Julie Caplin - The Little Paris Patisserie - A heartwarming and feel good cosy romance - perfect for fans of Bake Off!

As per Sebastian’s texted instructions, Nina rang the doorbell on flat 44b and almost before she’d taken her finger from the bell, the door opened, making her jump.

A slender woman looked out. Her dead straight blonde hair was arranged in a sleek ponytail framing her face accentuating high cheekbones and a firm chin. She might have written the book on classy chic and haughty sang-froid, as defined by her indifferent expression, glossy pointy shoes, the wide-legged cream trousers and a high-necked silk blouse in pale blue, all of which made Nina feel doubly hot and sticky.

‘ Bonjour, je suis Nina. Je suis ici pour les cl é s de Sebastian .’ The words burbled out in desperation and from the quickly concealed smile on the face of the elegant woman, she’d not made a terribly good fist of it.

‘Bonjour, Nina. I heard you coming all the way up the stairs.’ Nina felt her disapproval. ‘I’m Valerie du…’ She didn’t quite catch her surname, as Valerie sounded as if she’d swallowed every syllable. ‘Here are the keys.’ She held them out at arm’s length with a rather regal, keep-the-peasants-at-a-distance touch. ‘When you see Sebastian, please give him my very best wishes.’ Her flawless English and very sexy accent highlighted Nina’s sense of being under-dressed and travel-soiled. ‘I shall miss him, he’s such excellent company.’ Valerie added with a knowing, naughty look.

Nina swallowed. ‘I will. Erm, thank you.’ Valerie looked at least fifteen years older than Sebastian. Without any more ado, Valerie shut the door.

‘Welcome to Paris,’ muttered Nina under her breath. ‘I hope you had a good journey. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask, as you’re in a strange apartment, in a foreign city and you don’t know a soul around here.’

As she battled her way through the door, dragging her suitcases, her phone pinged.

I’m assuming you’ve made it. I need you to bring some of my stuff over to the hotel from my apartment. Ring me and I’ll talk you through what I need. If you come over here, we can have a meeting about what will be required from you. I suggest about 3 p.m. Sebastian.

She wilted slightly at the strictly business text. Couldn’t he give her a break? She’d been in the city for less than an hour and had no idea where the hotel was in relation to here. At the moment, her priority was locating a kettle and coffee and ransacking a cupboard to find something to eat. He could at least have given her chance to settle in?

Sebastian was just being bloody pedantic, Nina decided as she hauled down a wheelie suitcase from the top of the cupboard in the hallway. Surely it would be easier to transport everything in this instead of the leather holdall he’d asked for. The wheelie case, which looked like an oversized silver beetle with latched sides, would be much easier to pull along rather than having to carry the other bag.

After a brief conversation, in which he’d given her the address of his hotel, she’d scribbled down the list of what he wanted. First up, his laptop and papers, which she gathered up from the table in the lounge. Then she moved to the bedroom. Five shirts, as requested, folded and packed, the toiletry bag filled from the bathroom and dressing table, including the Tom Ford aftershave he’d specifically asked for – and no, she didn’t do that girly thing of sniffing it, even though she did wonder what it smelled like. Next, underwear. Hesitantly she opened his top drawer. Yup, underwear drawer. Somehow she might have guessed he’d be a jersey boxer man. And Calvin Klein rather than M&S. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen plenty of men’s underwear in her time but … this felt too personal. Thinking about Sebastian in this. No, she was not going there. He was just a bloke. Nick’s friend. A silly boy once. She’d known him forever. Telling herself to get on with it and quit being so stupid, she grabbed a handful, and as she did, she nudged a cardboard box. Shit. That was different ball game. Wincing at the double entendre, she looked at the box. Condoms. A pack of twelve. Featherlite. Open.

Don’t look inside. Don’t.

With a bump she sat down on the bed.

Four missing. Sebastian. Had sex. Has sex. Is having sex.

And it was absolutely, definitely, no way of interest to her. Nothing to do with her. She was not going to look at the use by date on them. And there was no earthly reason for her heart to have that silly, stupid, ridiculous pinching feeling.

Sebastian was a good-looking guy. No state secret. Of course he had women. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had a girlfriend. And the time before that. Different ones. He had girlfriends. She knew that. This was hardly a surprise and meant nothing to her.

Oh heck. So what was she supposed to do with them? Ignore them? Pretend she hadn’t seen them? But then he knew they were here. Would know that she’d see them. Or maybe he had forgotten. If she packed them, it would show that she was completely blasé about them being there. Show that she was grown up and worldly about such things. Although if he needed them, quite how he was going to manoeuvre with a broken leg would be interesting. And where had that thought come from? Hurriedly she stuffed them in. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn’t it?

Unfortunately, there was a hold up on the Metro which made her late and then, when she emerged onto the street, it had started to drizzle. Of course it bloody well had, so her perfect bob which was supposed to represent her new, more grown up image, had gone slightly curly, her pointy high heels, showing Parisienne sophistication, were killing her and the horribly expensive sheer tights were splashed with dirty water. It also turned out that the five-minute walk to the hotel was technically correct, providing you were a certain Mr Usain Bolt.

By the time she staggered to the top of the flight of steps of the hotel, tottering in her heels with all the élan of Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot , it was nearer five o’clock. The concierge opened the door for her and she managed to raise a very small smile, which was quickly wiped from her face when her wet shoes slipped on one of the tiles. Saving herself before she fell, she sacrificed the wheelie case which promptly popped open exploding clothes in a rainbow of colour and fabric. And of course, the damn box of condoms had to go skittering across the floor before it came to rest beside the highly polished chestnut shoes of a tall, dark Gregory Fitoussi lookalike.

Sod’s law, he had to bend down, pick them up and hand them to her as she blushed like a sunburned tomato.

‘Merci,’ she stuttered trying to give him an insouciant smile, taking them calmly from him as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time and it really was nothing and she wasn’t the least bit fazed by it or dying slowly inside.

With a charming smile, he nodded, said something in rapid indistinguishable French and walked away, stepping around a pair of boxers.

Aware that she’d become a bit of a spectacle in the busy lobby, not that anyone was rushing forward to help, she hurriedly snatched the scattered clothes and rammed them back into the case any old how, closed it and, smoothing her hair, she crossed to the front desk. Sebastian had told her to ask for him at the front desk so that they could give her a key for his room.

Goodness only knows what everyone thought she was doing with a suitcase of condoms and men’s clothing. The receptionist gave her a decidedly glacial look. Everyone probably thought she was a call girl, which was almost correct as for the next few weeks she was going to be Sebastian’s beck-and-call girl.

Sebastian was on the ninth floor and his room, rather practically, was right next door to the lift. She knocked loudly with several firm raps before inserting the key card into the slot. Three attempts later the little light finally turned green and she pushed open the door, her heart thumping so hard that she could almost feel her ribs rattling. Which was ridiculous.