Love in Montmartre

The City of Light looked anything but luminous to Nora Cartwright as she stepped out of the Metro station into the sweltering Parisian summer. A petite brunette with world-weary eyes, she dragged her overstuffed suitcase along the cobblestone streets, the weight of it nearly toppling her over with each jerking tug.

“Stupid idea,” she muttered under her breath, sweat already beading across her flushed forehead. “Coming to Paris won’t magically fix everything.”

But after the disastrous launch of her third novel, Loveless in Los Angeles, and her longtime boyfriend Michael dumping her for his slimy literary agent, she felt utterly stuck – stuck in her writing, stuck in her life, stuck in a rat-race of a city that no longer sparked any inspiration or joy.

Paradise had started to feel like purgatory in LA’s smoggy suburbs. So when her agent dangled a rent-controlled apartment in the romantic Montmartre neighborhood as potential writers’ fuel, she jumped at the chance to flee across the Atlantic, if only for a few months.

Of course, she hadn’t accounted for the suitcase’s wheels getting hopelessly stuck in the uneven brick paths, nor the insane July heat turning her into a puddle of sweat and frizz just minutes after landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. So much for the idyllic postcard vision she’d held of strolling dreamily down tree-lined rues, a flirty summer scarf draping her shoulders as she nibbled delicately on a croissant from the local boulangerie.

This was already proving to be a mistaken sabbatical of hellish proportions.

At last, she spotted the corner address for her summer sublet and pulled the stubborn suitcase up the cracked front steps, wishing she’d paid more attention to the listing’s lack of an elevator. With a grunt of effort, she heaved it inside the dimly lit entryway and dug through her bag for the keys.

That’s when she heard it – the distinct sound of raucous laughter, tinged with red wine and late nights, bursting through the thin walls to her left. Nora startled at the sudden disruption, nearly dropping the keyring in her hand as she took in the crooked hallway stairs, the dusty crimson wallpaper peeling at every corner, and what she could only assume were the shadows of human shapes cavorting wildly behind a translucent curtain.

She shook her head in dismay. Of course, she’d managed to nab the one un-charming, un-romantic apartment in the entire romantic neighborhood. Leave it to her to find the seedy underbelly of so-called bohemian culture. Though she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised – with her chronically rotten luck as of late, maybe a ramshackle flat next to a den of riotous squatters was precisely what she deserved.

Stumbling a bit as she finally managed to unlock the door to her own space, she prepared herself for a fresh wave of letdowns. But when she flicked on the lights and the cozy, azure-tiled kitchen came into view, a gentle smile tugged at the corners of her perpetually tight-lipped frown. Well, that was something, at least.

The quaint studio was simply but cheerfully decorated, with a plush crimson sofa positioned beneath a terrace window overlooking what she assumed were the famous Montmartre rooftops and cafes. A quill pen sat atop a blank journal on the kitchen’s butcher block counter – an ironic welcome gift from the proprietor, no doubt. She could already envision curling up with a warm cup of lemon tea after a morning’s writing, the aromas of Paris wafting through the terrace window as the charming sights and sounds inspired her...

But then another burst of unrestrained howling and giggling pierced the peaceful reverie, as if the very walls themselves were mocking her silly romantic notions. The dream apartment was quickly morphing into one big, disastrous punchline.

Nora turned up her palms in frustration. “You have got to be kidding me!” she shouted towards the noise, knowing no one could hear her over the escalating din but needing to release the scream burning inside nonetheless.

Right on cue, the unmistakable throaty snarl of a French man’s laughter cut through her outburst, bringing with it a fresh wave of warmth prickling across Nora’s skin – though this heat had nothing to do with the swampy July temperatures. It was the kind of goosebumped thrill a person only experiences upon the first faint whispers of temptation. Of freedom. Of sin.

She froze, every sense suddenly heightened as she strained to make out any clue about the homme behind that arresting, sensual chuckle – only to growl out her own gruff grunt. Of course, even in her state of abject humidity-drenched misery, her writer’s brain would hear one hint of masculine desire and instantly conjure up enough lush romantic imagery to fill a whole novella series.

“Stop it,” she ordered herself sternly, giving her damp cheeks a few harsh slaps to dispel the sudden heated flush. She’d come to Paris for the exact opposite reason – to divorce herself entirely from romance and relationships after the thorough way Michael had crushed her heart into a million tiny shards of self-doubt and self-loathing. She was on a man-cleanse for the foreseeable future, no exceptions. Passion was officially off-limits until further notice.

But even as she turned her back on the rowdy ruckus and began the far less inspiring task of unpacking her meager belongings, she couldn’t quite shake that teasing flare of fascination. That tantalizing spark of...temptation? Lust? She shoved it back down fiercely, but not before it singed her very core with a sensation she hadn’t felt in far, far too long: true, unabashed desire.

Perhaps there was a darker, deeper truth hidden beneath the postcard veneer of romantic Montmartre, one far more intoxicating than a simple summer writing escape. Or maybe it was all just the jetlag and delirious exhaustion distorting her perceptions. Either way, Nora had an inkling her next few months might prove to be anything but the rejuvenating creative sabbatical she’d envisioned.

As that all-too-alluring chuckle echoed once more through the walls, stealing her breath all over again, Nora gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. Something told her that by summer’s end, she’d be in desperate need of far more than just a simple change of scenery.

For the first time in years, it seemed her entire world was about to be irrevocably disrupted. And despite her best efforts, she felt herself craving that deliriously untamed disruption more and more with each passing, tantalizing peal of wicked laughter.