Crossed in Love on the Champs-Élysées

Isabel Asher had gone almost two years without any contact with Marcus Jordan, the love of her life, the man who had plucked her heart straight from her chest like a carrot from the ground with such effortlessness just five years before. And now here he was, all 6 feet 3 inches of him, standing in front of her in the middle of the street in Paris of all places, calling her name. What was he doing here? His golden skin was clothed by a boxy, double-breasted suit and his expression was cautiously hopeful. God, he was handsome. She’d always believed that a good suit is to women what lingerie is to men.
            It felt like a lucid dream interrupted only by the sounds of expeditious taxis and tourists. A balmy breeze rippled through the tree-fringed Avenue des Champs-Élysées, blowing Isabel’s chestnut hair across her bare, syrupy shoulders. She shivered and it had nothing to do with the wind. All around her, pedestrians passed by, hastily snapping photos of the Arc de Triomphe, but Isabel barely registered the commotion.
            She faintly detected the changing crosswalk lights in the distance. However, she couldn’t force her leopard print mules to finish crossing the street. Such a simple task as walking felt completely foreign, even arduous, to her. She could be stumbling on stilts, scaling a dramatic cliffside, or walking a tightrope for all she knew. It sure felt like that anyway—frighteningly unbalanced. Her breath caught in her throat and it was all she could do to concentrate on anything but her wildly palpitating heartbeat. Isabel’s feminine, bias-cut slip dress fluttered at her lower calves as her left hand tightly gripped her vintage crocodile briefcase 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.
            “Isabel?” His green eyes sparkled down at her like the most perfectly polished jade she’d ever seen. She remembered the sensation of being lost in them, as if they were a vast, open ocean, ready to swallow her whole and drag her down into their unknown yet strangely reassuring depths. Isabel was a strong swimmer but against their magnetic currents, she was powerless—like treading water with your hands tied.
            “Ay! Déplacez-le, voulez-vous?!” A car horn blared and snapped her out of her spellbound state. She realized that her and Marcus were still standing in the middle of the avenue, long after the allotted crossing time had ended. She hurried to the safety of the sidewalk. Only once she reached the curb did she sense his strong grip on the small of her back. It sent familiar chills up her spine. How she longed for those hands to caress their way over her hips, waist, her breasts. They felt like home to her. They belonged on her curves.
            Isabel maneuvered away from his touch and forced herself to look Marcus dead in his glittering emerald gaze. She wished she could grab him by the nape of his neck and pull him down to meet her rosewood-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 it. But it was in the past. Unfortunately, her attraction to him wasn’t.
            “I heard you came to the office,” Marcus said. “Reception told me a pretty girl in 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. “I had some of your things to drop off.”
            “We haven’t seen each other since, you know, and I wasn’t sure if you’d have wanted me to reach out,” he paused, “after what happened.” Marcus looked at her with those emotional eyes that seemed to emanate 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 had 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 flawlessly polished fingers had typed those familiar ten digits into her iPhone, only to 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 dreamt many times of running into Marcus. She pictured what she’d 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 and coveted.
            “Anyway, I have work to do. Nice seeing you, Marcus. Goodbye.” Isabel turned on her fiercely patterned heels and strode towards 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. That’s what she was secretly hoping for but she didn’t count on getting caught.
            “Isabel, wait,” he called as he began to follow in her Chanel-scented wake.
            She entered the coffee shop, grabbed a corner table, and started setting up her laptop. “Excusez-moi, monsieur,” she said to the server. “Un café au lait s’il vous plait.”
            “Très bien, mademoiselle. Et pour le monsieur?” The server nodded towards Marcus who had arrived and stood across from her, unable to determine if he should sit down uninvited.
            “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 you think. I’ve tried to explain, but somehow my words always get so tangled up. I’m so 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 fucked 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 his 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.
            “I don’t know if you’ve noticed Marcus, but I’m trying to write. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get started.” 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 that 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, sprinkled with a pinch of remorse. Then, she’d gone off to work at French Vogue and tried to leave Marcus back in Manhattan. But no matter how many steamy encounters she had with Aurélien, Pierre, Tom, or whoever she was dating at the moment, they didn’t come close to comparing to Marcus.
            He’d always be her first love. 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. After what seemed like forever, 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 what happened. 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 leave.
            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 computer screen. Except he wasn’t gone. He was standing there, studying her. Her lips parted slightly in anticipation. She knew 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 on Earth. She waited expectantly. Her palms sweated and her knees felt trembly. She stood up.
            As if on cue, Marcus crossed the café and cupped her face with his steady hands, enveloping her lips in a delicate, sweet, lingering kiss. When she finally unhooked her mouth from his, they were in a lavish suite at Hôtel Madame Rêve, naked except for the sugar-white sheets that wrinkled around them. They had made love, his weight reassuringly comfortable on top of her and his lean silhouette moving in tandem with her dampened skin. She wanted to remain like this all afternoon. She wanted to remain like this forever.
            “For the record, I still love you too,” she told him unnecessarily.
            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 savour every bite with rapture. She didn’t know what would happen once they left the blissful contentment of the hotel, but for now they had five days in Paris. And room service.

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