What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

pond
at 7:15 sharp, every day.”
    “It depends.” She arched her
eyebrows. “Where I lived, they hit the pond at 7:03. Every day.”
    He shrugged. “Must be lark
ducks. Hey, here’s another one: the Swiss won’t cross the street at a red light
even if there isn’t a single car in sight. They’ll just stand there and wait.”
    “If you try it in Paris,
people will think you’re stoned. Have you ever noticed the big red button
you’re supposed to press in such situations?”
    “When you’re stoned?”
    The corners of her mouth
twitched upward. “No, when the traffic light is red, but there are no cars.”
    “Ah, that one! Yes, I’ve seen
it. We have them in France, too.”
    “Well, in Switzerland people
actually use them! They press, and wait, and press again several times, and
wait some more. There are still no cars, but they won’t cross.”
    Her eyes were now sparkling
with mirth. “I used to think the button made the light change to green faster.
But then I timed it and realized its sole purpose was to give the law-abiding
citizens some form of release. Like a punching bag for fingers.”
    Rob laughed. “Reminds me of
another Swiss quirk. If you inadvertently drop a candy wrapper or a bus ticket,
at least three people will notice and tell you in French, German, and Italian
to please pick it up.”
    He held up his index finger
and said with a thick Swiss accent, “Keeping our country clean is everybody’s
business!”
    She put her hand over her
mouth. “Oh my God—this actually happened to me once!”
    The game is on, he thought as he listened to her peals
of happy laughter.
     

I’m glad that you’re in love
with someone else,
    I’m glad that I’m enamored with
another,
    And I’m content that never will
the Earth
    Relax its pull, condemning us to
hover.
    With you, I can be funny—or
a mess,
    Let down my hair and abandon
caution.
    No fierce blushing every time
our hands
    Brush
lightly in an unexpected motion.
    I thank you from the heart for
being kind,
    For loving me so sweetly, so
benignly,
    For cherishing me, for my
peaceful nights,
    For the non-kissing in a moonlit
alley,
    For the non-dates, no passion to
confess,
    For happily behaving like a
brother,
    For being charmed—alas!—by
someone else,
    While I’m—alas!—enamored
with another.
    Marina Tsvetaeva

THREE
    Two weeks after her arrival in Paris, Lena had become a regular at La
Bohème . She went there every morning for a breakfast of coffee, croissants,
and orange juice. After that she either headed to the library or stayed at the
bistro typing away on her laptop and refueling on the barista’s
delicious-smelling brews. On most days, she cleared the premises by noon, when
the shop assistants, builders, and white collars working in the neighborhood
arrived for lunch. She often returned in the late afternoon for dinner.
    Before giving the monopoly over her nourishment to La Bohème , Lena
had made sure to check out the available alternatives. But her forays into the
neighboring eateries turned out to be disappointing.
    At the first place across the street, she was served green beans
overcooked to a sickly shade of gray. She ordered a medium steak at a more
expensive restaurant a few blocks further down the street. The steak was served
raw, and then reluctantly taken back to the kitchen to be returned a good half
hour later, thoroughly burned.
    The last place she tried had decent food and the wait wasn’t too long.
But as she ate, she became witness to a heart-wrenching scene. An ostensibly
pregnant woman had walked in and pleaded with the maître d’.
    “I’m sorry, monsieur. May I use your bathroom?”
    “Are you a customer?”
    “No, but—”
    “The bathroom is reserved for our patrons.”
    The maître d’ swirled and walked away, leaving the woman stranded by the
entrance. She shifted from one foot to another, her face contorting in
discomfort as she scanned the room for a more sympathetic waiter. Lena rushed
to the