Fierce Vow by Monica Kayne EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Monica Kayne
- Language: English
- Genre: Gothic Romances
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
ALYONA
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
I meet Marcel’s gaze, his words a sucker punch to my gut. Is this guy
for real!? He’s using the most overused line in the history of breakups on
me. And to add insult to injury, he can’t even look me in the eye. He keeps
fidgeting with his cell phone on the tabletop, his eyes pinging around the
dimly lit Parisian bar.
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He clears his throat. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together,” he
mumbles, “but I think it’s better if we part ways here.”
Leaning back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, I don’t bother to
hide my sarcasm when I ask, “Aren’t you going to suggest we stay
friends?” Since he’s clearly a fan of clichés, I thought he might want to use
the second-most overused line in the breakup handbook.
Marcel looks aghast, as if I’ve suggested we rob a bank together. What
is this guy’s problem? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months, I
thought it was going well enough. He’s a French painter that I met at a
fashion industry party on the Rue de Turenne. He pursued me in the
beginning, doing all the legwork. Showered me with compliments and
flowers. It was pleasant enough, the sex was … satisfactory, and I enjoyed
his company, but I wouldn’t say this is a major heartbreak.
It’s not like I was looking for love with him, or any of the men I’ve met
in my seven years in Paris.
No, I already lived through love once before and barely survived. Never
again.
Still, I crave companionship, and a girl’s gotta get laid now and then.
But I’m getting mighty sick of the it’s-not-you-it’s-me line. Maybe French
guys are commitment-phobes? Then again, the last guy I dated was Italian,
and before that a Brit, and they both fed me the same bullshit line. So
maybe it is in fact me.
“No.” Marcel’s mouth sets into a grim line. “I don’t think we should
remain friends. It’s just … too complicated.”
Ouch.
I reach for my martini and polish it off in two large gulps, reveling in
the liquid burn. “In that case, it’s been a slice. I’ll leave you to pay the bill.”
Snatching up my purse from the seat beside me, I rise to my full height of
five nine, allowing him to appreciate the length of my legs, accentuated by
four-inch Louboutins, and my little black Prada dress. I don’t work in the
fashion industry for nothing. I know how to use my assets, and judging by
the wistful sigh Marcel releases, he seems to agree.
Just not enough to keep me around.
“Au revoir, Marcel. Good luck working through your mommy issues in
therapy.”
“Alyona,” he says, apologetically.
But when I glance back at him over my shoulder his eyes widen with
alarm. “There’s nothing else to say,” I assure him.
The look of relief on Marcel’s face is palpable. He closes his eyes,
exhales a sharp breath, and then hurries off to find our waiter.
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