What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) by Alix Nichols Page B

poetry—like all good poetry—is neither. It’s bare
human soul.”
    She reopened the book, traced her finger along the table of contents, and
then turned the yellowed pages until she found what she was looking for.
    She held the book out to Rob, pointing to a poem. “I finished translating
this one last week. It’s addressed to Tsvetaeva’s daughter Ariadna. I’d like
you to read the first verse of Triolet’s translation, and then I’ll read you
mine. And promise you’ll give me your honest opinion as to which one you like
better.”
    “Cross my heart,” Rob said and took the book from Lena. He read the poem
silently, then turned to her. “OK. Let’s hear yours now.”
    Lena closed her eyes to shut out the world and
recited from memory.
    Don’t forget: tomorrow you’ll
be ancient.
    Drive the troika, sing, defy
conventions,
    Be a blue-eyed gypsy, brightly
dressed.
    Don’t forget: no man’s worth
your attentions—
    And bestow
them upon every chest.
    Lena opened her eyes. Rob was looking at her in a funny way. His gaze was
fixed on her lips, his eyes dark with something primal, fierce, and unbearably
intense. Lena’s heart quickened in response—and then in panic.
    She made herself smile cheerfully. “So. Your honest opinion, please.”
    He blinked, then a sly grin spread on his face. “Here’s my honest
opinion: What kind of mother advises her daughter to sleep with every stupid
dude who happens to be around?”
    “A crazy, wild, passionate Russian poet mother?” Lena wrinkled her nose. “Anyway,
I’m not sure she meant it quite so literally. It’s poetry, you know. Hyperbole
is its second nature.”
    “Oh. Why didn’t I think of that? So, perhaps, what she really meant was: My
daughter, you should always be polite to men? After all, it is terribly
rude when women tell us things like ‘not a chance in hell’ or ‘in your wildest
dreams, loser’.”
    “I think what she meant was that she wanted her daughter to give her body
freely—and to take pleasure in it—but to withhold her heart.” Lena’s
eyes darkened. “Because she herself suffered too much from rejection and
heartbreak.”
    Rob grew serious, too. “I like your translation better. And that’s my
honest opinion.”
    As she lay in bed that night, unable to fall
asleep, Lena thought of how easy it had been to read her translation to Rob.
She didn’t hesitate for a second before sharing something she had kept from
everyone else. Well, not exactly everyone—she did show her translated
poems to Professor Rouvier. But that was different. It was a clinical
experience, like baring your chest in front of your cardiologist. Reading her
translation to Rob was nowhere near a clinical experience. It was electrifying.
It was thrilling. It was sensual.
    And therein lay the trouble.

Bittersweet—the taste of passion
    On your lips. A siren’s call,
    Bittersweet—oh, the temptation
    To precipitate my fall!
    Marina Tsvetaeva

FIVE
    The next day, after Lena was politely kicked out of the public library
that had to close for the day, she went to the cinémathèque and watched
an old movie. Then she walked all the way back to rue Cadet, her stomach
knotted with anxiety. What if Rob looked at her again like he did yesterday?
What if he didn’t look at her like that anymore? Good Lord, what a mess.
    When she reached La Bohème, the dinner service was over and the
bistro was relatively empty—not unusual for a Tuesday night. Rob and Pepe
were discussing something by the counter. As Lena approached, she heard Pepe
say, “Rrrrrrrrr.”
    “No,” Rob said.
    “Rrrrrrrrrr,” Pepe said again.
    Rob shook his head.
    Pepe gave Lena a pleading look. “Rrrrrrr?”
    “Are you rehearsing for a baby tiger role?” she asked.
    “Now that you mention it, he does sound like an angry cat,” Rob said,
smiling at Lena.
     Pepe blew out his cheeks. “Come on, guys—you’ve got to help
me. Rrrrrrrrrr. Did that sound French enough?”
    “Nope,” Rob said,