Forbidden: The Izzy Nichols Story

By Marian Andrew

"And here I was, the clueless American, lost in a sea of French people, on a date with one of the hottest men I've met so far in this romantic city...."

Izzy Nichols has got a lot on her mind. She's moved to Paris, and plenty is going on regarding dating, falling in love, and getting her heart stuck in murky wa

• Language: English
• Publisher: MA Crown Ink Publishing
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9783910930087

Marian Andrew

Marian Andrew is an original New Yorker with a British education and currently lives in Germany with her husband, son, and two cats.Working as a fashion designer for the last twenty years she has lived and continues to work throughout Europe and America. Her career has taken her to several places in the Far East, Middle East, and North Africa, constantly gathering ideas, inspiration, and experiences throughout her travels.Marian hosts a fortnightly podcast, 'Marian Andrew's Indie Books & More', that aims to support indie and hybrid authors within the writing community; it's a free service, and links can be found on her website.Her hobbies include ballroom dancing, binge-reading e-books, and trying out recipes from favorite celebrity chefs' culinary books.

Book preview

A

few months ago, the senior editor of the magazine I wrote for offered me a job-based in Paris. Full pay, plus medical, paid accommodation, and a three-year work Visa. Nothing could hold me back on such a proposition. Like they say, every dog has his day, and I seized that opportunity. Of course, leaving behind my heavily pregnant best friend was a huge bummer, but I promised to return to New York as soon as Kate went into labor. 

It certainly wasn’t my first time in Paris, but it was my first time as a resident, and there was a lot to learn, especially the lingo. The realization came quite fast as soon as my feet landed on French soil that the natives don’t like to speak any other language other than their own. Fair enough. I enrolled at a part-time language school, and by my third month, I picked up a few useful phrases to get me by.

My colleagues at the Paris office were all French. I would probably use the word cordial than friendly to describe their demeanor. So there was an obvious language issue that I struggled with on a social level. But they knew I was there to write English articles for an American fashion publication. The only space I invaded in their world was the corner window desk with a nice view of the plaza.

A couple of nights a week, I would join my colleagues out for a few drinks and, on occasion, for dinner too. Even though I never asked for it, they took on a babysitting role to introduce me to everything about Parisian life and culture. They assumed this position, and I happily went along with it. They were the only living souls I knew in this city, let alone country.

Izzy, tonight we will visit an Irish pub. I think you will feel quite at home there. Will you join us? Eloise fluttered her long beautiful eyelashes at me.

I’m American, not Irish, I wondered if my colleagues even cared to know the difference.

But most Americans have Irish heritage. No? It wasn’t so much as if she were asking but more like stating a fact. I was almost at a loss for words.

Not me, I muttered and knew there was no point to open a discussion on this topic because the French love to debate things. I mean, like really drawn-out discussions, and sometimes it could look pretty scary.

Well, Irish, British, American, you all speak the same language. Ça ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard!¹ Eloise waved her hand dismissively in the air as if the topic was of little importance. So, will you join us?

Yes, I will. Thank you for the invite. I wished I understood fluent French because I am sure she didn’t mean something about a duck breaking three legs, which made absolutely no sense.

***

There was always that moment in the social scene when my mind would begin to grow tired. Trying to catch the gist of the deep philosophical conversations my colleagues enjoyed having in a foreign language that I barely understood took a lot of brain energy. It’s not just challenging to understand but mentally fatiguing too, especially if you’ve been doing it all fucking day.

Among themselves, they spoke fast, and my brain worked on overdrive, trying to keep pace with them and decipher what they were talking about. Occasionally a colleague would turn to translate or ask for my opinion. But my language issue wasn’t their fault; I was a foreigner on their land.

While I sat and politely smiled, trying to look remotely interested, perhaps I even zoned out of the discussion a few times, I noticed a man sitting at the bar with a friend. They were both busy chatting away, but every so often, I caught him eyeing our table a few times and wondered who it was that he focused his interest on. There was no denying that he was strikingly handsome in a sexy-rough way too. He wore his dark hair into a short crew cut and sported a relatively attractive and well-kept stubble beard. I usually never went for facial hair on men, but this guy wore it rather well, and it wasn’t a full beard, just a kind of 5 o’clock shadow that was perfectly maintained.

I wondered which of the attractive ladies I worked with he was interested in. Eloise with her striking eyelashes and cute cupid bow’s lips, or Vivienne, the drop-dead gorgeous Amazonian supermodel, or maybe it was petite, little pixie, Sylvie. Either way, French women knew how to care for themselves and make the best out of their features. These women worked for a fashion magazine, so they not only looked amazing but also dressed the part.

The wine glass in front of me was empty. My only male colleague, Marc, sitting next to me, picked up the wine bottle and offered a refill. I covered my glass with my hand, indicating I didn’t want any more, so he topped up everyone else’s glasses. They were in an Irish bar, drinking wine, how very French! These guys drank wine by the crate.

Feeling somewhat parched, I stood up and walked over to the bar to get a small bottle of water. I hadn’t noticed the attractive stranger, the one who kept looking at my table earlier, inch up closer to me. He said something to me in French. I didn’t want to be rude, but my mind had had enough foreign language for one day.

"I’m sorry, je suis désolé mais j'ai encore du mal avec le français.² I’ve only been here for a short while." I replied, pretty sure he would slowly retreat and run for the hills as soon as he realized I might be a tourist.

English? he asked curiously.

American, I said, thinking he’ll probably pretend to sound impressed and then crawl back to re-join his friend. It already happened a few times, so I was used to it, as annoying as it was.

His mouth slightly curved into a smile, Which part of America?

Wow, no rolling of the eyes! I exclaimed, pretty surprised.

He seemed a little amused but also confused, Hmm, rolling of the eyes? I didn’t quite catch the meaning.

His English seemed almost perfect. Other than the slight French accent, which worked its way into his pronunciation of some words, combined with a deep voice that resonated inside my core was unbelievable. Basically, what I mean to say is that he sounded sexy as fuck.

Umm, well, you are the first French person I’ve come across who I told I was American and didn’t roll their eyes up.

Ahh! he chuckled, Rolling of the eyes! You often get this? His eyes beamed with excitement. There was something very compelling about how his face expressed his emotions that drew me towards him, almost as if he was a hypnotist. I really couldn’t imagine any woman ever refusing his allure. And, I wanted to know more about this handsome stranger.

Always. I wasn’t lying either. I guess we tend to stand out here. Loud and boisterous.

But I’ve been observing you. You seem much more introverted than extroverted. You don’t seem to be American by your way of description. I could almost feel his eyes darting around my face probing me for my inner thoughts. It made me feel a little vulnerable.

Was it me he was observing the entire time? Oh gosh!

Oh, it’s probably the lack of vocabulary. I waved his statement off casually. All my colleagues here are French, so it’s not that easy to keep pace with them when they’re in their own element.

But you spoke to me in French almost perfectly. Most tourists would the phrase Je ne parle pas français.³

Oh, but I’m not a tourist. Well, technically speaking anyway. He looked as if he wanted me to expand, so I explained, I write for an American publisher as their correspondent in Paris.

You are a journalist? His eyes twinkled with interest.

Sometimes. But reporting news and current affairs isn’t my forte. I write about art, culture, human interest, and personal experience.

Books? he seemed intrigued, but I did get that a lot when people found out I was a writer,

Not yet, but maybe one day. What about you? He asked many questions about me, but it was time to know something about this handsome French stranger.

I write, he said casually, but mainly reports. I am a member of the Police Nationale, the judicial department.

Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. 

Policeman? Wow. I was pretty impressed, So the judicial department as in investigative crimes and such?

Yes, exactly, he lifted an eyebrow, almost surprised, and then quickly gave me a once-over. There was a brief silence between us as he gazed at me with interest, So what is a beautiful American doing in an Irish bar in Paris?

I laughed lightly, That has got to be the cheesiest pick-up line. Surely you can do better.

I could see the corner of his mouth quirk up with amusement.

Let me see, he thought for a couple of minutes and then gave me a playful smile, On devrait t’arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique.⁴

Oh, more French, just what my tired brain needed. I did my best to fake a neutral expression, so I wouldn’t frown.

Excessive beauty in public? I’m drawing a blank on the meaning, I said, too lazy to think about it much.

A big grin came across his face, Very good. You should be arrested for excessive beauty in public.

I giggled, okay, I admit this guy is good-looking and funny, Yes, that’s so bad, and good at the same time! Especially when such a line comes from a member of the law enforcement.

I’m Julien Durand, he held his hand out to me.

I took his hand and shook it, Izzy. Izzy Nichols.

Izzy? he said thoughtfully. Unusual name. Is that short for something?

Isabella. But I go by Izzy.

Isabella, such a lovely name, he repeated.

I winced and shook my head, Please don’t. Simply Izzy.

Okay, Izzy. He took his cellphone out, typed something in, and gave it to me.

I looked at it; it was his contact list entry in which he wrote Simply Izzy as a contact name. I giggled.

Would you like to type in your phone number so I can reach you to take you out for dinner? he flashed me a sharp, lopsided grin, but I was pretty surprised.

Oh, you move fast! I said with a slight tone of sarcasm.

We could sit here all night if you prefer until they kick us out. But I would still like to have your number. His tone was full of confidence, but his gaze was so intense, I could only nod in agreement.

Wow, okay. I smiled somewhat apprehensively. Julien was a smooth talker, but meeting guys in bars and then going on a date with them wasn’t usually my thing. I typed my phone number into his phone and gave it back to him. He rang the number, and my phone buzzed in my back pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the unknown number.

Now you have mine too. He said with a half-smile. I noticed Julien hadn’t yet taken his eyes off me since we started talking. This was something I wasn’t used to, and it made me a little self-conscious. I drank my water and said nothing.

Marc approached me as he called the bartender to settle the bill. Izzy, are you heading out with us, or will you stay here?

No, I will join you guys. I had no intention to spend the evening with a man I had just met in a bar.

I turned back to my brief bar companion, It was a pleasure, Julien.

Instead, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, so close and slowly that his breath made me shiver, Mine as well, Izzy. Till we meet again.

After recovering from the momentary daze I just suffered, I gave him a brief smile, got off the barstool, and headed towards the door. I could almost feel his eyes watching me leave as I joined the others outside. They all quizzed me on the attractive man I had been speaking with earlier. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Julien, but I cannot deny the fact that I found him exceptionally attractive, yet I knew almost nothing about him.

***

The following day, after work, I headed over to the grocery shop, thinking I should pick up a bottle of wine. The weather seemed pretty decent this evening, so I wouldn’t mind having a glass of cabernet on my small balcony when I got home.

Just as I was about to step inside the shop, my cell phone rang. It was Julien Durand, the cop I met the evening before. This guy moved fast, something I really wasn’t used to.

Hello?

Hello Izzy, this is Julien. How are you?

Hi, Julien. I’m good. God, he sounded just as sexy on the phone too.

Am I catching you at a bad time?

Not at all. I just left the office for the day.

Perfect! Then meet me at Depuis for dinner. I will text you the address.

When?

Now, of course!

Is he kidding?

Now? I’m not….

You have to eat tonight, no?

Well, of course, I do. I could feel myself slowly caving. It didn’t seem like he would take no for an answer.

So you eat tonight with company.

Okay. Umm, sure then.

Well, that was fast, I thought after our call ended.

I didn’t know much about French dating etiquette, but I found the whole meet a guy in a bar, going on a last-minute dinner a little unnerving. All my French colleagues had left the office for the day, so no one was around that I could ask if this behavior was normal.

A minute later, I received a message from Julien with the address of the restaurant.

I

f it was actually possible, he looked even better the next day. I saw him standing outside the restaurant entrance, looking tall and elegant, wearing dark indigo jeans, a dark-colored t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Those broad shoulders and the way his jacket opened to reveal his torso under that fitted top, there was no missing the obvious. This man had an athletic build and my mouth watered at the sight of him.

I had no idea who Julien Durand was other than that he was a cop and liked to drink foreign beer from a bottle. And here I was, the clueless American, lost in a sea of French people on a date with one of the hottest men I’ve met so far in this romantic city.

Salut, Izzy, He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, which I don’t know why for the life of me, but I blushed. Maybe because back home, guys don’t usually get that physical before the first date. Except for a few exceptions, of course. But with him being so close, I could smell his aftershave, and he smelled nice too, like sage and musk.

Salut, Julien, I said, a little too bashful for my own liking.

I’m pretty sure he caught that blush because, behind his smile, there was an underlying amusement in his eyes. As if he knew why my cheeks turned pink, he was entertained by my French innocence. His gaze made my cheeks burn even hotter. I looked down, suddenly wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

I heard Julien chuckle lightly and opened the door to the small but cozy neighborhood restaurant.

Salut, Julien, 

Either a waiter or the owner greeted him with his first name and a kiss on either cheek. So they were either friends, or he brought a lot of dates here. They said some things in French, which I was pretty sure I understood if he wanted the usual table. But heck, what do I know?

Julien pulled out the seat for me, and I sat down. The waiter who gave us the menus also greeted him as if he knew him, but this time, there was no cheek kissing. I put my bet on the fact that this place was where he often brought his dates.

What are you thinking? he asked after the waiter left us.

It’s a private thought, I replied.

He lifted an eyebrow, Do you often eat alone?

Why would you ask that? I asked as I watched his mouth twitch a little.

Because you prefer to engage in private discussions with your head. The one corner of Julien’s mouth curved into a lop-sided grin. I noticed he didn’t smile big, but it was almost as if I was special enough for it when he did. Perhaps the smiling issue was more of a cultural thing because I noticed that the Parisians are generally reserved about passing around such facial expressions so freely.

That made me chuckle; I have to give him credit for his witty sarcasm.

Come here often? I asked without going into too much detail about my thoughts of him bringing dates here.

The waiter interrupted us to bring the wine and poured Julien a small amount in his glass to taste. I observed with interest as he approved with the gesture of a slight nod, and the waiter filled our glasses. Julien asked him to leave the bottle on the table.

Yes, he said, not forgetting my question. Actually, I do come here quite a bit. I know the owner. He was a good friend of my father’s.

Okay, maybe I lost to my own bet. I felt a little embarrassed now because here was perhaps one of the good guys, and I reduced him to a player.

"Was, being the operative word. I take it your father is no longer around?"

I could see Julien look a little uncomfortable. I was about to change the topic when he decided to elaborate.

My father also served the Police Nationale. He died in service when I was 14, he said bluntly.

That must have been tough. I didn’t want to say the usual, sorry to hear that, because I know it’s the last thing one wants to hear about the loss of a loved one.

And you? Completely disregarding my comment. Izzy, what about you? Where in America are you from? Julien made it painfully obvious he wanted to switch topics. I noticed he rarely liked talking about himself.

Well, we all have secrets.

I lived in New York before coming to Paris, but I grew up in California. I wasn’t going to divulge much either. Two can also play that game, Mr. Durand.

California and New York. Both are interesting places on the opposite sides of each other. And now you are living in Paris. You travel well.

Mmm. I go where life takes me. I said as I ran my finger around the bottom ring of the wine glass thoughtfully.

I’m pretty much more of a floater with no real life goals because nothing ever turns out how I want it to be. I expect nothing and tackle each day as it comes. It's less heartbreaking that way.

How was it growing up in California? Julien asked curiously.

I didn’t want to rehash that part of my life. Perhaps Julien sensed from my body language that I may have withdrawn a little. After all, he is an investigator, and I’m sure he analyzes people’s body language all day.

Sun, sand, beaches. Surfing all day. I drifted off.

His eyes widened with interest. Do you surf?

I used to, haven’t done so in a while. But it’s a national pastime. If you grow up on the coast, you pick up surfing as soon as you start walking. To a certain extent, I missed it. There weren’t any opportunities to practice the sport living in Manhattan, and I didn’t feel like venturing back to California for it either.

That’s really interesting. So an Italian Californian girl.

Why would he say that?

I peered at him, I never said Italian. Did he check me out on some kind of government database?

But your name is. He said casually.

My first name is, but that would be making a hard guess, I imagined he must have downloaded a small fact sheet about me from his work.

I looked at him carefully for any signs of bullshit. Have you been stalking me on some kind of immigration database? I blurted out.

Julien’s eyes narrowed briefly, and he shook his head with a laugh, Why would you suggest that, Izzy? His gaze was so intense, it made me feel a little self-conscious.

Because you have access to such stuff, I said without hesitation.

And you think I would abuse my position to find out something I could easily just ask you instead? Julien replied, holding eye contact with me, daring me to challenge him on his work ethic.

I felt like a fucking dildo. He was entirely right.

I’m Italian by heritage, I explained, without reiterating the stupidity I had just landed myself into moments earlier.

Most Americans come from somewhere, he said, taking my cue to disregard my moment of misjudgment.

So do the French, I said, taking a sip of wine, hoping it would relax my nerves a little.

He raised an eyebrow and looked amused but didn’t say anything.

I explained further, Well, take your history; for example, you could have German or even British heritage.

He chuckled, I think you may have that one confused. I am French, both sets of grandparents with roots from the Occitanie region.

All the more reason to expect Catalonian in you.

Julien chortled but didn’t say anything; instead,