by Alix Nichols
“Let me guess, he was.”
She gives me a falsely sheepish little smile and a shrug, as if to say, How’s that my fault?
It isn’t, of course. With Armelle nothing ever is.
Taking charge is my job, my second nature. Not hers. While I tend to assume responsibility—sometimes wrongly—for every two-legged and four-legged creature that comes into my orbit, Armelle’s problem is that she never does. Not even for her own actions.
I’ve always known this. But back when I was under her spell, I thought it made us complementary to each other.
What a fool!
Armelle swallows nervously. “And then, he said to me, ‘Would you like to take that woman’s place tonight?’ ”
“And you said to him, ‘Yeah, sure. I have a fiancé, but you have a Lamborghini.’ ”
She squirms. “It wasn’t like that. I laughed, and I was going to walk away, but he explained how he’d booked a table long ago because at Le Comptoir you must book months ahead. He was looking forward to tasting the famed chef’s dishes, and now he’d have to cancel because he never eats alone.”
I smirk. “Obviously, you couldn’t let that happen.”
“All he was asking for was my company at dinner.”
“I see. That changes everything.”
“Oh, come on.” She pouts. “Have you ever taken me to a place like that? No.”
See? It’s my fault.
But I don’t want to argue now. I want to hear the rest of the story.
“How did a dinner at Le Comptoir lead to a year in Italy?” I ask doing my best to hide the sarcasm.
“When we were leaving the restaurant, he said he was going to Monte Carlo for the weekend. He had a room at Meridien Plaza with access to a private beach.”
I stare at her, saying nothing.
“You know how it goes.” She looks at her feet. “One thing led to another…”
“Who was he? I’m just curious.”
“An international negotiator.”
“What kind of deals?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Financial, maybe? I’m not sure. He never talked about his work, and I never asked.”
I draw in a breath, then exhale slowly.
She grabs my hand. “But the important part here is that it was me who left him to return to you! I understood something clearly at last. You are my true love, Thomas! I realized that I don’t need the luxury, the jewelry, and the rest. I want to be with someone I can trust, someone I lo—”
“Me, too,” I say, interrupting her.
“You still love me! I knew it—”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I, too, want to be with someone I can trust.” I peel her hand off my wrist. “Someone I love.”
She peers at me, panic flashing in her eyes.
I almost run to the door. “That someone isn’t you, Armelle!”
Once I exit my building, I do run. To Dana’s.
28
Thomas
When I buzz, it’s Liviu who answers. “Mom isn’t here.”
“Oh. All right.” My shoulders droop. “I’ll come back later.”
“She’s gone to Le Grand Rex, to meet the staff and sign her contract. She’ll be a part-time usher.”
His voice is filled with such joyful pride that I can almost see his brown eyes sparkling. Just like Dana’s when she’s happy.
“I’m so very glad to hear it!”
“I can see it’s raining,” Liviu says. He must’ve walked over to the window and peeked out.
“It is,” I say.
“I can also see you don’t have an umbrella.”
“Eagle eye.”
“Or a jacket,” he adds.
“That’s terribly remiss of me.”
“Come on in. She won’t be long,” he says. “Bunica is making pancakes.”
I smile. Of course, Ioana is making crepes. It’s Sunday morning.
He buzzes me in.
When Dana bursts into the loge twenty minutes later, Ioana, Liviu and I are stuffing ourselves with our third serving of Romanian crepes. Baloo jumps up and down and wags his tail, overjoyed to see her.
I know exactly how he feels.
Beaming, she sets her umbrella down and pulls a manila folder out of her bag. “Signed and stamped! I’m starting tomorrow af—” She spots me.
I rise to my feet. “Hello, Dana.”
“Go wash your hands if you want your share of clatite,” Ioana says in a motherly tone.
Relief flickers across Dana’s face before she disappears into the bathroom.
I debate if I should ask her for a private conversation or present my case in front of Ioana, Liviu, and Baloo.
The latter, I decide. Dana is a package deal. If I get one Fieraru, I get the whole family.
When she comes out, she rounds the table and sits down next to Liviu, across from Ioana and me. Over the next fifteen minutes, I recount what I’ve learned this weekend about Armelle and the abduction that never was.
They listen without interrupting.
“Turns out the cops were right all along, and I was obtuse,” I conclude. “Completely blinded to all the telltale signs.”
“Vai! Vai!” Ioana clamps a hand to her cheek and sways her upper body. “Men do think with their—”
“Mami!” Dana’s eyes blaze at her.
Liviu snorts.
Shooting me a compassionate look, Ioana serves herself another pancake.
“Regarding her telling people she’s an orphan,” Dana says. “Don’t be too quick to judge. Maybe her parents did mistreat her.”
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
Are you over me? I want to ask, but I don’t dare.
What if she says yes?
Maybe I could rephrase that, ask a more positive question. If she still has feelings for me. Or if she thinks she could forgive me.
But what if she says no?
“Cabbage,” Dana says.
I startle. “Beg your pardon?”
“What a mess,” Ioana clarifies, her mouth full.
My lips form an O and my chin goes up. “Ah, I remember! The Romanian cabbage.”
Dana settles her eyes on mine. “Will you be leaving her, then?”
“Hell, yes.” I search her face and add before I lose my nerve, “Will you date me?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation.
Liviu grins.
Blinking back tears, Ioana pats my hand. “Another pancake?”
Epilogue
Daniela
I dart a look at Thomas’s clock. “We have to leave here in thirty minutes.”
“Mmm.” Thomas’s mouth is trailing down my throat to the hollow at the base, along my collarbone as far as my shirt allows, and then back.
He begins to unbutton my shirt.
I catch his wrist. “There’s no time.”
“Twenty minutes for a quickie, ten minutes to clean up.” His other hand cups me between my legs. “Plenty of time.”
Just as I open my mouth to argue, his mouth slants over mine, silencing me with a kiss. One of those hot, hard kisses of his that he knows get me wet even with his hands off. Except, his hands are on now. One is on my breast and the other has yanked my panties down, and is doing wicked, sinful things to my pelvis.
“We don’t get opportunities like this very often,” he says.
It’s true. Between Liviu, Baloo and my mom, we’re hardly ever alone.
My contract requires that I sleep at the loge. And Liviu is still too young to sleep alone at Thomas’s place. So, our sleeping arrangements have been… complicated. Thomas and I do spend every night together, at my place. But with Liviu so close by, and the thin wall far from soundproof, we’re forced to be very discreet.
Thomas has started looking for a bigger apartment to house all three of us. Four, with Baloo.
Last week, I gave my notice and signed on as a full-time employee at Le Grand Rex.
My mom and Liviu will be joining us there in half an hour. I’m not
working today. We’re going to attend the theater’s Christmas show called The Magic of Water.
Thomas’s fingers hit my most sensitive spot, which he works like a pro. A minute later, I’m gushing over them. Suddenly, his idea of a “quickie” seems perfectly sound and doable.
I shift off his lap, shake my panties off and straddle Thomas, pressing his beautiful thickness to my belly. Stroking it. Teasing it.
He slides his hands to my waist. Gripping his neck, I lift my hips and then he’s in me, holding me in place while he drives deep inside. My body arches in response, and I bear down to take him even deeper.
Our breaths mingling and our bodies molding together, we strain and pant and move until there’s just rushing blood and pleasure building inside me.
We come almost at the same time, with him delaying his release just long enough to let me crest mine. He spurts his seed into me while my vagina still throbs, and I love the feeling.
Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.
When we get to Le Grand Rex, Liviu and Mami are already there. We go in, bypassing the long line—just one of the many joys of finally holding my dream job—and enter the Great Hall.
Down on the stage, everything is ready for the musical fountains show. It will precede the latest Disney cartoon premiering here. A tradition upheld by Le Grand Rex since 1954!
“Twelve hundred sprinklers ready to project 3000 liters of water,” I say to my three favorite people, pointing down. “Expect at least five hundred different effects tonight.”
Liviu gawks.
Thomas’s face crinkles up in a smile.
Soon enough, the show begins, and we can’t help but sing along and groove to the breathtaking aquatic ballet. At one point, a giant female figure made of colorful lights appears at the front of the stage. The figure starts to dance. Kids everywhere in the room jump up and launch into funky routines, some mimicking the woman’s moves and others doing their own thing.
As the singing jets rise and fall, I lift my eyes to the star-studded ceiling and say a quick prayer of gratitude.
This Christmastime has been so vastly different from the earlier ones, I don’t know where to begin.
Perhaps, with my wardrobe. Thanks to the gift card I got for my birthday, I bought a few fashionable items from Galeries Lafayette. They include a pair of sleek leather boots, a gorgeous red coat, and three cashmere sweaters.
Next, I got a haircut. The bun is gone, and I’m now sporting a chin-grazing layered bob. It has the advantage of being low maintenance and trendy at the same time.
When Manon took me to her salon two weeks ago, I almost walked out worried Thomas would be upset. He’d been a huge fan of the bun. But he says my new hairstyle looks great on me. Besides, he says, my hair is long enough for him to run his fingers through the wavy strands and short enough to reveal my neck. A win-win, as far as he’s concerned.
His mom and sisters, whom I’ve now met “officially” as Thomas’s girlfriend, agree with him that the bob suits me.
They’ve been incredibly sweet, making Liviu and me feel at home in the family house. They’re determined to show me the best of Bordeaux, so I can lose my “Parisian condescendence” and see their hometown through their eyes.
From what I’ve seen so far, it’s a charming city, and I’ll never call it part of “The Suburb” again. Not because they’ve converted me, but because I wouldn’t want to be banished. Thomas’s family and friends are too much fun. If admitting that Bordeaux is superior to the City of Light is all they demand in exchange for their unreserved acceptance, then so be it. I’ll lie.
Thomas knows what I really think—that no city in the world can hold a candle to Paris—and that’s all that matters.
I adore that man, my very own Marshmallow Heart.
That quicksand I was sinking into? It’s swallowed me up, body and soul. But instead of being crushed by its weight, I feel like I’m flying.
Leaning toward Thomas, I whisper in his ear, “I love you so much.”
It’s not the first time I’ve said those words to him. And it won’t be the last.
“I love you, too.” He brushes a soft kiss to my lips.
Last Saturday, Thomas and I picked out a ring.
Yes, one of those rings, with a single diamond crowning a smooth gold band. He took me to a chic jewelry shop on Place Vendôme and forbade me from looking at the price tags. It was hard. I’d never bought or let anyone buy anything without looking at the price tag before. But I managed.
The ring had to be resized, and that was a huge relief. With everything closing for Christmas, it won’t be ready until January, which leaves me time to adjust to the idea.
I haven’t been able to tell anyone yet, not even Liviu.
Truth is, I’d started feeling a little overwhelmed, and needed to slow down a bit. Thomas says I’m doing great, but he knows it isn’t easy. This fall has seen some drastic changes, such a vast improvement to my old life—to all thirty years of it—that at times it feels unreal. I know I’ll get used to it eventually. One day soon, it’ll be my new normal. I just need to prepare myself for it.
One of the things I did by way of preparing was to send a Christmas card with a photo of Liviu to his paternal grandparents. Mr. and Mrs. Radu have a joint practice these days, and a website, where I found their office address.
Liviu doesn’t really need them. I, for sure, don’t need them. But judging by how profoundly sad the pair of them look on their website’s “Who We Are” page, I believe they need him.
After I gave birth, they made it clear they wanted nothing to do with my “brat,” who “likely wasn’t even by Marius.” And even if he was, they said he’d never replace their golden boy. They didn’t want a surrogate. Something that looked a lot like madness distorted Mrs. Radu’s face when she told me she’d gladly sacrifice Liviu if it would bring back Marius. The woman’s grief had mutilated her heart.
I can’t say I’ve forgiven the Radus completely, but for the first time since that tragic autumn thirteen years ago, I feel strong enough to offer them solace.
I don’t expect them to visit Liviu or even write back. But they’ll keep the photo, I’m sure of it. They’ll look at it often. They’ll open their shutters just a crack and let a sliver of light in.
This autumn has taught me that once you do that, there’s no turning back. You can take all the precautions in the world, but before you know it, your shutters are blown away, your windows are thrown wide, and your house is flooded with love.
<<<>>>
Dear reader,
Thanks for joining Dana and Thomas for this amazing ride!
If you enjoyed the sizzling chemistry and romance between them, you’ll love Amanda and Kes’s story. Inspired by Shakespeare's Shrew, “Amanda’s Guide to Love” features a candid and snarky Parisian career girl and her hilarious taming.
Plus sexy times.
Minus verse.
Here’s a preview to give you a taste:
Amanda’s Guide to Love
1. Rock Bottom
Amanda stared at the typed letter. Neatly strung words zoomed in and out of focus as their meaning sank in. Mademoiselle Roussel . . . I regret to inform you . . . with immediate effect.
She swallowed hard and slipped the letter into her purse.
Most of her colleagues would cheer at the news. They’d rush into each other’s offices and say, “Did you hear? Viper Tongue got the sack! Serves her right.” Some of them might send around an e-mail invite for a celebratory drink. Others would just shrug and say good riddance.
Would anyone feel sorry for her? She furrowed her brow. Karine would. And maybe Paul from accounting. Perhaps even Sylvie from marketing, unless she was on meds again and not feeling anything at all.
But none of it really mattered.
What did matter was that the end of the world was upon her. Her personal, localized Armageddon had arrived in an innocent-looking envelope with the Energie NordSud logo on it.
Amanda grabbed her handbag and marched out the door. Keeping her back as straight as she could, she strode through the hallway, down the marble staircase, and out the main entrance.
Eyes on the gate, one foot in front of the other.
She nodded to the security guard and passed through the turnstile.
“Mademoiselle Roussel?” the guard asked, looking at his computer screen and then at her.
“Yes?”
“I must collect your access card.”
“I’ll come back next week to gather my things,” she said as flatly as she could, handing him her card.
He nodded. “We’ll let you in. Just make sure your visit is supervised by Monsieur Barre.”
“Of course.”
Amanda turned on her heel and marched away, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her grimace. Truth was she’d rather donate her fine glass paperweight and Bodum French press to the company than ask Julien Barre—the bastard who’d fired her—to allow her to clean out her desk.
And have him breathe down her neck while she was doing it.
In the métro car, Amanda’s eyebrows rose at the number of vacant seats before she remembered it was only three in the afternoon—the earliest she’d left the office in four years. As the train stations passed before her eyes, a plan formed in her mind. She’d get home and locate her father’s Swiss Army knife. Then she’d down a few shots of vodka, return to the office, kill Julien, and kill herself.
It sounded like an excellent plan.
Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the door to her apartment and went straight to the minibar, praying she hadn’t imagined the bottle of vodka hiding behind her expensive wines.
Bingo!
There it was—cold to the touch and as real as the sharp pain in her heart.
She filled a glass with the transparent liquid and drained it. The beverage burned her tongue. Amanda yelled out a battle cry, jumped up and down a few times while punching the air, and poured herself another glass. She set it on the coffee table and retrieved a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. With her glass in one hand and the ice cream in the other, she kicked off her shoes and settled into her creamy leather sofa—the one she’d bought on credit, like almost everything else in her stylish little apartment.
