No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  “Yeah, well, the money is everything to me, and my self-respect isn’t up for sale. I’m going to do what’s best for me, for a change. I’m going to listen to my own instincts.”

  He slumped back in his seat, watching her in slack-jawed astonishment.

  “What kind of woman are you?”

  Just when she’d thought she couldn’t get any angrier, he had to go and prove her wrong.

  “I’ll tell you what kind of woman I’m not,” she said despite her clenched jaw and the searing burn in her throat. “I’m not the kind of woman who’s going to lounge around with you on some yacht, sunbathing topless and having threesomes.”

  Incredulous silence from Baptiste, whose skin paled beneath his tan.

  She took the opportunity to flip to a blank page in her checkbook and try scrawling the information in the blanks with her unsteady hand. Unfortunately, it took her several clicks to get the pen going.

  “Is that what this is about?” he asked.

  Oh, God, he was back to urgent concern. She heard it in his voice as she signed the check with an angry flourish.

  “You looked me up online?” he continued. “You saw my colorful past and now you want nothing to do with me?”

  “This is about me letting you know who you’re dealing with.” She ripped the check from the book and held it across the table for him. “And who you’re not dealing with.”

  He didn’t move a muscle.

  “I knew you were different from other women.” The gleam in his eyes intensified. His jaw hardened with what looked like grim resolve. “I didn’t appreciate how different. I’ll never make that mistake again. I assure you.”

  “See that you don’t. Here’s your money.”

  “It’s my pleasure to give you the money with no strings attached. Please.”

  “What is going on here?” Samira asked, looking up at the ceiling with a disbelieving and humorless laugh. It wasn’t enough that God had to tempt her with the most intriguing man in the world who was also, by the way, the most unsuitable. Well, no. Baptiste could also be a cannibal. Then he’d be more unsuitable. It wasn’t enough that Samira was trying to do the right thing, was it, God? Oh, noooo. Why not also give the intriguing and unsuitable man a billion-dollar fortune and a willingness to spend it on her? “Am I being filmed for some horrible new reality TV show? Is this a test?”

  “I think it is a test,” he said darkly. “But maybe I’m the one being tested.”

  “Take it,” she snapped. “So we can both move on with our lives.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I do have to do this.”

  “Samira…”

  A lightbulb belatedly went off over her head.

  “Oh, okay. I get it. You think I don’t have the money to cover it, but I do. Well, as long as you give me a few days for the money to clear.” She flapped the check. “I sold my engagement ring to a jeweler down the street this morning, which was my plan all along. Take it.”

  He still didn’t move. He seemed beyond speech.

  She shrugged, silently awarding herself game, set and match. Then she dropped the check on the table in front of him, grabbed her bag and got up.

  Energized, he quickly caught her wrist to keep her from sweeping off in the grand exit she’d envisioned.

  She stiffened.

  Wished he’d let her go.

  Wished she were a little more determined to leave.

  You don’t need him anyway, girl. You don’t need the drama. Screw him.

  Yet she stood there, waiting.

  “Are you trying to say good-bye to me again?” he asked quietly, his searching gaze covering every inch of her face.

  Anger felt so much easier—and infinitely safer—than hurt or disappointment, so that was what she clung to.

  You don’t need him or anyone, Samira.

  “We’re not a good fit for a million reasons, Baptiste,” she said quietly, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “That’s the bottom line. Why not cut our losses? Like I said, it’s better to remember our perfect night together and leave it at that.”

  “I see.” His eyes narrowed as two vivid patches of color resolved over his cheekbones. He seemed angry as he released her arm. Possibly even hurt, if she didn’t know any better. “You don’t wish to be bothered with me. I’m not worth the effort.”

  Wait, what?

  “No,” she said, dismayed that he’d reached such a hurtful conclusion. “That’s not what I said. Where did you even get that from?”

  “Please,” he said coolly. “Enlighten me.”

  “I mean…”

  She looked wildly around the room and took a deep breath as she dropped back into her seat, trying to get her thoughts together and her mind right. Why did she need to say it aloud? Couldn’t he see that this thing between them had pending disaster written all over it?

  And through it all throbbed a relentless baseline that she could not get out of her head.

  What is it about this one man?

  Who gave him the right to waltz into my life and turn it upside down like this?

  “I mean…You like partying with topless women on yachts in Cannes. I like neighborhood bonfires in Journey’s End. You want free and easy. I want to get married and have a family. If someone drew a Venn diagram of our lives, they’d have no intersecting points because we have nothing in common. Why are we wasting each other’s time? Where can this possibly go between us?”

  He stared at her, a muscle working in his jaw.

  “I don’t know, ma reine, but we’d better figure it out before we drive each other insane,” he said grimly.

  17

  An hour later, Baptiste shifted gears and cranked his legs harder, ignoring both the burn in his thighs and the one in his lungs. Sweat rolled under his helmet and dripped into his eyes, making them sting, but the discomfort fueled him. He focused on the trail, which seemed to be reaching a clearing up where the dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, and on this never-ending hill, which evidently wanted to challenge him as much as Samira did. A searing pain raced up his side, but he pumped harder.

  Harder.

  Almost there…almost there…almost—

  “What the hell?” A glowering Daniel zoomed into his peripheral vision, signaling wildly. “Pull over, you crazy fuck! What are you trying to do?”

  Startled, his concentration broken, Baptiste slowed just as, sure enough, the trees gave way to an overlook high above the river. Really an amazing view. The sky blazed a brilliant blue; fall leaves lit the hillside on fire; the river wound its way through the valley below, a shimmering sapphire jewel that stole his remaining breath.

  Journey’s End was quite the little town, he was discovering. Much like Samira, it surprised him every day with its grace and beauty. And with its hidden treasures, like the delicious chocolate croissants and French press coffee he’d enjoyed at Java Nectar this morning, this bike trail and the kayak landing he’d eyed for tomorrow.

  Not that this was the moment to wax poetic about small Hudson River Valley towns.

  He got off, leaned his bike against the nearest picnic bench and slipped off his helmet just as Daniel and Sean pulled in beside him and did the same.

  Daniel was still in mid-rant.

  “Does this look like the Tour de France?” he gasped, sweeping his arms wide. “Are we training for some Olympic event I didn’t know about? Because I thought we were just taking a leisurely bike ride.”

  Baptiste rubbed the stitch in his side and frowned at him. “What’s your problem?”

  Sean, who’d doubled up, bracing his hands on his thighs as he panted, straightened and added his evil eye to Daniel’s.

  “The problem…is that…nobody’s trying…to catch a…heart attack.”

  Baptiste couldn’t believe his ears. “You two disgust me. We rode all over Napa with no problems. Now you act like you need to have your bikes fitted with training wheels.”

  Daniel unclipped his
water bottle and took a long drink, watching Baptiste with something that looked like amused concern the whole time.

  “First you barely say two words at breakfast. Now you’re riding with a death wish. What’s up, Frenchie?”

  “Nothing.” Baptiste crossed his arms, feeling surly. “Tend your business.”

  Sean snorted. “Mind your business.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care to talk about it.”

  With that, Baptiste took one of his water bottles and dumped most of the contents over his own head in a vain attempt at cooling off.

  Daniel watched him for several seconds, then turned to Sean.

  “You might as well know. Baptiste has his eye on one of my employees. She’s got him on the ropes already, even though they just met. It’s not pretty.”

  “Ah,” said Sean, now regarding Baptiste with deepest pity.

  “I am not on the ropes,” Baptiste snapped. “Whatever that means. Sounds like a distasteful boxing term.”

  “It is a boxing term,” Daniel said. “It means you’re one step away from being knocked out and going down for the count. And if you get my winery into any sort of trouble for sexual harassment, I’m going to kick your Gallic ass. We clear?”

  He ended his threat with a chilling smile, which Baptiste ignored.

  Instead—why not; he had nothing to lose other than the remaining fragments of his pride, correct? —Baptiste reached for his wallet inside the wrist pouch he wore and pulled out the check.

  “Look at this,” he cried, flapping it in Daniel’s face. “She wrote me a check.”

  “Why?” Sean asked blankly.

  “I paid one of her bills for her, and she accused me of treating her like a charity case. She said I’m controlling. That I’m moving too fast. Me! And then she wrote this check and all but shoved it up my ass when she gave it to me.”

  Daniel and Sean snorted back their laughter, which did nothing to help Baptiste’s mood.

  “I fail to see any humor here. Where is the problem? I throw money at women. They catch it. Then we have sex. It’s a crude system, I admit, but it works for me. It’s worked for the women. Any of the last ten women I’ve been with would have been happy to marry me and make the system permanent. And yet this woman, who I—”

  Baptiste caught himself just in time, right before he completed the sentence with some nonsense that was half-formed in his mind, even now.

  This woman who I want more than I’ve ever wanted another woman.

  This woman who I think about nonstop, almost to the point of obsession.

  This woman who has, in two short days, commandeered my every thought, hope and wish?

  Frustrated and disgusted with himself, Baptiste blew out a breath, put the check away and dumped the rest of the water on his head.

  “The thing is, I know women,” he continued. “I have a lot of experience with women. I could write a book about women. And yet precious little of what I’ve learned about women seems to help me with her. What sense does that make?”

  Sean backed up a step. “Whoa.”

  Daniel whistled. “You need to climb down off the ledge, Frenchie. I’ve never seen you like this. What’s gotten into you?”

  What a stupid question.

  “You think I know?” Baptiste snarled.

  Daniel held his hands up. “I’m not the enemy here.”

  “No, but you walk around with sunshine and light on your happy little face,” Baptiste said. “So you tell me: what does she want?”

  Daniel recoiled. “Excuse me?”

  “You are happy with your woman now, so that makes you my expert. Sean is a loser when it comes to women—”

  Sean, who’d stooped to check the air pressure in his tires, looked up with a frown. “Hey.”

  “—and all he ever does is whine about the woman who left him for his brother—”

  “That’s not technically what happened,” Sean said, straightening.

  “—and have one-night stands, so he can’t help me.” Baptiste centered all his desperation on Daniel, who surely had some nuggets of romantic wisdom to share before Baptiste lost his mind altogether. “That makes you my best hope, Daniel. What the hell does she want?”

  “I barely know her,” Daniel protested. “And I had to figure out my own shit with Zoya. You don’t get to weasel out of doing your own suffering by copying what worked for me. That ain’t fair. I’ve been waiting fourteen years to get Zoya back. You haven’t even known Samira a week yet.”

  This reminder did nothing to help Baptiste’s mood.

  A week! Not even a week yet. And yet he felt a driving urgency to…

  To work things out with Samira with the goal of…

  What, exactly?

  He didn’t even know. That was a big part of his problem.

  He had no fucking idea.

  All he knew was that he wanted—needed? —it.

  To be fair, Samira had made several valid points. They had precious little in common, other than a love of laughter, desserts, Shakespeare, art museums and sex with each other. As a French citizen, he was wildly unsuitable for her on geographic grounds, if nothing else. Worse, he’d never had a successful romantic relationship, much less a successful long-distance or long-term relationship, had never observed a successful marriage and didn’t even believe in love.

  If he added up all of his flaws, they didn’t just make him unsuitable for her. They made him the most unsuitable. The ultimate in unsuitability.

  Well, no. He supposed he could become a merman. That would be worse.

  And yet, everything inside him stood up and shouted that if she only met him halfway, he would bend over backward to demonstrate that her faith in him was not misplaced. He would treat her like a queen in every possible way.

  To see Samira’s eyes sparkle at him all the time?

  He’d lay the world at her feet.

  All this for a woman he hadn’t known for a week yet.

  He looked to the sky for divine inspiration or intervention. Blew out a shaky laugh.

  “I suppose I’m insane,” he said glumly, wiping his face on the bottom of his shirt before reaching for his remaining water bottle. “I never lose my head. I never get worked up. Perhaps I’ve suffered a brain injury. Good psychiatric help is what I need. Feel free to refer me to someone.”

  Daniel made a derisive sound. “Stop being such a drama queen. There’s nothing special about you. You think you’re the only person to ever fall in love?”

  Baptiste, who’d taken a big sip, choked and coughed, spewing water in every direction.

  Daniel and Sean ducked, exchanged a look and burst into raucous laughter before taking turns pounding Baptiste on the back. Their amusement only worsened Baptiste’s confusion.

  Love?

  “Love?” Another hacking fit followed. “N-no one said anything about love. First of all, there is no love.” Baptiste cleared his hoarse throat. “Love is a fiction invented by poets and the people who sell flowers for Valentine’s Day. Every thinking person knows this.”

  “Yeah, okay, chief,” Daniel said, still pounding his back.

  “Actually, he may be on to something,” Sean said thoughtfully.

  “Second,” Baptiste said loudly, stepping away before one or the other of them dislocated something in his spine, “even if there is love, you don’t fall in love right away. You grow into it. Over time.”

  “Wrong,” said Daniel. “I pretty much knew the night I met her—when I was twenty-one—that I was going to marry Zoya. I even joked about it with her. You think I went around saying that kind of shit to every woman I dated?”

  “Well, I certainly haven’t joked about—” Baptiste began, swelling with outrage.

  “Oh, okay,” Daniel said. “My mistake.”

  Baptiste eased down, breathing easier.

  “But I have a hypothetical question for you,” Daniel said, a distinct gleam of something disquieting in his eyes. “Don’t think about it. Just answer off the top o
f your head.”

  “Fine,” Baptiste said warily.

  “If Samira came to you today and said, ‘let’s move in together,’ what would you say? Better yet, if she wanted to have a kid with you, what would you tell her?”

  Baptiste knew it was too soon. He knew his friends were watching him closely, and there would be hell to pay if he got this wrong and revealed any further vulnerability. But he could no more contain the sudden soaring joy at the thought—fleeting though it was—than he could become fluent in Vietnamese by dinner.

  It all flashed through his mind:

  Going to sleep with Samira.

  Waking up to her bright eyes and her laughter.

  The sweet-smelling brown-haired baby in his lap.

  A house. A home. A life.

  He wanted all of it with a hot ferocity that roared up his neck and made his face and ears burn.

  Badly shaken—what the hell had happened to him since he laid eyes on that woman? —he opened his mouth to issue a denial. But nothing came out, and the damage had already been done anyway.

  “That’s what I thought,” Daniel said dryly.

  “Look.” Sean edged forward and pushed Daniel out of the way, sparing Baptiste from having to manufacture a coherent comeback out of whole cloth. “Someone’s got to be the voice of reason here.”

  “Here we go,” Daniel muttered.

  “What? You mean you?” Baptiste asked Sean, aghast. “Why would I want your advice when it comes to a special woman?”

  “Because I’ve been where you are, man,” Sean said. “I let a woman get inside my head once. I thought she was special. I thought there were signs. And you know what came of it? A big fat nothing, other than a lot of sleepless nights and me wondering if I was crazy for seeing things that weren’t there.”

  Daniel shook his head, crossed his arms and glowered at Sean.

  Sean focused on Baptiste and ignored this dissent. “You’re wondering if you’re crazy? Let me help you out. The answer is yes. Lust is making you crazy. You can’t think straight right now. My recommendation? Head on back to France and forget you ever met this woman before you really get yourself hurt. Like I did.”