Crossed in Love on the Champs-Élysées

Isabel Gonzales had gone the better part of two years without any contact with Marcus Jordan, the love of her life, the man who had stomped all over her heart like a model on a Margiela runway.
And now here he was, standing in front of her in the middle of the street in Paris of all places, a most serendipitous encounter, calling her name. What were the odds? Isabel did a rapid mental calculation: less likely than Chloë Sevigny hosting another wardrobe sale but more likely than a peplum trend resurgence.
“Isabel?” His green eyes sparkled down at her like the most perfectly polished jade she’d ever seen; better than the earrings she’d bought on a work trip to Hong Kong. She remembered the sensation of being lost in those eyes, as if they were a meadow in the middle of a daydream, brimming with wildflowers and butterflies.
But in the middle of the meadow was a sinkhole. And she never quite knew where it was. She was confident each and every time that she could navigate her way through the blooms, but always seemed to end up waist-deep in decaying vegetation.
“Isabel, is that really you?”
His golden skin was clothed by a double-breasted suit and his expression was cautiously hopeful. God, he was so handsome. She’d always believed that a good suit is to women what lingerie is to men.
No, Isabel, she scolded herself. Don’t think about how handsome he is. Think about how he broke your heart when he stayed in Brooklyn instead of moving to Paris with you.
It felt like a lucid dream interrupted only by the sounds of taxis and tourists. A balmy breeze rippled through the iconic, tree-fringed Champs-Élysées, blowing Isabel’s caramel-brown hair across her bare, syrupy shoulders. She shivered; her arm hairs prickled. All around her, pedestrians passed by, snapping photos of the Arc de Triomphe on autopilot. Isabel barely registered the commotion.
She vaguely detected the changing traffic lights in the distance. However, she couldn’t force her leopard-print mules to finish crossing the street. She was cemented to the spot. Her breath caught in her throat and it was all she could do to concentrate on anything but her palpitating heart.
Isabel’s feminine slip dress fluttered at her lower calves as her left hand gripped her vintage crocodile bag, causing her myriad of gold stacker rings to dig into her slender fingers. The glow of the Parisian afternoon did wonders for her dewy complexion, which was now slightly flushed with the prospect of Marcus.
No, she thought again. There is no prospect of Marcus at all.
Beep! A car horn blared and snapped her out of her spellbound state. She realized then that her and Marcus were still standing in the middle of the avenue. She hurried to the safety of the sidewalk. Marcus helped her along with an electric graze of her nude bicep.
Isabel maneuvered away from his touch and forced herself to look Marcus dead in his glittering gaze. She wished she could grab him by the nape of his neck and pull him down to meet her glossed lips. Even with her high heels, she was still too small to kiss him without his help. But she had moved on. Why couldn’t she remember that? It was over—they were over. She had been the one to leave, but that didn’t make their breakup any less excruciating or difficult to navigate. Yes, she often regretted not convincing him to come with her. She had simply accepted the fact that he wasn’t ready for something other than New York and left on her own. But that was in the past. Unfortunately, her attraction to him wasn’t.
“I heard you came by the office,” Marcus said. “Reception told me a pretty girl in high heels and a nice dress stopped in and I knew it had to be you.”
“That was over a year ago,” Isabel responded flatly, attempting to come across as uninterested. She was anything but. “I had some of your things to drop off. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“We haven’t seen each other since, you know, and I wasn’t sure if you’d have wanted me to reach out after what happened.” Marcus looked at her with those compelling eyes that seemed to emanate a triple threat of pure anguish, regret, and longing—making it clear that he felt the same way as she did. Not that she’d let him know it. At least, not yet.
“You’re right, I wouldn’t have wanted that,” she lied. In reality, she’d wished every single day that she would see his number pop up on her screen. Of course, his contact information had been deleted but Isabel would always have it committed to memory. Many times, her flawless manicure had typed those familiar ten digits into her iPhone, only to have second thoughts and backspace seconds later.
They stared at each other unwaveringly, allowing the bustle of the city to continue unabated around them, unsure of who would make the next move. Isabel had dreamed many times of running into Marcus. She pictured what she’d say, what he would say, how she’d react, even what she’d be wearing. Thankfully her outfit was up to speed with her fantasy because nothing else was going according to plan. Just being this close to him was throwing her off her game. In a good way, though. She loved seeing herself through his perspective. It made her feel beautiful, coveted.
“Anyway, I have work to do. Nice seeing you, Marcus. Goodbye.” Isabel turned on her fiercely patterned heels and strode toward the café on the corner. As she reached the doors, she couldn’t resist peeking over her shoulder to see him one last time. Shit. He was looking right at her. She hadn’t counted on getting caught. Rookie mistake for a seasoned woman like herself.
“Isabel, wait,” he called as he began to follow her Chanel-scented wake.
She entered the coffee shop, grabbed a corner table, and started setting up her laptop. “Excusez-moi,” she called to the server. “Un café au lait s’il vous plait.”
“Très bien, mademoiselle. Et pour le monsieur?” The server nodded at Marcus who had arrived and was standing across from her, unable to determine if he should sit down uninvited or not.
“Nothing,” she shook her head.
“Isabel, I want to talk to you. I swear to you, whatever happened in the past, it doesn’t matter. I mean, it matters, but it’s not what matters now. I’ve tried to explain, but somehow my words always get so tangled up. I’m glad I ran into you, finally. I just want you to know that I’ve never stopped caring about you, thinking about you. I’m completely consumed. I messed up, I know. I want to make things right. Please let me make things right with you. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
He appeared so deliciously sincere, running a hand through his wavy hair. Still, was it all too late? Isabel wasn’t sure if she wanted to reopen her wounds. It had taken long enough to convince herself that she’d find someone else, to close that chapter of her life. To navigate a new meadow in the middle of a different daydream.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Marcus, but I’m trying to write. So if you don’t mind, and even if you do, I’d like to get back to that.” She conjured up the coldest look she could but it was tough considering his presence instantly melted her into a defenseless puddle of infatuation. He was staring back at her with such intensity. All she could think about was the last time she’d seen him. Their break-up sex had been one of the most intimate times in their relationship; a mixture of pain and the best pleasure of her life, tossed with a pinch of regret. (A “sensual salad” she’d joked later on.) Then, she’d gone off to work at French Vogue and tried to leave Marcus back in New York. But no matter how many steamy encounters she had with Aurélien, Pierre, or whoever else she was dating at the moment, they didn’t even come close to Marcus.
He’d always be her first love. Her person. Regardless of their convoluted past.
“Isabel, please.” He was giving her that look. The look. But she wasn’t going to give in. Was she? Isabel forced herself to turn her attention to her MacBook just as the server brought her creamy coffee and gingerly placed it onto the table, the clatter of the porcelain cup and saucer barely audible over the surrounding chatter.
Finally, Marcus spoke. “If you change your mind and want to grab a drink, here’s my card. Call me anytime. I’m in Paris for the next five days.”
If she was being really honest with herself, she had forgiven him sometime last June for breaking her heart and stuffing the pieces into her Marc Jacobs tote. But was that enough reason to start something up again? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust or forgive him—she was simply scared of losing him again. Once she had him, she knew she would never let go. And for a self-sufficient woman like Isabel, that was terrifying enough.
“I still love you.” Marcus turned to go, leaving one last romantic sentiment lingering in the buzzy ambiance. “I never stopped. You’re it for me, Isabel.”
Only when Isabel heard the jingle of the door and was absolutely sure that his back was turned to her did she glance up from her keyboard. Except, he wasn’t gone. He was standing right there, studying her. Watching. Waiting. Her lips parted slightly in anticipation. She knew what was coming next—she’d seen it in every romance movie ever but never thought it would be happening to her, especially in the most romantic city in the world. She waited expectantly. Her palms sweated and her knees felt as trembly as a silver serving platter of paper-thin champagne coupes. Shakily, she stood up and smoothed down her dress.
As if on cue, Marcus crossed the café and cupped her face in his steady hands, enveloping her lips in a desirous, open-mouthed kiss. When she finally unhooked herself from him, they were in a lavish suite at Hôtel Madame Rêve, naked except for the silky-smooth sheets that wrinkled around them. They had made love, his weight reassuringly comfortable on top of her; his lean silhouette moving in tandem with her dampened skin. She wanted to remain like this all afternoon. Actually, she wanted to remain like this forever.
“For the record, I still love you too,” she told him unnecessarily. As if it wasn’t obvious when she’d kissed and caressed him, connected herself to him, afraid to ever let go again.
“Really? I couldn’t tell . . .”
“You’re an idiot.”
“As long as you’re okay with that.”
“Surprisingly, I am.”
Marcus kissed her long and hard. Isabel’s body responded with raw, habitual desire. They remained knotted together, intertwined in every possible way for countless hours, until the sky darkened and the Eiffel Tower performed its nightly show. This second chance at love was even more appetizing than the first time around and Isabel was determined to savor every bite with rapture. It was better than the caviar at Boutary and that was saying a lot.
She didn’t know what would happen once they left the safe, bliss-soaked contentment of the hotel, but for now they had five days in Paris.
And room service.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ

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