Midnight in Montmartre: A French Kiss Sweet Romance Read Online Free Page B
Author: Chloe Emile
carpeting. On the third floor, she pushed through the door marked with the company's logo.
The receptionist looked stern. She was talking on the phone, and when her eyes met Mia’s, her frown lines got deeper. Even the twisted curls of her blond hair looked hostile.
" Bonjour, " Mia said when the receptionist got off the phone. " Je m'appelle Mia —”
Her stilted French was interrupted by rapid-fire French. The sharp words seemed to graze her like bullets.
"You're speaking too fast for me," Mia said. "My French is not very good. Do you speak English?"
Another mad gust of French followed. When Mia signaled that she didn't understand, the receptionist pointed to a door the way a general might point to a target.
Mia obliged. Maybe she could find someone in there who spoke English. Why hadn’t she taken French at university instead of German? She had heard about the infamous French cold shoulder, but surely not everybody in the city would be this impatient.
She opened the door to what looked like a waiting room. Two women, both brunettes, looking as serious as the receptionist, didn't seem pleased at her entrance. One of them gave her an unimpressed once-over.
" Bonjour ." Mia smiled brightly.
The other woman looked down at Mia's boots and rolled her eyes in response.
Mia looked down at them. There was nothing wrong with her boots. They were even designer. Discounted from Marshall's, sure, but designer nonetheless.
Mia had no choice but to sit across from them. Their frostiness could have frozen water into ice in that room.
Still, Mia believed that cold people were just itching to warm up. That was what her mother had always told her, and Mia always felt there was plenty of truth in that statement. The problem was, some people were colder than others.
The women kept sneaking glances at her boots. One of them, the more slender of the two, with small black eyes and a pinched nose, even whispered a few French syllables to the other woman. Mia looked at her boots again. They had a sixties vibe with the chunky heels, and the toes were a bit scuffed, but they were comfortable.
The French girls wore pearls, tasteful blazers, and pencil skirts, with stockings and three-inch heels. Did the people here wear uniforms, too? Mia wouldn't have been surprised.
How long did she have to wait exactly? The receptionist hadn’t even known what Mia was here for before sending her in. She doubted the other women would want to help her translate, if they even spoke English. Mia decided to try anyway. What were humiliation and rejection when she had a sister to find?
Mia cleared her throat to get their attention. "Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous—”
"English!" It was the receptionist again. She barged in, pointed at Mia, then attempted to speak in English. "You. Go here. Please."
"Oh." Mia didn't know what was happening but decided to obey and go into the other room. At least the receptionist had said please .
"He speak English," the receptionist added.
"Okay." Mia cheered up. Finally, someone who would understand her. She could get things sorted out in no time.
The two women looked peeved that she was going ahead of them, but it wasn't as if it was her fault. Mia smiled and shrugged her shoulders at them, but they only responded with more of their icy glares.
They hated her. But she couldn't take it personally. They didn't know her. If they did and they still hated her, Mia would find that to be a problem.
She gave them a little wave before heading to the door the receptionist had pointed to.
When Mia walked into the pristine office, she saw him sitting at the desk in an impeccably tailored navy suit.
Luc Deneuve. The handsome stranger from last night.
Chapter 4
L uc nearly spat out his coffee when Mia appeared at the door. She was the last person in the world he expected to see at the office that morning. At first he thought he was imagining things. After all, he had thought about her all night and all morning, and he was
The receptionist looked stern. She was talking on the phone, and when her eyes met Mia’s, her frown lines got deeper. Even the twisted curls of her blond hair looked hostile.
" Bonjour, " Mia said when the receptionist got off the phone. " Je m'appelle Mia —”
Her stilted French was interrupted by rapid-fire French. The sharp words seemed to graze her like bullets.
"You're speaking too fast for me," Mia said. "My French is not very good. Do you speak English?"
Another mad gust of French followed. When Mia signaled that she didn't understand, the receptionist pointed to a door the way a general might point to a target.
Mia obliged. Maybe she could find someone in there who spoke English. Why hadn’t she taken French at university instead of German? She had heard about the infamous French cold shoulder, but surely not everybody in the city would be this impatient.
She opened the door to what looked like a waiting room. Two women, both brunettes, looking as serious as the receptionist, didn't seem pleased at her entrance. One of them gave her an unimpressed once-over.
" Bonjour ." Mia smiled brightly.
The other woman looked down at Mia's boots and rolled her eyes in response.
Mia looked down at them. There was nothing wrong with her boots. They were even designer. Discounted from Marshall's, sure, but designer nonetheless.
Mia had no choice but to sit across from them. Their frostiness could have frozen water into ice in that room.
Still, Mia believed that cold people were just itching to warm up. That was what her mother had always told her, and Mia always felt there was plenty of truth in that statement. The problem was, some people were colder than others.
The women kept sneaking glances at her boots. One of them, the more slender of the two, with small black eyes and a pinched nose, even whispered a few French syllables to the other woman. Mia looked at her boots again. They had a sixties vibe with the chunky heels, and the toes were a bit scuffed, but they were comfortable.
The French girls wore pearls, tasteful blazers, and pencil skirts, with stockings and three-inch heels. Did the people here wear uniforms, too? Mia wouldn't have been surprised.
How long did she have to wait exactly? The receptionist hadn’t even known what Mia was here for before sending her in. She doubted the other women would want to help her translate, if they even spoke English. Mia decided to try anyway. What were humiliation and rejection when she had a sister to find?
Mia cleared her throat to get their attention. "Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous—”
"English!" It was the receptionist again. She barged in, pointed at Mia, then attempted to speak in English. "You. Go here. Please."
"Oh." Mia didn't know what was happening but decided to obey and go into the other room. At least the receptionist had said please .
"He speak English," the receptionist added.
"Okay." Mia cheered up. Finally, someone who would understand her. She could get things sorted out in no time.
The two women looked peeved that she was going ahead of them, but it wasn't as if it was her fault. Mia smiled and shrugged her shoulders at them, but they only responded with more of their icy glares.
They hated her. But she couldn't take it personally. They didn't know her. If they did and they still hated her, Mia would find that to be a problem.
She gave them a little wave before heading to the door the receptionist had pointed to.
When Mia walked into the pristine office, she saw him sitting at the desk in an impeccably tailored navy suit.
Luc Deneuve. The handsome stranger from last night.
Chapter 4
L uc nearly spat out his coffee when Mia appeared at the door. She was the last person in the world he expected to see at the office that morning. At first he thought he was imagining things. After all, he had thought about her all night and all morning, and he was
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