by Alix Nichols
“Hmm. Let’s see.” Jeanne pinched her chin. “You’ve found a partner to practice rollerblading with. Your first practice session is scheduled for tomorrow. And yet you need a prepractice session with me. Right?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“You’re good at this. You can teach me the basics.”
“What about this ‘partner’ of yours? Can’t he teach you?”
“He’s a total beginner like me.”
Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “What’s the point of practicing with a beginner?”
“The idea is that we’re equally bad, so it won’t be too embarrassing for either of us.”
“Why do you need me, then? It’s my only day off this week, and I’m stealing two hours of it from Mat.”
Amanda hesitated. “I’m hoping you’ll teach me to fall with a modicum of grace . . . and dignity.”
“Who did you say your partner was?” Jeanne narrowed her eyes.
Amanda looked away. “Just an acquaintance. You don’t know him.”
“Does he have a name?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, he’s in town for only a month.”
“How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”
“Because he’s not important.” Amanda held out her hand. “Now will you pull me up, please?”
Jeanne shook her head. “Stand up on your own so I can spot the mistakes.”
Amanda took a breath, lifted her body from the bench, and slowly straightened her legs. She maintained the upright posture for a few seconds, all her muscles tense and her back unnaturally stiff. But the moment she tried to move, she tripped and landed hard on her backside with her feet over her head, her arms flailing, and her mouth spitting the vilest curses in the French language.
Jeanne crouched next to her. “Does it hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Amanda rubbed her derrière. “You see my problem now?”
Jeanne smiled. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you’ll be gliding like a swan on a lake tomorrow. Your beau might still get to witness a graceless fall or two.”
“He isn’t my beau.” Amanda glared. “He’s just an acquaintance.”
“I’m so sorry. Your nameless acquaintance might still see you in a ridiculous position.” Jeanne shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance. “But it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t matter, right?”
With that, she pulled Amanda to her feet. The two spent the next hour skating up and down the majestic Esplanade des Invalides. Jeanne made elegant U-turns, effortlessly negotiating curbstones and barking instructions. Amanda rolled a few meters on stiff legs, took a tumble, scrambled to her feet, and tried again.
When they finally pulled off their skates and settled in at a sidewalk café, Amanda’s leg muscles and several random body parts ached. She whimpered and pressed her glass of iced tea to one sore calf and then to the other.
“You never told me why the CEO fired you,” Jeanne prompted, picking up her soda.
Amanda sighed. “Can we just say it was the pinnacle of a series of harebrained decisions he’d made since taking the reins of ENS?”
“What kind of decisions?”
“Downsizing R&D, for starters. You don’t do that when you’re in the energy business. Things evolve so fast—if you aren’t cutting edge, you die.”
“I guess you told him that?”
“Of course I did. But he just laughed me off.” Amanda pulled a face, imitating Julien Barre. “ENS, Mademoiselle Roussel, needs more marketing—not more research. Pff.”
“Was that your only difference of opinion?”
Amanda chewed her lip. “No.”
“I’m listening.”
“Two months ago Julien decided ENS should acquire one of our competitors. He announced it during a staff meeting. Said he was sure he’d get the board to OK the operation.”
“Why am I getting an inkling you didn’t think it was a good idea?”
“Because it wasn’t! We buy small, innovative start-ups. There’s no point in absorbing an established company almost as big as us. I told him he was biting off more than ENS could chew.”
“Did you tell him that in front of everyone?”
“Well, yes. It was during the staff meeting. I was hoping others would support me.”
“Did they?”
Amanda shook her head. “Not a single department head, manager, or engineer. A bunch of cowards, that’s what they are. They only care about their own careers and don’t give a shit about the future of the company.”
“Did you try to talk to Julien in private afterward? Explain your reasoning?”
“I did . . . and it didn’t go well.”
“Let me guess—you ended up insulting him?”
Amanda brought her glass to her mouth and kept it there.
Jeanne gave her foot a light kick under the table. “Come on, woman, spill the beans.”
“He wouldn’t listen.” Amanda sighed.
“So you said something outrageous to get his attention, didn’t you?”
“I may have asked if he wanted to acquire a large company to . . . compensate for the size of his private parts.”
Jeanne’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord.” Jeanne shook her head. “It’s endearing, actually.”
“What is?”
“I never thought of you as a crusader.”
Jeanne’s remark gave Amanda pause. Her, a crusader? No way. “I’m just smarter than him. I think long-term, like Nathan Lannaux used to do. That’s how he built and grew the company. It’s the only rational way.”
Jeanne smiled. “You miss him, don’t you? He was more than a boss to you. He was your mentor.”
“It’s just . . . his death was so sudden. He’d never had any health issues, and then bam—a massive heart attack—and he was gone. He was only fifty-eight.”
Jeanne patted Amanda’s hand. “I’m sorry, honey.”
Oh crap. Amanda’s eyes welled up, but she wouldn’t break down, not even in front of a friend. Jeanne was right; Nathan had been more than a boss to her. Even more than a mentor. He’d been a father figure—someone who cared about her like her dad used to do. Both men had died abruptly and in the same way. She hadn’t had the chance to say good-bye to either, and that was particularly hard to stomach.
After her dad passed, Vivienne had remarried within a year, and Amanda had been stuck for the rest of her teenage years with a conceited buffoon for a stepfather. She’d felt the absence of her dad keenly, and the wound was fresh for years—until Nathan appeared in her life.
And now, yet another clown had taken his place.
Jeanne drained her glass. “How’s your job hunt?”
“Maddening. Dead end after dead end. I suspect the bastard has blacklisted me with everyone in the industry.”
“You could apply for assistant jobs. I’m sure they’ll fall over themselves to have you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m vastly overqualified for that kind of job. Besides, the thought of running into people who used to be below me is unnerving. They’d have a field day.”
“Honey, why don’t you come and work at La Bohème for a while? Just a few hours a day, until you find a ‘proper’ job?”
Amanda winced. “I’ve never waitressed before, and I don’t intend to begin now.”
“What’s wrong with waitressing?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . ” Amanda pressed her lips together just in time to stop the words too low-class for me from escaping them. “I’d suck at it.”
Jeanne didn’t contradict that statement.
Back at her apartment, Amanda made her favorite Greek salad and carried her plate to the living room for a cozy dinner in front of the TV.
Her mission for the afternoon had been accomplished. She could now in-line skate a little and was a lot less clumsy than before. Granted, she was still far from her desired swanlike elegance, but she was no longer a bull in a chi
na shop.
Only her “straightforward” initiative didn’t seem so straightforward anymore, in light of Jeanne’s teasing. The thing was, Amanda couldn’t deny that had she planned to go skating with any other male acquaintance, she wouldn’t have cared about her lack of grace.
Was she slipping? It had been a week since she and Kes concluded their pact. They had jogged in the André Citroën Park every morning—not too early since Kes needed some sleep after his late-night casino sessions. His furnished rental turned out to be only a ten-minute walk from Amanda’s apartment, which was rather convenient. They’d been to the swimming pool twice, and they’d seen Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown—the first movie on the Almodóvar retrospective program.
They’d also gone for drinks and even had a couple of quick dinners. But she’d made sure to keep things light and friendly, thwarting the slightest romantic overture Kes attempted. Extreme vigilance was in order, and not only because Kes couldn’t be trusted not to try to charm her. The main reason was her increasingly evident vulnerability to his charm.
She’d lost count of the times lust had stirred in the pit of her stomach merely from looking at him. It happened in various places: once in the darkened movie theater when they’d shared a tub of popcorn and their fingers had brushed accidentally, often in cafés when he’d stared at her with blatant desire—an unabashed need tinting his beautiful eyes, and always at the swimming pool when he’d sauntered out of the men’s changing room wearing only a pair of jammers that hugged his muscled ass and athletic thighs.
But whenever she wondered if she’d made a huge mistake accepting his offer of companionship, she told herself she could handle it.
The abyss between them was too big and the potential complications too undesirable for her to slip. Besides, she had her nightly fantasies to take the edge off. They were wild, infinitely satisfying, and perfectly safe.
And that was as far as she’d ever go with him.
* * *
Breaking news: Amanda Roussel, the twenty-eight-year-old Parisienne with no training or interest in astronomy, has discovered the existence of two miniature black holes.
The imaginary TV anchor’s announcement reverberated in Amanda’s head as if it had been real. Last night, she had watched a documentary about black holes. The husky voiceover had explained that a black hole possessed such enormous gravity it sucked in everything around it. Any celestial body or a spaceship that had the misfortune of getting too close would be swallowed up. The hole would haul the poor thing inside and pulverize it.
Kes’s eyes were like that—black, bottomless, and endowed with an irresistible pull. Even when she glanced into them sideways during their daily jogs in the André Citroën Park, her brain became muddled afterward.
Just like now.
“Want a sip?” He held out a half-full bottle of water.
“What?” Amanda forced herself to focus. “Ah. Yes, please.”
She drank most of the water and handed the bottle back to Kes, who took a big gulp and emptied the rest over his forehead.
“Getting hot, huh?” He pulled the hem of his T-shirt up and wiped his face, revealing his toned abs for a few seconds.
Amanda’s gaze lingered on them, and suddenly, she was out of breath and a little lightheaded.
She stopped moving. “I need a break.”
“Sure.” He backtracked to her and pointed to a spot under a big tree. “We could watch the Eutelsat Balloon from there. Come.”
He headed to the corner of the vast central lawn where some trees offered a spot of shade. Amanda followed.
They sat on the ground and leaned back on the tree trunk. Amanda breathed in the incomparable smell of freshly cut grass. Yummy. She stretched her legs. A few days ago, she’d started wearing shorts for their morning jogs. The idea was that they would do double duty by keeping her legs cool and allowing them to tan.
She glanced at the golden skin of her thighs. The results were highly satisfactory. Suppressing a smug grin, she leaned forward and peered at the loading area for the tethered helium balloon. There was no sign of human activity around it. The thing wasn’t going up any time soon.
Amanda fell back against the trunk and pulled her white sports cap over her eyes. “I’m going to take a power nap.”
“Me too,” Kes echoed.
She heard him shift and then felt the back of his head press onto her lap.
“Can’t sleep without a pillow,” he said.
She tipped her visor up and gazed down at him. His eyes were closed, his expression content. Her fingers ached to delve into his lush hair, comb through his black locks, and then rest on his cheek. The temptation was so strong she nearly gave in.
Something landed on her shin, making a soft, slurpy sound.
“Merde!”
Kes lifted his head to see what was going on. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it is, ma belle,” he said, his lips twitching.
“I hate pigeons!” Amanda stared at the mustard-colored stain on her leg, her eyes wide and her mouth contorted in disgust.
He sat up and chuckled. “Pigeon is a species—not a generic term for birds. Your assailant could be a number of other Parisian bird species.”
“I don’t care if this poop was dumped on me by a pigeon or a penguin—it’s revolting.”
“A penguin,” he echoed, bunching his eyebrows. “Really?”
She wrinkled her face and gave him a pleading look. “Got any tissues?”
He shook his head. “But I’ll do you one better.”
“What, a tuft of grass?”
He gave her a sly smile, pulled off his T-shirt, and wiped her leg with it.
She kept her gaze down.
“Voilà.” He surveyed his handiwork. “As good as new. By the way, bird poop brings good luck.”
“Says who?”
“Gypsies.”
“Must be true, then.”
He bundled the T-shirt, folding the clean edges over the dirty middle.
“I’ll wash it for you,” she offered.
“Don’t bother—I’ll just throw it in the trash. It was worn-out, anyway.”
She nodded absently, her eyes darting to his bared torso. This was worse than at the pool. As if his eight-pack wasn’t impressive enough, his chest was smooth and broad, and his pectorals were well defined. To say nothing of his muscled arms and his graceful shoulders.
He was too close, too appealing . . .
She turned away sharply. “There are too many birds in this city.”
“Look at the positive side.”
“There isn’t any.”
“If an army of zombies besieged Paris and the population ran out of food, we could start hunting them with slingshots.”
Amanda considered the scenario. “I guess we could. The pigeons are so fat and lazy and totally unafraid of people it shouldn’t be too difficult to shoot a few down for dinner.”
“I’m sure they taste better than that plastic supermarket chicken Parisians are used to.”
“And when Parisians are well fed, they’re capable of great things.” She winked at him. “Including kicking some zombie ass.”
He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
“I need your advice,” she said, surprising herself.
“Sure.”
“I’m having trouble finding a job that wouldn’t be a huge step down from the previous one . . . And my savings are drying up.”
“You should’ve told me earlier. I’ll be happy to lend—”
“That’s not what I meant! I said advice, not help.”
He cocked his head. “OK. Go on.”
“It’s my apartment. I bought it only a year ago, and I love it. But it confines my job search to Paris. And there’s the small matter of the mortgage.” She hesitated. “The bottom line is I won’t be able to keep the apartment unless I find a job soon.”
“I’m not sure what kind of advice you expect from me.”
“A friend of mine
offered me a waitressing job. It sounds wild, but I fear it’s that or a secretary position.”
“You could sell your apartment.”
“I could, even though I’d probably lose money by selling so soon. And I’d have to move in with my mother.”
“There’s a fourth option.” He gave her a crooked smile. “You could move in with me.”
And share your bed . . . Yes, please. “No way.”
His smile slipped. “Take the waitressing job.”
“Really?”
“Judging by the way your face contorted when you said ‘secretary’ and ‘my mother,’ waitressing would be the least evil for you.”
She stood up. “Thanks for your advice. I’m not sure I’ll take it, but I’ll consider it.”
“Anytime.” He stood, too. “Ready to jog back?”
She was—provided he stayed outside of her peripheral vision.
* * *
That night, Amanda went to La Bohème. She had warmed up to the idea of waitressing even though she hadn’t made up her mind yet. Kes’s insight had helped, but she needed additional arguments and a little more persuasion from Jeanne. And, most of all, she needed it to look like she was the one doing her friend a favor, and not the other way around.
Even if both knew what the real state of affairs was.
“Have you hired anyone yet?” Amanda asked as soon as Jeanne returned to her table with a glass of Amanda’s favorite wine and a beer for herself.
“Nope. I’ve been too busy to advertise.”
Amanda nodded.
“Come on, woman,” Jeanne said. “Show some solidarity. My wedding is in a month and I don’t even have a dress. I need your help.”
Amanda shrugged. “I can’t imagine you in a white dress, anyway.”
“Who said it’s going to be white?” Jeanne gave Amanda a wink and grew serious again. “You need money to pay your bills. I need an extra pair of hands for the summer season. Our needs are perfectly aligned.”
“Even if I accepted your offer, it would be temporary. I’d be out as soon as I find a proper job.”
“Thirty hours a week over the next two months—that’s all I’m asking for. Can you do it for me?”
