by Alix Nichols
“Picture yourself facing the shower column,” she says, standing sideways. “Now turn the shower on and let the water hit your face.”
We dutifully turn our profiles to her and tilt our heads up.
“Only the face!” Tiff glares. “Keep the rest of your body out of the way!”
We push our butts out.
Tiff smiles. “That’s more like it. Now bend backward a notch so the jet lands on your chest.”
She shows us the exact degree of the bend.
We execute.
“Continue the wave and feel the water touching your tummy,” Tiff instructs, jutting her croissant-lover’s belly out. “And finish with your thighs.”
Manon tries her best to do the perfect shower wave while Jeanne, Diane, and I titter and goof around.
Our fearless leader plows on with unique gracelessness, peppering her demos of each new routine with shrill commands to “sing along,” “smile,” and “say yes.” These appear to work on exactly ten percent of the students, made up of the portly brunette and her two sidekicks.
Not only do they respond to every motivational call, they also cheer one another in a heavily accented French. Could they be sisters? Or maybe longtime besties who’ve grown to resemble each other the way old couples do? They’re dressed in identical tracksuits and have died black hair held back with terry cloth headbands. All three suck at African Zumba, but they stop and high-five after every massacred routine.
As the class winds down, Tiff takes us through a few stretches and then demands that everyone smile and shout “African Zumba rocks!”
Everyone does, more in recognition of her indomitable spunk than of her debatable skill.
In the changing room, Jeanne marches up to the headband set and tells them they’re her heroes.
“I would’ve never made it through this class without you,” she says. “And I’m not sure Tiff would’ve survived it, either. Thank you for being so generous!”
The brunettes look mighty pleased, and an animated exchange ensues, during which Jeanne establishes the ladies are childhood friends who hail from Portugal and have been working as concierges in the 9th district for almost twenty years.
Jeanne insists they come with us to La Bohème for a quick coffee among neighbors. The bar area has been finished since Monday. I can totally see how the barista in Jeanne is itching to inaugurate it. Two of the three accept the invitation, and I’m grateful, because it means I’ll enter the bistro with boisterous company and a legitimate excuse to spend at least ten minutes chatting with them while enjoying Jeanne’s top-notch espresso.
That’s ten more minutes to brace myself before I face Hugo. Maybe in those ten minutes I’ll have an epiphany and figure out a way to restore our relationship to its pre-hand-rubbing state.
Or maybe I’m just grasping at straws.
Chapter 9
Jeanne hands me my cupful of cinnamon-flavored ambrosia. That’s not at all how you take your coffee in Paris—or anywhere in France, for that matter—but that’s how I like it. And Jeanne is kind enough to humor me.
I prop my elbows on the antique countertop that I’ve cleaned, waxed, and covered with two layers of plastic film.
“Please, can I peel this off?” Jeanne tries to make a hole in the plastic with her nail.
I point at the offending finger. “Hands off my counter.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Your counter?”
“Yes, sweetheart, my counter. As long as this bistro is under renovation, everything here is mine, including the walls, the floor, and this magnificent bar.”
“I see.”
“So the plastic stays.” I arch an eyebrow of my own, mimicking Jeanne’s expression. “Am I being clear?”
Jeanne throws her hands up and turns toward the coffee machine. “Bossy pants.”
Alcinda, the concierge with the yellow headband, is next to get her fragrant cup. She closes her eyes and smells her espresso before taking a tiny sip. “Ah, the bliss. I wish I could make this cup last forever.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Jeanne gives her a wink. “I’ll make you another.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I need to head home as soon as I finish this to check on my husband.”
“Is he sick?” I ask.
Alcinda lets out a heavy breath.
“He believes he’s being tailed by tax inspectors,” her friend says.
Alcinda nods with another sigh. “It’s because he spent some time with aliens last year when I was visiting my mom in Portugal.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Manon says.
“It’s elementary, Watson,” a familiar voice says from behind me.
Hugo.
I spin around on my barstool and stare at him.
“Morning,” he says before turning back to Manon. “Everyone knows there are illegal aliens on Earth. Everyone knows they have no intention of returning to their inhospitable home planets.”
The corners of Manon’s mouth begin to twitch. “So?”
“So, if they’re staying, they should pay taxes.” Hugo leans on the counter. “The problem is they’re hard to locate. So tax inspectors follow Alcinda’s husband in the hopes he may lead them to the aliens.”
“That’s exactly what he claims,” Alcinda says with a smile, and then she narrows her eyes at Hugo. “Are you paranoid, too?”
“No, I’m not,” he says before pointing at Jeanne and then at me. “But my sister and my boss might disagree.”
I take in his mischievous smile, and my whole body sags with relief.
“I can certify,” I say pointing at Hugo, “that this man doesn’t have a persecution complex.”
I nearly add that if anyone is paranoid around here, it’s me because I’ve been catching sight of my ex-lover in random places over the last few weeks.
But I bite my tongue.
Some confessions are better kept for a shrink.
“Too bad,” Alcinda says with exaggerated disappointment in her voice.
I turn to her and realize I’d been looking at Hugo—not her—the whole time. My apprehension goes away. He clearly wants us to move on, to continue the way we’d been before last night.
And it’s working.
I want to hug him for making this so easy.
“Thank you for the coffee,” Alcinda says to Jeanne as she climbs down from her barstool.
Jeanne gives her a toothy smile. “My pleasure.”
Alcinda pushes a handful of coins across the counter toward Jeanne, who pushes them back. They continue at it for a few more passes, pressing hard against the protective film.
“My counter!” I growl as I snatch the coins and hand them to Manon, who drops them in the drawer of the cash register.
Alcinda and her friend leave while the rest of us finish our coffee and chat about this and that. Jeanne announces her plan to throw a wine tasting party for her and Mat’s friends once the bistro reopens. It’ll be an occasion for her to celebrate the renovation and for Mat to nurture his relationships with his Parisian supporters.
“Do they matter for local elections?” I ask.
Jeanne nods. “Absolutely. Especially the influential hot shots like Sebastian Darcy.”
Diane flinches at that name and then asks with exaggerated disinterest, “You think he’ll show up?”
“I’m sure he will,” Jeanne says. “He and Mat get along super well. He’s cool… for a rich man.”
Diane gives her a tight smile.
“Speaking of bashes,” Manon says. “My flatmates and I are throwing a Halloween party Saturday night. Will you come?”
Jeanne shakes her head. “Sorry. Mat’s parents are celebrating their divorce anniversary. We can’t blow them off.”
I frown, perplexed. “Did you just say divorce anniversary?”
“Yep.” Jeanne grins. “Mat’s parents became besties after they split up. They value their friendship so much that a couple of years ago they started celebrating it.”
<
br /> “Crazy, huh?” Hugo gives me a lopsided little smile that does something to my chest that’s strictly prohibited.
I shake my head. “Where is this country going?”
“Mom and Dad are invited, too, seeing as they’re in-laws.” Hugo’s smile becomes bigger and toothier.
I breathe again.
His grin is contagious, but it’s a friendly tap compared to the sucker punch I received a few seconds ago.
“They’re excited,” he continues. “Especially because next month they’re having their own celebration. Thirty years of marriage.”
“I’m happy for them,” I say. And I truly am.
“What about you?” Manon turns to me. “Will you come?”
“Depends on where you live.”
“Montmartre hill.” She touches my arm. “Come on, Chloe, it’ll be fun.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll need to wear a costume. Bring some booze. The plan is to party all night.”
I look at Manon, trying to assess her age. Twenty-two? Twenty-three, max. This means most her friends will be her age. A masked party with a drunken crowd of twentysomethings? My next dose of sex is as good as guaranteed, and I wouldn’t even need to hunt. It would be a pure, laid-back gathering.
I’d be an idiot to pass up such an opportunity.
“OK,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“Brilliant!” Manon grins and turns to Hugo. “What about you? Can you make it?”
Please say no, I beg silently.
It isn’t just about what happened last night. I don’t want him to watch me flirt with a random fellow and leave the party on his arm.
This is totally irrational because it would actually be good if Hugo saw me leave Manon’s party on a random fellow’s arm. He’d recognize me for who I am—a “floozy,” to quote Fabien—and wouldn’t touch me again with a ten-foot pole. But I guess I’m not a rational person because I’m praying Hugo will say no to Manon’s invitation.
“Sure,” he says. “Thanks for inviting me.”
After Jeanne and Manon leave, I gather Hugo and René and distribute tasks among the three of us. We work in near silence for the next seven hours, stopping only for a twenty-minute lunch break.
At five we finish the kitchen, swallow the fifth or sixth coffee of the day, and move our painting supplies downstairs to the basement.
At six thirty, René calls it a day.
Hugo and I continue working. Being alone with him again is a bad idea, but I don’t have a choice. Our next client expects her remodeling to start Monday, which leaves us only two days plus the weekend to finish everything here. Besides, given how relaxed Hugo’s been around me since this morning, I’m guessing yesterday’s incident was just a glitch.
It didn’t mean much to him.
The basement is even colder than last night, but I pretend it’s OK until my fingers are too frozen to hold the brush. Glancing at Hugo, who looks engrossed in his work, I turn my back to him and put my brush down. It’s time for a little exercise. I jog in place for a couple of minutes and do a few jumping jacks while shaking my hands and wiggling my fingers. To finish, I hug myself and rub my sides.
Two strong arms wrap around me from behind, wonderfully tight. Hugo presses his large, warm chest against my back, and it feels so good I can’t find it in me to push him away. So I don’t. Worse still, I lean into him, delighting in the heat coming off his body, the snugness of his embrace, the hardness of his muscles…
So damn good.
“Chloe,” he whispers above my ear.
My eyelids drop. The need, the promise, the indescribable intensity he packs into that single syllable incapacitate me. My head begins to spin. My heart launches into a crazy haka dance, threatening to dislodge itself at any moment.
He holds me, pressing his lips to the crown of my head, encasing me with his entire being.
“Pichune,” he whispers again. “My Chloe.”
My brain melts into a mash.
I want to say his name, too. My tongue, my lips are itching to form it. At this precise moment, I doubt there’s anything I want more than to murmur his name. Hugo. That combination of sounds will be my safety valve, an outlet for a huge and expanding need inside me. A monstrosity of need that quickly spirals out of control.
He grows hard against the small of my back.
God help me, I want this.
I crave this.
But I can’t let it happen.
I tug at his sleeve. “Hugo.”
There, I said his name. Why didn’t it bring the expected relief?
He loosens his hold a little.
I tug again. “Let go of me.”
He releases me and steps back.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say without turning around, my voice barely audible.
“I’m sorry.”
I turn to face him. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both of us still panting, my cheeks burning and his eyes dark and heavy lidded with want.
He doesn’t look a bit sorry.
I rack my brain for an explanation that will ring true. “Listen, I cherish our professional relationship, and I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Bullshit.” He gives me a hard look, the hardest I’ve ever seen on him. “Why can’t we be together and continue working together?”
What do I say to that? I need an argument that will be more than just credible. It has to be bulletproof.
I put my chin up. “Because I don’t want you like that.”
His mouth contorts into a sneer. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I peer into his eyes and fill my voice with all the conviction I’m capable of. “I only want you as a friend and a business partner. Nothing more.”
Chapter 10
Manon opens the door, dressed as Maleficent. “Yay, you made it! Come on in.”
We cheek kiss and I hand her a plastic bag with a bottle of champagne and two bottles of wine.
“Let me take your coat,” she says.
Hesitantly, I undo the belt buckle and unbutton my knee-length trench coat.
“Ooh la la,” Manon comments with a saucy smile as she takes in my costume.
I’m dressed as Catwoman in knee-high boots and a tight black jumpsuit with a zipper down the front.
There’s a brief moment when I want to snatch my coat from Manon’s hands and run away, but then I pull myself together and push my shoulders back. This outfit is meant to convey a certain message about me to the male guests at this bash, so I’d better act the part.
I reach behind my neck and pull the stretchy hoody over my head. It has pointy cat ears and a mask that covers the upper half of my face.
I’m all set now.
Let’s do this.
Manon hangs my coat and ushers me into the living room. As I had predicted, it’s full of young people in their early twenties with a few noteworthy males who catch my eye. As I check them out, I can feel their almost palpable gazes running up and down my body. So who is it going to be? Darth Vader, Jack Sparrow or… the other Darth Vader? Or maybe Count Dracula, who ogles me like he’s dying to sink his fake fangs into my neck.
I scan the room once more and note with immense relief that Hugo isn’t here. Not that his presence would thwart my plans, but given what happened in the basement of La Bohème last night, it would make me uncomfortable executing them.
Very uncomfortable.
Manon thrusts a plastic champagne flute into my hand and leads me over to the corner of the room where a small group is talking animatedly.
“We were discussing the religious meaning of Halloween,” she says as I follow her. “You’ll find it interesting.”
I probably will, especially if Count Dracula joins in.
When the debate circle makes a hole for Manon and me, a man in a black sombrero and a mask gives me a smile of recognition. “Oh, hi, Chloe. Nice costume!”
I nod a thank you and take a closer look at his face, trying to pl
ace him. Then it hits me. Zorro is Amar, the waiter from La Bohème. Quite good-looking, by the way. Only… there may be something brewing between him and Manon, judging by the way she looks at him. I’d better concentrate on Dracula… as soon as the vampire hauls his ass to this end of the room.
A witch rubs her chin and says to Amar, “I see your point, but you can’t deny that most people have a need for spirituality. That’s why we can’t dispense with religion.”
“I thought we were talking about Halloween,” Manon says.
“We were.” Amar shrugs apologetically. “But now we’ve moved on to superstition in general.”
“Religion isn’t the same thing as superstition,” the witch says.
“No, I’ll grant you that.” Amar nods before adding, “But it isn’t the same thing as spirituality either.”
“What is it then?” I ask.
“A tool for manipulating people,” Amar replies.
“Are you a communist?” asks Jack Sparrow, who’s made his way to our circle faster than the two Darth Vaders and Dracula.
Sparrow it shall be, then.
Amar shakes his head. “No, but I think religion should be a private matter. It should be between the individual and God or whatever you believe in. There’s no need for middlemen.”
“What if the individual doesn’t know where to start?” Manon asks. “There’s too much information out there, and a lot of people feel they need guidance from someone more competent than themselves.”
“And that’s precisely the problem, don’t you see?” Amar leans forward. “Who are those guides? What’s the proof of their competence?”
Manon taps her chin. “Degrees, I guess.”
“In other words, they’ve been vetted by other guides, right?” His tone betrays anger. “Not by God—just by other men.”
“Yeeaah…” She looks at him from under her eyebrows. “So what’s your point?”
“My point is that all clerics in all religions are mere humans. Mostly male, by the way.”
She smirks. “You’re a feminist now?”
“Would that make you proud?” he asks with a smile.
She beams back before rolling her eyes in an attempt to hide her glee.
