I practically jogged to keep up with his long strides, but I was determined to stay next to him. The two assholes were a few paces behind me.
Just as I started to feel relieved that the hotel was in sight, a new panic swelled. The front of the hotel was surrounded by a mob-sized crowd. Police were cordoning off the sidewalks as more people continued to gather.
I squeezed my way through the tightly packed crowd, trying to avoid the two creeps following me. When I finally made it to the end of the line, a police officer stopped me, blocking my way to the front doors.
“No, I’m a guest of the hotel. My fiancé is inside.” I tried to keep my voice down and dug into my purse. “My name is Taryn Mitchell. I am engaged to Ryan Christensen.” My admission was instantly refuted as if I had just told the biggest joke. “
Oui, mademoiselle, as are all of these women as well!”
I was incensed at being the focus of his ri-dicule. I frantically searched my tiny purse, only to realize that I never got an ID badge for the event, nor did I have my passport.
“Unless you have proof of your stay, I cannot let you enter. Back away from the gates,
s’ill vous plaît.”
I tried to plead one more time, as this situation was turning dire. Several officers gathered, obviously intrigued by my issue; however, I was quickly dismissed as some delusional fan.
The officer’s tone became harsh. “Mademoiselle, back away. Now! I will not warn you again.”
I tried calling Trish but the call immediately rolled to voice mail. I didn’t have David’s number and calling Ryan was out of the question. Panic and a low-battery light were causing my nerves to twitch.
Mike, please pick up. Why is no one answering their damn phones?
More women were gathering. The crowd was getting unruly and my two hours were just about up. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.
