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“Glad to be here,” I replied.
I was definitely earning my birthday present today. Thierry was going to freak when I told him all about this later.
Miss Moulin Rouge chatted about her happy Paris memories for another ten minutes while I downed two more delicious espressos before she glanced down at her wristwatch, and a smile spread across her beautiful face.
“Ready to shop?” she asked.
Somehow, that innocent-sounding suggestion felt far more ominous now.
“Born ready,” I agreed.
“You’re going to love Damon. His shop is absolutely divine.”
Highly debatable, I thought. “Will it be okay that you brought a friend on this little shopping trip?”
“He won’t mind at all. He loves to meet new friends.”
That particular F-word might not be the best to describe what this shoemaker would think of me when I exposed his evil plan, whatever it might be. Then again, maybe this was nothing more than a long-distance love affair with a sprinkle of witchy magic and a whole lot of empty promises.
I was really hoping that was the case.
“Then, great,” I said as enthusiastically as I could. “Since you know Paris better than I do, please lead the way.”
A half an hour later, we got out of a taxi on a cobblestone street lined with quaint, old-fashioned buildings that looked like something yanked straight out of a picture postcard. There was even a random accordion player strolling down the sidewalk playing “La Vie en Rose.”
I mean, not that I’m an expert, but it really didn’t get much more Parisian than this.
I followed Alicia to the front of a charming-looking stone building, nestled along a line of charming-looking stone buildings that seemed old enough to have been here when Thierry roamed these very streets. Weirdly, it made me feel more connected to him, like reaching through time, hundreds of years before I was born.
“This is it,” Alicia said with a grin.
I looked up at the sign, appropriately vintage-looking but elegant. Gold painted letters stood out clearly on the black background.
“Des Chiffons à la Richesse.” I said it aloud, butchering the accent, I was sure. “What does that mean?”
“Essentially…it translates to the English idiom ‘from rags to riches,’” she said. “Damon was very poor when he came to Paris with a dream, and since then, he has made a name for himself and a small fortune from his talent. He painted that sign himself when he first opened the shop.”
“He sounds like a real inspiration,” I said.
“He is,” she agreed, her smile widening as she pushed through the front door.
I took a deep breath before I followed her into the interior of the store.
I wasn’t sure what I expected from a Parisian cobbler who dabbled in magic and sleeping with other men’s wives. Maybe a small, dusty workshop that smelled of old leather, sweat, and cheap champagne.
But that wasn’t what was behind the doors of Rags to Riches.
Instead, I found myself thrust into a surprisingly large fashion boutique, one that buzzed with customers and salespeople. There were row upon row of wooden shelves holding sleek-looking shoes—high heels, sandals, loafers, boots in a rainbow of colors. Racks of clothing, from cashmere sweaters to silk kimonos and elegant dresses and skirts. A section to my left displayed handbags: large and small, handheld and crossbody, totes, and evening bags.
I had been coming to terms that we were suddenly in Paris.
But I had no idea I’d just entered Heaven itself.
Alicia watched my reaction as my gaze swept across the most beautiful store I’d ever step foot inside.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It is,” I said honestly. “It really is.”
