Clobbered by Camembert Read Online Free PDF Page A

during our trip to Europe—one intimate, lovely night. When I’d asked about it, he wouldn’t tell me about the event that had led to it. I had attempted a guess or two, of course: a hard life on the street; a drunken brawl; an attack by an angry ex-girlfriend? Jordan had cracked a smile at the latter but had offered no answers. Maybe a wayward penguin had attacked him on one of his Antarctica explorations, I mused.
    Rebecca raced to my side. “What’s going on? Who’s the hunk?”
    “Chippendale Cooper,” Meredith said, as if that explained it all.
    Rebecca gasped. “Creep Ch—”
    “Chip,” I said. “Call him Chip.”
    “Of all the gall.” Rebecca flung her ponytail over her shoulder and glowered at the hunk as if she was the one he had maligned.
    Chip took a quick picture of Rebecca, then hitched his head. “Can we talk outside, babe?”
    “We have nothing to talk about.” The level of bitterness that crawled into my throat surprised me. If I wasn’t careful, tears would surface. No way was I going to let that happen. Chip could make all the snipes he cared to; I’d remain stoic. “Rebecca, I’m going back to Fromagerie Bessette. You close up the tent. Meredith, would you give her a hand?”
    I strode toward the exit. Chip raced ahead of me and held back the tent door. While tightening my neck scarf, I sidled out, doing my best not to breathe or touch him as I passed. I didn’t want to remember his musky scent. I didn’t want to remember his fingers stroking my neck, my cheek.
    Cool air blasted my face as I headed south through the Village Green.
    Chip hustled behind me, stating the whys and wherefores of his decision, on one fateful winter’s night years ago, to flee to France. He begged me to forgive him. “I was young.”
    “You were thirty.”
    Dodging hordes of folding tables and chairs, boxes of crafts, and clothing racks, I snaked through the white tents. I sped past a security guard for the Winter Wonderland faire, who tapped the brim of his hat with a fingertip in greeting. Too angry with Chip, I failed to respond to the guard. I would have to apologize another day.
    “Thirty is a formative time in a man’s life,” Chip said, keeping pace.
    “In a woman’s, too,” I hissed.
    “Tick-tock, yes, I get that.”
    “Not tick-tock. Not that at all.”
    “Don’t you want children?”
    I blasted past the ice sculpture of the Great Dane and kittens. Sure, I wanted kids. Yes, I was nearing my mid-thirties, and yes, every dratted magazine on every dratted magazine stand displayed some kind of article about the risk of having children over the age of thirty-five, but I ignored the articles. I did. I had eons of time. I was healthy, vibrant. I exited the Village Green and skirted around a man offering authentic Amish horse and buggy rides to tourists. Chip followed and gingerly scruffed the horse’s nose as he passed.
    “Then what is it, Charlotte?” Chip pressed. “Why are you so mad at me?”
    I stopped on the sidewalk near the Country Kitchen diner. Every red booth inside the diner was filled with patrons. All seemed to be staring at us. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “What?” Chip threw open his hands like a petitioner waiting for me, the judge, to deem him innocent.
    I waggled a finger. “We are not having this conversation.”
    “I’ve come home to tell you I love you.”
    “Home? This is not your home. You abandoned the town. Your folks have moved away. You have no heritage here. Go back to France.”
    He shrugged. “There’s nothing for me in France.”
    “There’s nothing for you here, either.” I folded my arms across my chest. Defensive, sure, but I needed armor, which seemed to be sorely missing. Maybe I had left it at the dry cleaners.
    Chip jutted his hip like a cocky teenager, but he didn’t fool me. I had shocked him with my tirade. His eyes shuttered rapidly like a camera lens on the blink. “Don’t you want to hear my plan? Why I became