Or perhaps just as haughtily as I intended.
Ugh. I suck. I drop my forehead onto my desk.
“You okay?”
I raise my head at the sound of Griffin’s voice. He stands in the office doorway, studying me. I offer another smile, hoping it’s more authentic than the last one. “Fabulous. Ready to tackle the day. Since, you know, I didn’t run this morning.”
Oops. I went there again.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Is something about running bothering you?”
“What? No. Why would that bother me?” I glance at the clock. “Meeting time.”
When in doubt about your bizarre emotional reaction to something, practice avoidance.
Fortunately, the meeting provides the perfect opportunity to do precisely that.
In the conference room, we discuss time-to-market for the new body spray, and then we brainstorm product plans for our lavender lotion. Next on the agenda is our wish list of items. That excites me, as developing new products is a true passion, especially when Griffin translates and tells me they want to explore making perfume.
My ears prick with excitement, and my heart pounds faster with possibility. I sit straighter as I ask questions about what they might want, scribbling down ideas in my notebook as quickly as I can.
By the time the meeting ends, my brain hurts again—from trying to comprehend what they said before Griffin translated for me.
And failing.
I need him so badly, and today it’s ticking me off because I don’t want to feel jealousy. I don’t want to feel longing. I don’t want to want to kiss him so damn badly it’s like a persistent ache in my chest.
I want to be friends, just friends.
I need to put myself in a time-out and try to sort through the barrage of emotions I didn’t expect this morning.
Naturally, I retreat to the ladies’ room. Once inside, I take out my phone and check my messages. My sister replied to my email that had my Montmartre caricature attached to it.
* * *
Allison: Oh my! Never has a likeness of you and your big mouth been so accurate! Also, love you madly, and miss you much.
* * *
That brings me a smile and makes my heart hurt the slightest bit. Understanding my sister is so easy, but understanding everyone here is so hard. I’m more homesick for English than I want to be.
But I’m not going to be visiting that familiar place anytime soon.
That afternoon, I sequester myself in the lab with blotters and vials and tubes. Griffin is gone, as he usually is at this time. Off running, or doing written translations, or meeting beautiful French women who run, or having sex with trim French women who whisper dirty French things in his ear.
Gritting my teeth, I reach for a tube of synthetic orange blossom molecules.
Nearby, Charles is working quietly, too.
I swing my gaze back to my own work, wishing I felt comfortable casually asking him what he’s working on, bantering about the day, gabbing as we test formulations. Hey there, Chuck. What’s shaking? How’s the body lotion formulation going? Does it smell amazeballs?
Oh yes, it’s fantastic. Want a sniff?
Why, thank you! Oh my, that is wonderful. You’re so talented.
I followed the process you outlined in the meeting last week. And yes, I think the process is amazeballs, too.
Yeah, that conversation doesn’t happen, even though I make a mental note to look up the correct translation of “amazeballs” later. Clearly, such a critical word in English must have a French equivalent.
But I can’t say any of that, so I offer a professional smile and return to my work. Today, I’m fine-tuning a formulation for a body lotion. It’s close, but not quite there. It needs that final top note. Something that makes customers want it. Something that makes them think of their happiest moments.
Orange blossom isn’t cutting it. It’s too close to a cleaner in this blend.
Closing my eyes, I try to picture all my favorite days, but my memory isn’t cooperating. Unpleasantness intrudes, images of Richard calling me the day he fell from the ladder, telling me he injured his back and was being taken to the hospital. My shoulders curl inward, tensing. I’d been ready to break up with him before that fateful call. I’d known I wasn’t in love with him anymore. But how do you break a man’s heart the same day he breaks his back?
You don’t.
You woman up.
You stay. You help. You do everything you can.
Until you can’t do any more.
When I open my eyes, I try to will away the unpleasant images. I can’t brew the scent of guilt. I can’t bottle our antiseptic relationship.
As I stare at the white-tiled walls of the lab, I cycle through some of the most pleasing scents. Vanilla and jasmine. Honey and rose. Peach and apple. You can’t go wrong with peach. It’s like bread; it’s like puppies. It’s impossible to dislike the scent of peach.
But I can’t find the vial I need when I search for it on the shelves. Sighing, I grab my phone, double-checking the words on Google Translate.
“Do you have the peach?” I ask Charles in French, adding the dilution amount.
His eyes light up. “Yes.”
He rises, reaches for the tube, and hands it to me.
“Thank you.”
But when I mix it up, the scent is too strong, too intense. And I know why. I asked for the wrong variation. Because my pronunciation is as good as a garbage can.
“Do you like it?” he asks me in his native language.
“A little,” I tell him.
It’s a lie.
I can’t stand it.
Mostly, I can’t stand myself.
When I leave work that night, I take out my phone and curse it. “You’re only good for bakery information.”
The phone beeps. “I can give you bakery information,” the robotic woman answers.
I curse at her.
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat the question?”
“Ugh.”
“I did not understand you. Can you try again?”
I bark into the phone. “Where is the nearest bakery that’s still open? I desperately need a peach tart.”
“I’m sorry. There is no bakery open.”
I imagine she adds, with a snicker, you pathetic idiot.
I go home, wishing for a tart but needing so much more. I head to my rooftop and text my sister.
* * *
Joy: What’s shaking, sugar?
* * *
Her reply is swift.
* * *
Allison: Can’t talk. At work. Skype later?
* * *
But later I’ll be asleep, and once again, I’m lost in time. Stuck between two worlds. I don’t exist in my old world any longer, and I don’t fit into the new one.
Once upon a time I thought it would be easy to escape into a new life. But there’s nothing simple about starting over. I write back to Allison saying we’ll talk another time. As I close her message, I find a text from Richard that came through earlier in the day.
You were wrong. I’m not addicted. My new doctor says my previous doc didn’t know how to manage the pain. Hope you’re having fun in France.
Seething, I narrow my eyes and stare daggers at my phone then shout at it, “I’m not having fun. Not today. Not at all. And you’re wrong, you ass. You’re fucking wrong.”
Gripping the phone harder, I consider chucking it. Tossing it far across the rooftops of Paris for the crime of delivering Richard’s message to me, as well as tricking me into thinking a search engine could solve my language woes. But that would be cruelty to my smartphone, and my phone has, bakery misunderstanding aside, been pretty good to me. I set it on the chair.
Then I tromp downstairs to my bedroom, marching to my silver tray with my favorite scents. I snatch up a little tester tube of Obsession, and spritz it on my wrist. Next, I grab Angel, with its chocolate and caramel notes, and spray some on my other hand. Like a dog sniffing
for food, I hold my nose up high and let the mixture of scents feed my olfactory senses. If Richard were here, he’d cough majestically, dramatically even, and tell me my perfume gave him a headache. He’d fling his hand on his forehead as if to prove his point. That wasn’t why I wanted to end our relationship, but it was one more Jenga block in a teetering tower.
A tower that came crashing down.
Tonight, I celebrate my freedom from him by dousing myself in all the scents he abhorred. By the time I’m done, I smell like a ten-cent whorehouse. I cackle as I twirl in my bedroom. Yup. I’m a regular mess right now. But I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t stinking care.
I do a little jig. I can finally do whatever I want in my own sweet time in my own dang home.
But admittedly, the scent of me right now is a wee bit overwhelming so I hop into the shower, wash myself clean, and pull on yoga pants and a sweater.
I return to my new favorite place, sinking back into the chaise lounge on my rooftop garden. With a cooler head, I grab my phone, delete Richard’s message, then go to his contact information. My thumb hovers over his name. I could delete him, too. I could even block him. Instead, I resolve to ignore him if I hear from him. After all, there’s nothing I can do for him anymore. I put down the phone and stare at the twinkling lights glittering on the Eiffel Tower.
I gaze at them until they turn hazy and blurry. I might have moved on from my past. I might be letting go of a relationship I stayed in far beyond its expiration point. But I haven’t fully stepped into my new life.
And I know why.
The answer doesn’t reside in Google.
It can be found in those lights.
In where they flicker.
In what they represent.
I text Griffin and tell him I have a proposition for him.
14
Griffin
* * *
There’s one word a woman can utter that gets a man’s blood flowing south instantly.
Okay. That’s not true.
There are about twenty thousand that produce that effect, because when you fancy a woman, nearly anything remotely sexy can drive you crazy with desire for her.
Imagine if she says, I’m going to take off a sock.
Boom. Implied nudity. Hard as a rock.
Perhaps she asks, Do you like strawberries?
Obviously that means she wants me to eat them off her breasts. Flagpole raised.
But then there are some that are so direct, so spot on, she might as well be saying, I’d like you to fuck me hard all night long.
Which, for the record, might possibly be my favorite thing a woman could ever say to me. In fact, I might need to make that my own personal addendum to the bucket list.
At the moment, though, the word is proposition.
As I walk to the restaurant Joy has chosen on Rue de Bac, I keep replaying that deliciously inviting message.
I have a proposition for you.
What could it possibly be but some fantastic arrangement where we shag all night and still get along for work? No strings, no pain, no heartbreak. Sign me up right-the-hell now. That would be fantastic. A promise of orgasm-drenched nights, capped off by an uncomplicated good-bye when I take off for Indonesia in a few more months, finally visiting the places around the world Ethan and I marked on a map when we were younger.
As I round the corner, Christian’s words have the temerity to appear in the forefront of my brain.
Don’t you make the same mistake. You can’t mix business and pleasure. We’re lucky to have the jobs we have.
We are lucky to have our jobs. I don’t disagree with his basic premise, but I doubt Joy’s proposition will jeopardize mine. Besides, I really only need to keep my job for the next two and a half months. That’s all she needs me for at her company, and then I’m gone. Who knows where I’ll end up after I take off on my great adventure? We made so many marks on that map. If I found it, it’d be full of pinholes, I’m sure.
Travel everywhere, Ethan wrote.
He can’t. So I must.
There’s simply no way that Joy’s have hot sex with me every single night starting now will interfere with my bigger plans. I can juggle business and pleasure. I can enjoy the woman, the gig, and the checking off of each item on the bucket list.
When I reach the door of Gabriel’s, a restaurant started by a French-Brazilian cook who’s now become a rock star chef in New York City, I’m more certain than ever that I can have my cake and eat it, too. Preferably off Joy’s soft, supple belly.
With that enticing image front and center, I smooth a hand down my black shirt, push open the door, and head inside.
She lifts her glass of wine in an elegant hand, and all I can think is the proposition is coming now. She’s going to hit me with her take me to bed and do very bad things to me offer this second. She’s been cagey and she’s been coy, insisting we order drinks first and then appetizers. What an alluring vixen. In return, I’m going to have so much fun torturing her exquisitely in bed. Driving her wild, touching her everywhere, putting my mouth all over that enticing body.
I raise my glass and tip it to hers, clinking. My eyes drift to her hands, picturing how inviting they’ll look above her head as she writhes on the bed.
She takes a sip, and I can’t stop looking at those lips now. Those red, pouty, full lips I’ve wanted to get to know since the day I met her.
Oh yes. I’m going to get my wish.
She murmurs, “Mmm. This wine is so good.”
I take a drink, too. “It’s fantastic.”
She runs her finger along the rim of the glass. “I do love a good wine. My friend Elise says I should take more advantage of the pleasures Paris has to offer.”
“You really should,” I say, shifting an inch or two closer in my chair.
The restaurant is small, and the tables are lit with low candles, shimmering faintly. Exposed brick walls give the eatery a cozy feel. The weather outside has turned chillier, as it often does in April. Maybe Joy is thinking I can warm her up.
She arches an eyebrow playfully. “You also think I should partake of all the pleasures? Wine, food, dessert?”
“I think your friend Elise is brilliant, and I think you could even expand that list of pleasures.”
“And what else should I put on my list? Maybe languages?”
I blink. That’s not what she’s supposed to say. “Languages?”
She smiles, big and wide. She sets down her glass and spreads her hands on the table. “As I said, I have a proposition for you. Here it is.”
“Yes, hit me up.” Obviously, it’s the language of sex she wants me to teach her. The words and phrases that will take her straight to O-town every night. Funnily enough, I’m pretty damn fluent in that language as well as the many others I speak. “I’m conversant in many tongues.”
She laughs, tossing her head back, her throat long and inviting, her red hair curling in lush waves over her shoulders and down her chest, curtaining those fantastic breasts. I nearly growl with the realization that I will finally get properly acquainted with those beauties.
“You and your talent with tongues.” She shakes her head, amused, then clears her throat. “That’s actually what I want to talk to you about.”
I was right. Fist pump.
I’ve never answered an implied question faster in my life. “Yes. The answer is yes. We can start tonight if you want.”
She furrows her brow. “We can?”
“Absolutely. After dinner?”
“Really? You don’t want to start, say, now?” she asks, stammering a bit as if she didn’t expect my response.
I’m surprised, too, since I didn’t peg Joy as the get-it-on-at-a-restaurant kind of woman. But I pride myself on being flexible. I glance around the room, scanning for an opportunity. French bathrooms are notoriously tiny. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. I can make it work. Or maybe she has something else in mind. The tablecloths do afford some nice coverage. A
little under-the-table manual fun? Count me in.
“Now works for me.” Just so she knows I’m game for anything, I reach a hand under the table and gently stroke her knee.
She flinches for a brief second, then her eyes go hazy and she inhales sharply. “Now for wha . . .?”
“Whatever you want,” I say, running my hand up her thigh.
Her breath catches, and a faint pink flush runs up her neck. Jesus. She’s so incredibly sexy. She’s so responsive, and I’m going to get to play her beautiful body like an instrument.
“What I want . . .” She says it as if she’s mesmerized, like she can’t form words because she’s already so turned on.
“Anything you want.” My fingers travel higher up her thigh, and her eyes flutter closed. Her breath seems to come in a rush.
She swallows then says in a bare whisper, “I want . . .”
She doesn’t finish. She lowers her hand under the table, and her fingertips graze against mine. Electricity surges in me, sparking through my veins. Lust vibrates everywhere as my dirty mind spins so many possibilities. Places, positions, times. How she’ll look as a flush crawls up her chest and she arches beneath me, losing control, letting go.
I lace my fingers through hers with agonizing slowness, making it clear I’ll savor her, make her feel so good. I clasp them around hers possessively, so she’s keenly aware of how we’d come together. When our hands lock, she opens her eyes, and her hot gaze meets mine. Those green eyes of hers are flooded with lust, and a desire that matches mine.
“Have you decided what you want?”
The voice of the waiter snaps her focus from me.
I look up at him, silently cursing him with my eyes.
Joy snatches her hand away and sits tall. She fumbles with the menu then orders the Nicoise salad with salmon, and I choose a roast chicken dish.
Wanderlust Page 11
