Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Escape to Paris with a BRAND NEW feel-good romance

Sacha stepped gingerly forward, testing his legs. There didn’t seem to be any broken bones. His shoulder throbbed, but even that pain was subsiding now.

He inspected the wreck of his bike with an enormous sigh, propping his hands on his hips. The stranger – the woman with the warm hands and expensive shoes – followed him, but he threw out his good arm to stop her. The area was littered with glass shards – not many, because of the high-quality safety glass, but enough for him to realise his helmet had saved him a serious injury.

He glanced back to see her still clutching the bundle of notes. ‘Put the money away,’ he said through his teeth, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

One moment, he’d been pedalling furiously along the Boulevard de Magenta and the next, he’d bounced off his own handlebars and was headed for the concrete – after smashing the woman’s window with his head.

If that wasn’t surreal enough, he’d then opened his eyes to find this woman – blurred and soft around the edges – filling his vision. Her voice, speaking the plum sort of English that was easy to understand, had soothed his adrenaline-induced shock.

With the weak sun behind her and his thoughts scattered, he’d had to ask himself if he was imagining her. His mind was clear, now, but she still looked dreamlike, with her red hair – the kind that wasn’t really red, but bright orange – her pale face and subdued features, not to mention her stiff posture and tailored clothing.

Then there were her eyes… brown eyes, the colour of caramel syrup, bright and clear.

‘Stay back, Mademoiselle Ren,’ the driver called, hurrying over. Had the man said ‘reine’? A queen? Sacha was quite confused, which he sincerely hoped wasn’t because of the knock to his head.

But that was enough daydreaming. He had somewhere to be and no way to get there, now his bike had been reduced to twisted metal.

Sacha turned to the driver. ‘Pourriez-vous m’aider?’ he asked, gesturing to the boxes that were blocking the cycle path and spilling into the bus lane.

‘Je m’en occupe.’ The driver assured him he would take care of it and reached for a package. But, instead of piling them up on the footpath, as Sacha had intended, he opened the luggage compartment of the car and dropped the first ones in.

‘Non, non, non!’ Sacha cried, grasping his shoulder when the pain shot down his arm again.

‘You’re hurt!’ With a gentle grip on his arm, the woman turned him back to her. ‘We need to get this treated. Let Bilel drive you wherever you need to go – after we’ve taken you to the hospital.’

‘I can call a friend,’ he insisted. ‘You don’t need to worry.’ He needed to get in touch with Joseph anyway, even though his friend would likely fuss just as much as this stranger.

‘You can’t tell me not to worry when I’ve just caused an accident! Come and sit in the car.’ She tugged on his good arm.

‘I can take him to the hospital, mademoiselle,’ the driver spoke up. ‘You might still catch your train.’

‘No, I’m not leaving until I know he’s going to be okay.’ Her words brought a tingle to the back of Sacha’s neck, but he ignored it. It was probably nerve damage from the wrench to his shoulder.

‘I will take him,’ the driver insisted. ‘What would your grandmother say?’

‘Go catch your train,’ Sacha urged. ‘I’ll let your driver take me to hospital. Je vous promets.’ Those eyes… The way she looked at him with her heart in her eyes prompted so many questions he’d never know the answer to. ‘Je vous en prie. Allez-y.’

‘I am coming to the hospital with you.’

The driver Bilel clucked his tongue, but he didn’t protest any more, he simply snagged another box. Before he got to the car, the sodden flaps underneath gave way, sending the contents onto the road with a clang.

Sacha lurched to catch what he could, narrowly avoiding a collision with the woman as she did the same. She retrieved a silver snuff box and a bronze coffee pot, inspecting the objects with interest and glancing doubtfully at him. He ignored her look and plucked the items out of her grip, not daring to check for damage. It was none of her business why he was transporting small antiques. She’d already misjudged him once. Another time wouldn’t make any difference.

Sacha picked up another box himself, willing away the pain in his shoulder. He didn’t have time for it, not with Joseph’s Christmas nonsense next weekend, on top of the usual pressures of life and work.

He got as far as the tail-light of the Mercedes before Bilel took the box from him. The luggage compartment was full, with his boxes and a large patterned suitcase that matched the woman’s expensive shoes and even more expensive manners.

Next Sacha fetched his bike, grimacing at the damage as he hauled it off the cycle path. The trailer was a piece of shit he never bothered to lock and no one bothered to steal. He chained up the bike with a fleeting worry that it would be taken it away as rubbish, but this was Paris, after all, and the council would never be so efficient. He’d need a new front wheel, but he could probably repair the rest himself. The damage to her car door was more serious.

Bilel produced a brush and cleared the shards of glass from the back seat of the car, right where the woman must have been sitting. Sacha frowned and turned to her.

‘Et vous alors, ça va? Are you all right… madame?’

‘Ren,’ she corrected him quickly. ‘Irena, really, but call me Ren. Not madame.’ So, not ‘reine’ after all. ‘But I’m fine.’ As though only now realising his meaning, she glanced at her hands and patted her damp head.

A fragment of glass was trapped in her hair, winking in the light of the streetlamp. ‘Here,’ he said, gently retrieving the shard. It wasn’t sharp, but it snagged in her hair, making her chignon even more of a mess.

She smiled at him in thanks. ‘And you are?’ …staring at the pretty woman like a tongue-tied imbecile.

He looked away quickly, clearing his throat. ‘Sacha,’ he said curtly. He noticed something on the road near the front wheel and bent to retrieve it, grimacing when he saw it was a phone. The screen was smashed and there was a large crack in the casing.

He held it out. ‘Yours?’

She grabbed for it. ‘Crap!’ she muttered when it wouldn’t turn on.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s just… been a bad day.’

‘You must sit in the front, mademoiselle. I will tape the window for now. The hospital is not far,’ Bilel interrupted.

‘If Sacha is injured, he should take the front seat,’ she insisted. Bilel clucked his disapproval once more, but didn’t argue. He merely gave Sacha a long look and ushered Ren protectively around the car to the other side.

The driver’s wariness made Sacha try one more time. ‘Why don’t we go to the Gare du Nord first and then to the hospital? The station is not far.’

‘What if you have a head injury? The symptoms don’t always appear right away. I can take a later train, but I won’t forgive myself if…’ She gestured helplessly and Sacha nodded with a sigh. So much for a busy evening in Joseph’s workshop.

The hospital was the usual mix of endless corridors and confusing signage, even more overwhelming in French, but Ren had a surprisingly clear head. There was nothing she could do to stop the fallout from her suddenly public break-up with Charlie, but she could make up for her stupidity in injuring a stranger.

A stranger called Sacha. If she’d thought the name Sacha was feminine before, she never would again. It was difficult not to notice his broad shoulders and tough body language. He was wiry, rather than muscular, and not particularly tall. There was a competence about his movements – an efficiency and lack of elegance that appealed to her. And her eyes continually strayed to the tattoo on his neck.

‘Do you have a headache?’ she asked as they took their seats in the waiting area.

‘No,’ he replied. She helped him tug his jacket gingerly over his shoulder. His rough woollen pullover was thankfully dry, unlike her cardigan, lying in a sodden heap in the back of the car. She’d shrugged into another one before rushing into the hospital, but her hair was still damp. Perhaps she should have taken the time to find her coat.

‘I think you were unconscious for a few minutes, but I didn’t watch the time,’ she said.

‘It will be okay.’

She glanced up, realising she’d been clasping her hands into tight fists, and he spoke with a gentle tone, as though she was the patient. ‘My bad day seems to have spread to you.’

‘Un malheur n’arrive jamais seul,’ he said softly. Ren repeated the words back under her breath, trying to translate what he’d said. ‘A bad luck doesn’t never arrive alone,’ he supplied.

His poor translation, combined with the utter earnestness of his expression, made her smile. She wanted to write it down to remember it later, but that would seem strange. ‘“When it rains, it pours,” we say in English.’

‘Ah, we say that, too. A more appropriate saying for the weather today.’ He fell silent again and they both stared blindly at the public health posters about hand hygiene and alcohol consumption. ‘You are going to London?’ he asked.

She nodded, trying not to think of everything she had to face when she got home. ‘I was only in Paris for a few days on business.’ She hoped he wouldn’t ask what business. It would be difficult to explain that visiting the boutiques on the Place Vendôme was part of her job.

‘I’m sorry Paris could not solve your problems.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t realise Paris was a therapist.’

‘A therapist, a poet, an artist and a clown – that’s Paris. Which do you need?’

‘All of them,’ she said. ‘Most of all, I need a miracle worker.’

‘Ah, well, perhaps you are in the right place after all,’ he said lightly. ‘You’ve heard of the cour des miracles? Les Misérables? Or The Hunchback of Notre Dame?’

‘The gypsy hideout? I only know the Disney version.’

He couldn’t quite conceal his grimace. ‘It’s… not quite the intention of Victor Hugo’s tragedy.’ He pronounced it ‘Victor Oo-go’, which Ren found utterly charming.

‘No? Well, I don’t like tragedies, so I apologise to your friend Monsieur “Oo-go” if I give his book a miss.’

‘You don’t appreciate the romance of the hunchback dying out of love?’

‘Is that what happens?’ She shuddered. ‘How awful.’

‘But he is the best of men, Quasimodo.’

‘Good for him,’ she muttered. ‘It doesn’t sound very romantic.’ Although what did she know about romance? The warm, thick hospital air suddenly choked her. What was Charlie doing right now? Celebrating that he could now go out in public with his new love?

The bloody ring felt wrong on her finger. The elongated diamond only reminded her that it had been impossible to find a wedding band to match. She should have taken that as a warning.

On a sudden impulse, she gave the ring a tug to remove it. She didn’t need to pretend any more. She was officially un-engaged. She should at least get some satisfaction out of that fact. The ring was tight over her knuckle, but she just pulled harder.

‘Oww!’ she groaned.

‘Ren.’ Her name sounded strange in his strong accent that pronounced the ‘R’ far back in the throat. ‘Ren!’ A pair of rough hands closed over hers.

She looked up. Sacha’s face was close – the deep, furrowed brow and his big, soulful eyes – and his lips were pursed, which made her realise she was staring at his mouth. He gently loosened her fingers.

With Charlie’s ring stuck on her knuckle, her phone dead, the world ready to celebrate her scandal with schadenfreude and the moment lit by harsh white hospital lights, Ren stared at Sacha and wondered what it would be like to kiss him.