by Alix Nichols
Give him a chance.
He’d done everything to get her to believe it, too. Just think of all the effort, all the creative energy he’d put into his Guide to Love! And then, the moment her shell began to crack, he got cold feet . . .
Oh, the brutal, ironic unfairness of it. Could someone please tell her why this man—out of the many others she’d met since her breakup with Rob—was the one who made her tick? Why was it he who gave her a taste of the uniquely satisfying joy of reciprocal desire?
Amanda stared at the yellowing landscape outside the train window. Her summer had been an enchanted adventure in Kes-land where she’d tumbled through a portal in Deauville’s Royal Barrière Casino. Over the last three months, she’d waitressed, talked to a spider, taken care of a plant, mended things with Vivienne, and dated a Gitan gambler. All of it had been fascinating . . . and completely out of character.
But now the summer was over, and she was back in the real world.
* * *
October came with its full palette of back-to-back autumn rains that lasted for days on end. A drizzle intensified into a downpour, which then slowed into a shower before thinning back into a drizzle. The orchid in Amanda’s living room thrived, but Christophe had disappeared at the end of September, and she missed him.
Spring seemed centuries away.
Even working fourteen-hour days couldn’t drive Amanda into a fatigue where nothing really mattered. When she wasn’t working, she spent time at La Bohème or with Vivienne, who was trying—with varying degrees of success—to be a more indulgent mother. Vivienne never asked her about Kes.
But Jeanne did.
Just like tonight, when Amanda dropped by to look at Manon’s profit and loss statement.
“She nailed it this week.” Amanda patted Jeanne’s back. “Tell her she gets an A-plus for this one. When your accountant sees it at the end of the month, he’ll be impressed.”
Jeanne handed Amanda her favorite cocktail. “On the house. How’s work?”
“Crazy, but exciting.” Amanda took a sip. “You know me—I thrive on challenges.”
“You certainly do.” Jeanne smiled. “What about your personal challenge? Any news from Kes?”
“Will you stop with that already? You keep asking, and I keep telling you it’s over. He doesn’t need to call or write to tell me what I already know.”
Jeanne shook her head. “I don’t know him well, but I’m usually right about people. My gut feeling about Kes has always been good. He’s just not the kind of guy to disappear on a girl like that.”
Amanda shrugged.
“Come on, humor me,” Jeanne said. “Let’s go over your last days with him. Something must have happened during that time. Something that would explain his behavior.”
“Nothing happened. He was his usual self on Wednesday, and on Thursday morning when he left for Lyon, and even when he texted me from there. Several times.”
“And then?” Jeanne prompted.
Amanda gulped some wine. “He came over at midnight, and he was different. If something happened, it must have happened on Thursday evening during the dinner with his family.”
Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “What were you doing on Thursday evening?
“Multitasking.” Amanda smirked. “I talked to Karine, who told me about Julien’s marching orders, I read an e-mail from Patricia asking me to return to ENS, and I told Patrick I wouldn’t go out with him.”
“Rob’s partner Patrick?”
“The very same.”
“Did you tell him that over the phone?”
“Yes.” Amanda frowned. “Well, before I called him to say that, we’d had an early dinner on the left bank.”
Jeanne shifted in her seat and smoothed her hair back. “Did you do anything during that dinner that could be . . . misinterpreted?”
“By whom?”
“An onlooker.”
Amanda felt her pulse quicken. “What are you saying, Jeanne? Do you think someone who knows both Kes and me happened to take an early dinner in the same restaurant on a Thursday night? What are the odds?”
“Tiny. But what if it wasn’t accidental? You told me his family hadn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms. One of his numerous relations may have been keeping tabs on you.”
Amanda rubbed her forehead. “It’s still extremely unlikely.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did either of you do anything that could be misinterpreted?”
“Well, Patrick took my hand at some point, but then I pulled it away.”
“What if someone saw it?”
Amanda concentrated to recall the details of that dinner. There had definitely been other customers in the dining room. Patrick had held her hand for a long moment . . . while she promised him she’d consider his proposition. What if someone had not only seen them but also heard her promise?
Jeanne grabbed Amanda’s glass and took a hearty swig. “Just think about it for a second. My hypothesis isn’t as farfetched as it sounds.”
Think rationally, Amanda.
If she put her hurt and disappointment aside, she’d agree with Jeanne. Kes wasn’t a runner. He was honest and kind. In the three-and-a-half months she’d known him, he’d never behaved like a coward.
If after everything he’d done throughout the summer to win her heart, he was swayed in the space of one evening by a pair of green eyes, he would’ve told her. He would’ve said he was finished teaching her how to love again because he’d fallen for a woman who didn’t need to be taught.
But he hadn’t said anything of the kind. Instead . . .
Oh God.
Amanda clapped her hand to her mouth remembering the things he’d said during their “kinky” sex.
You’re killing me.
What do you want from me, Amanda?
He’d also inquired about her day, and she’d blabbered about her ENS comeback, neglecting to mention Patrick. When he’d insisted on asking if she had anything to tell him, her reply had been dismissive and downright mean.
“What have I done?” she murmured, her expression terrified.
Jeanne gave her hand a squeeze. “You may have accidentally broken his heart. And then he accidentally broke yours.”
* * *
Sleep turned out to be an elusive beast that night.
Amid her tossing, turning, and replaying various scenes from her enchanted summer, Amanda recalled one of Vivienne’s killjoy remarks. It had been delivered four years ago, when Amanda’s friendship with Rob grew into something more.
“Enjoy your moment, my dear,” Vivienne had said, “but remember this: If a woman wants a man badly enough, she can usually get him to sleep with her. Whether she can get him to love her is a completely different story.”
Kes had loved her. And not just in the reasonable, merit-based way in which she’d loved Rob. Kes’s love was passionate and unrelenting. No one had loved her like that before.
No one had loved her, period.
Unlike the more suitable men, unlike Patrick and even her wonderful Rob, Kes knew her—really knew her—and still loved her. In image and in essence. In bed, in the company of other people, and in every trivial moment of daily life.
Who needed a suitable man when you had a man who felt that way about you? A man who was well aware of your flaws and weaknesses and still wanted to be with you. Wasn’t that the best kind of suitable? Actually, it was better than suitable. It was a rare blessing to be with a man who cherished you for who you were.
Indelicate—and candid.
Emotionally unintelligent—and never a bore.
Vain—and constitutionally incapable of hypocrisy.
Imperfect.
Amanda gave up trying to fall asleep, pulled a sweater over her pj’s, and wandered into the living room. There, she grabbed her phone from the charging pad and curled up in her roomy armchair. She absently turned and flipped the phone between her fingers.
God, she missed him. Did he miss her, too? Did he t
hink of her sometimes, or had Clara’s striking beauty driven Amanda out of his heart?
On an impulse, she unlocked her phone and began to type.
Kes—
If you and Clara are really engaged to be married, please delete this message. If you aren’t, scroll down and read the rest.
I should’ve told you I was having dinner with Patrick when you went to Lyon. Patrick and I have known each other five years, first as colleagues and then as friends. I should’ve told you he wanted to take things further, and I agreed to think about it. At the time, I was still fooling myself that you were just a summer fling—a glitch . . .
Anyway, Patrick and I never happened. I haven’t been with anyone since you left. They’re all too pale.
I MISS YOU SO MUCH.
Important Note: We are agreed that if you’ve read this far, it means you’re not engaged, right? If you are, please delete immediately. Otherwise, scroll down and read on.
YOU’RE THE JOY OF MY LIFE.
Important Note #2: If you intend to marry Clara (which I can totally understand—she’s gorgeous), then delete this message NOW. Otherwise, scroll down.
Scroll more.
PLEASE COME BACK TO ME!
* * *
Amanda.
Kes caught a glimpse of a slender blonde at the other end of the bar, and his world came to a standstill. He watched her back for a moment and then elbowed his way in her direction.
Please let her be Amanda!
But as he got close enough to catch a whiff of her heavy perfume, he knew the woman wasn’t Amanda. He approached her anyway, just to be sure.
The blonde surveyed him with interest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were someone else.”
He gave her an awkward smile and walked away.
Shit, shit, shit.
Déjà vu flooded his mind, as powerful as it was unpleasant. This exact situation had happened last week. In fact, it had happened five times over the last two months. On two separate occasions, each of the women he’d taken for Amanda came over a few minutes later, a seductive smile in her eyes. Both of them thought it had been his pick-up line. He nearly ended up sleeping with one of them but bailed at the last moment. It had felt too wrong.
Kes pulled out his phone and read Amanda’s text again. It had arrived several hours ago, and he could hardly focus on anything else ever since. He kept staring at the words she’d written and rereading the parts in all caps.
I MISS YOU SO MUCH.
So she wasn’t seeing that guy from the restaurant, Patrick. She wasn’t seeing anyone—she was missing him, the glitch. Did she miss him more than he missed her? Did she miss him enough to set all her objections aside? Enough to recognize how great they were together?
YOU’RE THE JOY OF MY LIFE.
Sweet Sara la Kali, those words. They messed with his brain and his free will. They pushed him to jump on the first plane to Paris, knock on Amanda’s door, and remind her just how much of a joy he was.
And then what?
Would she still tell him she didn’t see how they could have a lasting relationship? Did she still believe they belonged in different worlds? What if she’d written her message on a whim, in a lonely moment when her bed seemed too empty, or out of jealousy? Everything she’d done during their Parisian summer—including a candlelit, hand-holding dinner with another man—pointed to the absence of deeper feelings. And yet, here he was, seeing her in strangers and wishing Clara had been more like her.
The young Gitane had followed him to Vegas, claiming they were almost engaged. He showed her the main attractions and then sent her back to France two days later with instructions to tell everyone she hadn’t found him. Clara had returned to her parents heartbroken, but still a virgin.
Silly, besotted kid.
Oh, and Marco had some serious explaining to do about giving her his number and helping her fund the trip.
What was he thinking?
Kes finished his wine and stepped out onto the crowded Las Vegas Boulevard, his mind stuck on the last line of Amanda’s text.
COME BACK TO ME!
By the time he reached his hotel, the entreaty had morphed into “Come home to me.”
Home?
As he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, a revelation struck him. He, Kes Moreno, now had one of those. It beckoned him from far away, and he responded to its call. For the first time in his life, he felt he belonged. It was disturbing . . . and yet deeply satisfying.
I have a home now.
His home wasn’t a country or a house.
It was a snooty, irresistible gadji named Amanda.
* * *
Marc Petit, the head of R&D, tapped away on his phone as he sat next to Amanda in the back of the company car. She shut her phone and stared out the window. They had turned onto rue Balard, approaching the headquarters of Eutelsat, Europe’s biggest satellite communications provider. The aim of the visit was to present the new photovoltaic cells ENS had developed. They were still far from discussing a deal, but Amanda had high hopes.
She opened her purse and slipped her phone inside. There was no point in constantly glancing at it and fiddling with it. Those actions wouldn’t conjure up a message from Kes.
He hadn’t replied to her desperate text of two days ago.
The meaning of his silence was becoming harder to ignore with every passing hour.
He had moved on.
And so should she.
By the time the meeting at Eutelsat ended, it was eight in the evening. For once, it wasn’t raining, and Amanda needed fresh air after three intense hours in a windowless conference room. Her place being close to rue Balard, she opted for a walk.
A big, huge mistake.
Her route offered an endless supply of visual prompts, including the Andre Citroën Park where she and Kes used to jog, the helium balloon they rode a couple of times, the municipal swimming pool, the movie theater . . . When she reached her building, she was close to tears.
Merde.
If this was how she was going to handle her “moving on,” she might as well book an appointment with Claude’s psychiatrist to put her on antidepressants. An ounce of prevention, as they said.
When the elevator brought her to her landing, someone was sitting on the steps next to her door. She froze. Was she hallucinating? Did her longing for Kes induce her brain to generate a mirage out of thin air?
Or was it really him?
“Howdee, babee,” he said in English, his French accent so outrageous she couldn’t help a smile.
He smiled back. “I see you’re pleased to see me.”
Breathe, Amanda.
Without answering or looking him in the eye, she opened the door and went straight into the living room. She heard him shut the door and follow her.
Good manners dictated she ask him if he cared for a drink. But that meant prolonging the uncertainly.
To hell with good manners.
“I take it you got my text,” she said, turning to face him.
He nodded.
“And this is your reply—you’re back?”
She had meant it as a statement, but her traitorous mouth transformed it into a question at the last moment.
“Before I confirm or deny,”—he stifled a smile—“could you please repeat what you wrote in that text?”
She stared into his eyes. “Why? To gauge my sincerity?”
He met her gaze. “Maybe.”
“Are you still . . . in love with me?”
He didn’t answer.
“OK.” She nodded. “Fair enough.”
God, it was difficult to speak of these things! Maybe she could negotiate putting them into a letter instead.
After a few moments of silence, Kes cleared his throat.
She looked down at her feet and then at him again. “I love you, Kes.”
He searched her eyes, then grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her to him. “Amanda—”
> “I love you,” she repeated, giddy.
He cradled her face with both hands. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Gypsy boy.”
“And a gambler,” he prompted, eyes laughing. “Albeit partially reformed.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow at him. “In that case, I love you, partially reformed Gypsy gambler.”
He grinned at her. “Also homeless, uneducated, and banished by his clan.”
“I’m so sorry.” She touched his cheek. “They’ll come around.”
“I hope so.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a hot kiss to her palm.
“I’m so screwed,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I love you like I’ve never loved before, not even Rob. It’s visceral. I can’t suppress it, and it scares me. You may be a partially reformed gambler—and I need to hear more about that—but you’re still a free spirit.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I used to believe,” he finally said, “that freedom was the single most important thing in my life. Even my Traveler clan wasn’t free enough for me with all their traditions and the need to stick together all the time.”
She hung on his every word.
“I also believed,” he continued, “that living out of a suitcase was a small price to pay for having my freedom. What I believe now is that settling down is a small price to pay for having you.”
“Oh, Kes.”
“Marry me, Amanda.”
Her mouth fell open. “What, just like that? You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“But . . . marriage implies having a real family one day . . . you know . . . kids.”
He grinned. “Yes, I’m aware of the implications.”
“But your lifestyle—”
“Is going to change.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“I’ll explain in detail later, but the short of it is I’ve branched out into stock trading.”
“What?”
“Our charade at Jeanne’s wedding gave me the idea. In Vegas, I had a lot of time on my hands, so I taught myself about the stock exchange and day trading from home.”
“But surely,” Amanda said, looking incredulous, “there’s more to it than ‘buy low, sell high’?”
