No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  To discover Baptiste standing in front of her desk, loaded plate in hand.

  Her pulse rate, predictably, ramped up.

  There was something different about his eyes, she noticed right away. The green was muted now, headed toward brown rather than the bright emerald she’d seen earlier, and his jaw was tight.

  “Hey,” she said lightly. “What’s up?”

  “Here.” Scowling, he thrust the plate at her. “You’ll starve if you go around skipping luncheons. And you have a lot of work to do for our new vineyard. So keep your strength up.”

  “You didn’t poison it, did you?” she asked warily. “You look like you’re in the mood for a good poisoning.”

  “My mood has become quite variable since I met you. Do you want it or not?”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it. “You’re just in time. I haven’t had my four thousand calories for the day yet.”

  The plate was a two-inch-high conglomeration that you might find at one of those all-you-can-eat buffet places. She saw, at a glance, pasta, sliders, blackened chicken, cheeses, crackers and salad.

  “I wasn’t sure what you like. I wasn’t quick enough to get to the shrimp. People around here are like the snarling wolverines.”

  “That’s a very accurate assessment,” she said, laughing. “You should see them on Doughnut Day.”

  “I shudder to think.”

  “Thanks for bringing me lunch. You’re very thoughtful.”

  Much as she wanted to be a polite person and look him in the eye, it just didn’t seem safe at the moment. She had that same charged feeling she’d had when they danced together, and look how that had turned out. What was it about this one man’s effect on her, anyway? It was as though an electrical current surged between and around them, creating a glittering web ready to ensnare her if she didn’t watch herself.

  “Thoughtful? Not at all,” he said grudgingly. “I treat you the same way I would treat any starving and muddy cat on the street. There is nothing special about you whatsoever.”

  Nothing special.

  In her turbulent teens, the words would have set her off. Would her birth mother have given her away if Samira were special enough? Of course not.

  But now? With Baptiste looking at her with the light of admiration gleaming so brightly in his eyes?

  Samira felt very special indeed.

  Laughing and blushing, Samira smoothed her hair with a hand that felt fluttery and nervous. “Don’t even try it—”

  He gasped. “What is that?” he demanded, pointing.

  “What?” she asked, startled by his sudden sharp tone.

  Her only warning before he reached for her right hand? A repressive glare. Then he examined her engagement ring from all angles.

  “This is a high-quality diamond. At least two carats. Tiffany, no?”

  “Well, yeah.” She gaped at him. “Who are you? Harry Winston?”

  Irritable shrug as he dropped her hand. “I know something about jewels. From my family’s business interests and my mother’s, ah, personal ones. Don’t dodge the question.”

  She blinked. Thought back through their conversation.

  “There’s no question on the table.”

  “The question is, why are you wearing this now? Is there a reconciliation in the works?”

  “None of your business.”

  His expression darkened.

  “I was considerate enough of your feelings—even though you deny them—to tell you there is no Daphne. I am wearing my feelings on my sleeve for you to see. Please give me the same courtesy.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against her desk, waiting.

  She worked on regulating her breath and tried to think, terrified of the way his open vulnerability made her heart pound and her thoughts scatter.

  This one got under her skin in a way Terrance never had. That was for damn sure.

  She needed to be very, very careful here. Every time she was with him, the word no dropped out of her vocabulary.

  “There’s no reconciliation,” she reluctantly admitted. “Now, if we’re done here…? I have lunch to eat and work to do.”

  Some of the tension eased from his body. “But he wants you back?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” He walked away, turning back at the door. “But you want him back.”

  “No.”

  “Good.” His searching gaze covered every inch of her face. His expression softened, as did his tone. “Don’t be so sad. You looked sad earlier. I was afraid I would have to punch his lamp out—”

  “Lights.”

  “—and I would hate to do that. I don’t want to see the inside of an American jail cell, and he seemed like a nice man.”

  She tried to hide her smile by pivoting to face her computer.

  “Violence is never the answer. Unless I’m dealing with drunk Julius Caesar. And Terrance is a nice man.”

  “So you do want him back.”

  “Oh, my God. What did I just tell you? We broke up for a reason. It’s for the best.”

  “Of course it’s for the best,” he said, unsmiling. “I don’t plan to share you.”

  He what?

  She squawked with outrage.

  “News flash: you don’t own me. I’m not some bag of chips you can share or not share.”

  “Of course, now that you’ve been with me, you would never want to go back to him, but still.” He nodded with clear satisfaction. “It’s good to get everyone on the same page.”

  She could not be hearing this.

  “Funny you should say that, O Arrogant One, because you and I are clearly not on the same page,” she cried.

  He shrugged. “We will be. Meanwhile, don’t be sad about your breakup. No one likes a sour cat.”

  “Sourpuss.”

  “That’s what I said. Now get to work. You have so much to do, and you’ve been socializing.”

  He walked off, the corners of his mouth curling with a repressed smile.

  She choked off a laugh.

  “What, four thousand calories’ worth of food and no dessert?” she called after him, sliding her plate closer and picking up the fork.

  He laughed, the sound trailing away as he disappeared around a corner.

  And when she returned from a bathroom break a few minutes later, she found a dessert plate piled high with pastries—and one pitiful corner of a brownie—sitting on her desk.

  11

  “Well, there you are,” Samira said that evening at Pub 221B. The restaurant, which featured tufted chairs, dark wood paneling and a long bar with polished brass, was hopping, with most of the tables full. “I thought you were going to cancel on me again.”

  “No surgery for me tonight, thank God.” Melody, her best friend, gave Samira a quick hug and kiss before dropping onto the other side of the booth. “And how can you accuse me when you pushed back the time twice tonight?”

  “Sorry about that. Things got a little crazy with the merger announcement today.”

  “Is this stout for me?” Melody lunged for her glass. “God bless you.”

  “I figured you’d need it,” Samira said, laughing. “So how was surgery last n—”

  “Don’t even try it.” Melody looked incredulous. “I want to hear all about what happened with Baptiste. Am I pronouncing it right?”

  “Yeah. The P is silent.” Samira kept her head ducked and her attention focused on the menu. Though she knew it would be impossible to evade Melody’s questions for long, Samira felt like she had to give it a try. The situation with Baptiste was too fresh, unsettling and personal to try to summarize right now, even with Melody. “I’m thinking about the shepherd’s pie.”

  Making a derisive noise, Melody snatched the menu away and tossed it on the seat next to her, well out of Samira’s reach.

  “Let’s just get it over with so we can move on with life.”

  Samira sighed and glanced up again. “It’s a nonstarter. I’m not planning on seeing him again outs
ide of work, so let’s drop it.”

  Melody blinked. “Why not? He’ll be around for a little while, right? Isn’t this a chance to get to know him better?”

  Samira gaped at her. “Why would I want to get attached to a guy who lives thousands of miles away from me?”

  “So you don’t really like him, then?”

  Samira opened her mouth, but all her denials ran and hid.

  “So… you like him, but you don’t want to see him again?”

  “Let’s just change the subject,” Samira said flatly.

  “Not a chance.” Melody interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on the table, doing a pretty good impression of a lawyer taking a deposition and determined to get to the bottom of a witness’s convoluted story. All she needed was a legal pad, pen and stenographer. “Start at the beginning.”

  “Fine.” Samira tried to look dignified even though flames of embarrassment were already licking at her cheeks. “I slept with him. Do you want to split the cheese plate for an appetizer?”

  Melody gasped and rested her face on her hands, staring at Samira with unabashed nosiness. “Screw the appetizers. I want you to tell me all about it. What’s he like? What was the sex like? And what the hell’s gotten into you?”

  Keeping a lid on her simpering grin turned out to be an impossibility in the same category as spinning thread into gold or getting all the kernels to pop in a bag of microwave popcorn. Samira sighed helplessly, giving up the fight.

  “He’s got dark hair. Green eyes. Tall. Sexy.”

  “And last night…?”

  “Amazing.”

  “Stop lying,” Melody said with open disbelief. “First times can be awkward.”

  “Amazing.”

  “You lucky bitch.” Melody grinned at her, offering up a hand. “Gimme some.”

  They high-fived, giggling like preteens at a slumber party after midnight.

  “What are we celebrating?” asked a wickedly amused male voice with a French accent.

  Samira and Melody cringed, froze and exchanged a guilty look, after which Samira decided it was best just to play dead. Maybe if she wished for it hard enough, she’d discover that the shadow looming over the table was only a figment of her imagination.

  “You’re not talking about me, are you?” Baptiste continued. He looked fantastic, having changed into skinny jeans and a leather jacket over one of his white shirts, with an artfully arranged scarf. He set a Pub 221B shopping bag evidently loaded with carryout food on the table and reached for Melody’s hand. “Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Winery owner and Samira’s frustrated lover. Pleasure.”

  Samira stared up at him, entirely beyond speech.

  So much for wishful thinking.

  Melody, whose beet-purple face, wide, star struck eyes and gaping mouth suggested she’d swallowed her tongue, regained her composure enough to shake his hand and tilt her face for his double-cheeked kiss.

  “Melody Harrison. Pediatric surgeon and Samira’s best friend. Great to meet you.”

  “Pediatric surgeon? My buddy has a foundation that provides surgeries for needy children. Any interest in volunteering? I could put you in touch with him.”

  “I’d love to hear more about it, sure,” Melody said, her ears perking up.

  “Wonderful. It’s so kind of you ladies to ask me to join you,” Baptiste said, now unpacking his carryout and stacking clamshells on the table. “As I’m a stranger in town who knows practically no one. Americans are known for their hospitality.”

  With that, he plunked himself down on Samira’s side of the booth, practically sitting in her lap and forcing her to hastily scoot over to make room for him. Then he signaled to the passing server, a pretty young thing who checked and stared at him as though he was Brad Pitt circa Thelma & Louise.

  “How are you?” Baptiste said. “I think Melody needs another glass of her…it’s very dark, so that must be stout, correct?”

  Melody nodded, her eyes threatening to consume the entire top half of her face.

  “Yes, let’s have more of the stout for Melody, and I think Samira and I will share a bottle of the Perrier-Jouet. You liked that last night, Samira, didn’t you?”

  Samira, who was feeling somewhat dazed by this point, focused all her attention on Melody, who pointed to the champagne on the menu.

  That’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle, Melody mouthed.

  Samira responded with a that’s Baptiste shrug and eye roll.

  Baptiste, luckily, was too absorbed with the server to notice the nonverbal communications going on around him. “We’ll take the Belle Epoque Rose. Two-thousand four, if you have it. And maybe a cheese plate? I like to have an appetizer…”

  Oh, my freaking God, Melody continued. He’s so hot!

  I know, Samira mouthed back.

  “Otherwise, I get fangry,” Baptiste concluded.

  The server stopped simpering and focused. “Fangry?”

  Baptiste waved an impatient hand. “You know. Famished and angry. Fangry.”

  The server laughed, utterly charmed with Baptiste, as all females seemed to be. “You mean hangry. Hungry and angry.”

  “Absolutely. Hangry,” Baptiste said, beaming up at her. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” said the server, whose expression had been replaced by an emoji with red hearts for eyes. Samira sourly made up her mind on the spot not to go to the ladies’ room for the duration, lest she return and find the server draped across Baptiste’s lap, feeding him nibbles from the cheese plate by hand. Not that Samira was jealous or possessive or anything, because she definitely wasn’t. “I’ll be right back with the champagne.”

  “We did not invite you to join us, Baptiste,” Samira said when the server walked off.

  “Melody would have, surely,” he said.

  “True.” Melody grinned. “This gives me a chance to vet you.”

  “Understood,” Baptiste said, resting his elbows on the table and leaning into his conversation with Melody. “Samira sent you my picture and told you she would be with me last night.”

  “Yep,” Melody said, sipping her stout.

  “And, judging from the looks on your faces when I arrived, Samira also shared that we made love. All night. It was incredible. Am I right?”

  Samira made an outraged noise; Melody, meanwhile, choked on her stout and spewed a mouthful across the table, narrowly missing them both.

  “It’s okay.” Baptiste remained unperturbed as Melody hastily reached for a napkin and wiped her mouth and the table. “You’re friends. You talk. I don’t mind. We’re all adults.”

  Samira began to recover.

  “I am sitting right here, Baptiste. Kindly do not talk about me like I’m invisible.”

  Baptiste shrugged with complete indifference. “I know you’re there. Kindly do not interrupt me when I’m having an important conversation with your best friend.”

  Melody stifled a laugh.

  “Yeah. Okay,” Samira snapped. “First of all? Melody’s loyalty is to me. Not you. If I don’t want her to discuss my personal life with you, then she won’t.”

  “Melody makes her own decisions,” Melody interjected.

  “Second,” Samira said, shooting Melody a withering glance across the table, “our relationship is private—”

  “Not that private, evidently, because you were just discussing it with Melody.”

  “—and if there’s something you want to know, why don’t you ask me?”

  Derisive snort from Baptiste. “And why would I waste the time to do that when you weren’t honest with me this morning?” He frowned thoughtfully. “Although you did just admit that we have a relationship. That’s some progress.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Samira said.

  Baptiste didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he focused on Melody with a new urgency. “Is she still in love with Terrance? She says not, but…”

  “No, no,” Melody said quickly. “That’s not an issue.”

 
“But she’s so determined to keep me at arm’s length now. Such torture after last night,” Baptiste said.

  Torture.

  Good word, Samira thought with an ache of longing in her belly.

  “Hmm,” Melody said, averting her eyes for a delicate sip of her stout.

  Baptiste tensed. Cocked his head to study Melody more closely. “You know something.”

  “Hmm?” Melody continued both to sip and to avoid eye contact. “Huh-umm.”

  Samira suddenly got a bad feeling. “Are we done with this ridiculous conversation now? Can we move on to something—”

  “Shhh.” Baptiste flapped a hand to shut her up. “Melody was about to tell me something important.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” Samira said, giving Melody a pointed warning look.

  Wrong thing to say.

  Melody thunked down her drink and hitched up her chin in that habitual gesture of defiance that never boded well for Samira or any other recipient. “Maybe I was.”

  “What is it, ladies?” Baptiste divided his shrewd attention between them. “Spill.”

  Samira crossed her arms, starting to get seriously annoyed. “I don’t have to spill anything—”

  “Fine,” Melody said brightly. “I’ll tell you, Baptiste—”

  “I was adopted,” Samira blurted, aiming a kick at Melody under the table. Melody yelped. “Melody thinks it’s relevant to my dating life. I disagree. The end. Happy?”

  There was a long pause.

  Then Baptiste nodded thoughtfully, his expression vaguely troubled. “Thank you for sharing with me.”

  “I didn’t share. I was forced.” Samira aimed another kick at Melody, who dodged it this time. “And like I said, my adoption status has nothing to do with anything.”

  The server returned just then, which was a good thing because Baptiste didn’t look convinced by Samira’s denials. At all.

  “Ah, the cheese and champagne,” he said, snapping himself out of his thoughts. “Thank you.”

  The bedazzled server—maybe it was Samira’s imagination, but she could swear the woman had touched up her lipstick—made a whole production over arranging the cheese plate, popping the cork and pouring the champagne. Probably looking for an opening to slip her phone number to Baptiste, Samira thought, annoyed.