by Alix Nichols
To her surprise, he was already at the bistro. She spotted his thick brown hair as soon as she crossed rue LaFayette onto rue Cadet. He sat outside on the sidewalk terrace, lounging in a red and cream wicker chair, his nape leaned against the glass behind him and his face turned up to the soothing September sun.
Emma’s pulse quickened. For a brief moment, she was tempted to go up to him and say, Hi, it’s Laura, but my real name is Emma Perrin.
She pictured the look on his face. He’d be shocked, for sure. Probably angry. Possibly disgusted. No, no, it was too soon. In spite of Geraldine’s assurances, Emma feared that Cyril hated her. She hated herself, after all, for the suffering she’d caused him.
She approached him. “Hi, it’s Laura.”
At the sound of her voice, he broke into a big smile. “Laura! What are you doing here?”
She had intended to feed him another lie about her fictitious photo shoot. But her mouth refused to deliver it. Emma hesitated, then made up her mind. Even if she’d resolved to continue her charade for now, she could at least tell him the truth about her motives.
“I was hoping to find you here,” she said.
Cyril’s smile grew bigger, but he remained silent.
“A little help, please?” she pleaded.
“Apologies. Where are my manners?” He pointed to the chair next to his. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you.” She took her seat and dropped her backpack on the ground between her feet.
“Sounds heavy,” he commented.
“My laptop’s in it. I was planning to finish some work before you arrived.”
“Is it urgent?”
“Kind of… Actually, yes.”
“Go ahead, finish it. I’m not going anywhere.” He raised his empty glass above his head and continued speaking. “I’ll have my second beer while you’re finishing your work, and then I’ll invite you to dinner. If that’s agreeable.”
“That’s very agreeable. Thank you.” Emma opened her backpack and pulled her laptop from its protective case.
They spent the next hour in companionable silence. Cyril didn’t ask her what she was doing and how well she was progressing. He let her concentrate on her work, which was terrific. The only time she lost her focus was when she felt the sun tickle her face as it was about to disappear behind the building across the street. She touched the spot on her cheek where it had kissed her and stole a glance at Cyril, who sipped his beer, listening to something on his smartphone.
She felt ridiculously content.
Dinner turned out to be a different story. Not in terms of contentment but with respect to the number of questions Cyril had for her. He wanted to know everything about her: where she’d grown up, if she had any siblings, if she liked her job, what her favorite books, shows, and movies were, and the lowdown on her first love and first heartbreak.
She attempted to reply as truthfully as she could, given the circumstances. The questions about books and movies were the easiest.
“You’re the first female science fiction buff I’ve ever met,” Cyril said.
“Then you haven’t met a lot of women. How unusual for a musician.”
“I had the same girlfriend for many years. And I’m only twenty-six.”
“Do you still love her?” Emma’s voice was composed even as her hands trembled.
“I don’t know.” He furrowed his brow. “I do miss her. But it may be that I just miss the company of… a woman.”
“Arthur C. Clarke,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My favorite sci-fi author. If you haven’t read him, you absolutely should. Start with Rendezvous with Rama.”
“Will do.” He touched her forearm. “You didn’t answer my earlier question.”
“Which one?”
“About your first heartbreak.”
“I’ll tell you only if you tell me about yours.” She rolled her eyes at her cheap stalling trick. Oh well, desperate times and all.
“OK,” he said, surprising her. “It was Gerrie, my girl—um, ex-girlfriend. We were eighteen. We were finishing school, and she told me she wanted to date another guy. I was devastated.”
“But you took her back again later, when—” Emma shut her mouth, realizing she had said too much.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice her slipup. “And so I did, yes.”
Would you do it again, if she came begging?
Emma didn’t dare voice the question. What if he said yes?
“Now you,” he said.
“OK, fine. It happened when I was thirteen.”
“The little bastard dumped you?”
“No.”
He cocked his head. “What, then?”
“He didn’t do anything wrong, actually. He was simply in love with someone else. And I broke my heart all by myself.”
“Well, I hope you’re over him now,” Cyril said with an amused smile.
You have no idea. “Yes, of course. Ten years is enough time to lick a wound.”
One of the waiters approached their table. “I don’t want to rush you guys, but we’re closing a bit early tonight. It’s my going-away party.”
“Thailand, right?” Cyril asked.
“Right. Listen, if you aren’t otherwise engaged, would you like to stay for the party?”
“I’m in.” Cyril said. “Laura? You emailed your project off, didn’t you? So you’re free as a bird now… unless you have other plans for tonight.”
What other plans?
Even if the President of the French Republic had called to invite her to a reception at the Elysée Palace, she’d have declined without a moment’s hesitation.
“I happen to be free tonight,” she said and turned to the waiter. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“My name is Rob.” The waiter held his hand out. “The blue-haired Goth over there is Jeanne, and I’ll introduce you to the others as soon as we’ve closed the place.”
“I have a condition, though.” Cyril said.
Rob grinned like he knew what was coming. “Shoot.”
“You won’t play my songs.”
“Fine.”
“And you won’t try to sing them, either.”
“Who told you about my singing?”
“Nobody.”
Rob turned to the bar where Jeanne hovered and narrowed his eyes. “Then nobody will pay dearly for this act of treason.”
Cyril sighed. “Nobody is innocent.”
“As for you, Cyril,” Rob said, snarling theatrically. “Your ‘tortured genius’ status doesn’t entitle you to repress my freedom of song.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cyril said.
Chapter Ten
Cyril
Rob kept his word and didn’t play any of the forbidden songs. He didn’t try to sing anything either, which secretly disappointed Cyril, who’d grown curious to hear just how bad Rob was. Instead, Pierre regaled everyone with good old Duran Duran, Les Rita Mitsouko, and Indochine, accompanied by an endless supply of pinot noir. Rob’s colleagues and friends took turns toasting his bright future and betting on the number of years it would take him to emerge as a global energy mogul.
At each prediction, Cyril clinked glasses with Laura, who stood next to him at the far end of the bar.
When it was Jeanne’s turn to play the oracle, she started with a long and loud sigh.
“Is that all you got?” Rob teased.
“My impatient brother in trays,” she said. “I’ll miss you. We’ll all miss your indomitable optimism and witticism. As for La Bohème, it’ll also miss at least a dozen female patrons aged sixteen to sixty-five who only come here in the hopes of catching your eye.”
“Unless they get real and start hoping to catch my eye,” someone cried out amid catcalls and laughter.
Judging by the accent, it was Pepe, the Spanish waiter.
Cyril turned to Laura. “Why did Jeanne say that about Rob?”
“I guess it’
s because he’s handsome.”
“Oh.” Cyril leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Is that the reason you started coming here? To catch Rob’s eye?”
“No,” she said.
He knew it already, but it didn’t diminish the pleasure that rushed through his veins from her unequivocal response.
“Why, then?” he asked, pulse drumming in his ears.
“I started coming here to catch your eye,” she said before adding with mirth, “or rather, ear.”
He chuckled as a sensation of warmth enveloped him and made his body light. “Consider your mission accomplished. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve only had ears for you.”
Now, if he could somehow figure out where exactly her hand was, he’d take it into his and hold onto it for the rest of the evening.
He heard her shift. Was she moving closer or farther from him?
“OK, folks.” Rob’s bright voice carried over the music. “I think everyone’s heard enough eighties rock for the night—or a lifetime, as the case may be. How about something a little closer to the present day?”
“Yes, please!” a few guests pleaded.
After some fumbling, Rob’s playlist took over, and Cyril recognized the signature four-count introduction to Pharrell Williams’s Happy.
And then he felt Laura’s hand on his.
She gave it a little squeeze. “Shall we dance?”
“Um… I’m not sure I—”
“Hey.” Laura laughed. “I’m not suggesting we go out there and do pirouettes.”
“No?”
She laughed again. “We stay by the bar and just groove. Do you think you could manage it?”
He nodded. Whether it was the pinot noir, Pharrell’s irresistible beat, or the lure of the legitimate excuse to hold Laura, he would’ve agreed to pirouettes, had that been the only option.
Clasping Laura’s hand, he took a step away from the bar and began to nod in synch with the rhythm.
She placed her free hand on his chest, and soon they were moving to the music. Laura softly sang along to Pharrell’s falsetto. Cyril led their unobtrusive dance, guiding them with the hand that held hers and with his entire body. Somewhere in the middle of the song, she pulled her hand away from his and gripped the back of his neck. Whatever this initiative implied, he approved of it. He placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them down her slender back, palms flat, reveling in its sensuous curve.
“Can you describe yourself, Laura?” he asked softly. “Not Marilyn Monroe. You.”
“OK,” she said. “My hair is blond. Ish. And my eyes are greenish. Other than that, I’m quite ordinary. No D-cups to speak of, unfortunately.”
He trailed his fingers over the clean lines of her forehead, nose, cheekbones and jaw. His other hand slid down her back to rest on her softly rounded hip.
“You’re anything but ordinary,” he said.
It was amazing how he could picture her—face and body, even the way she danced—through his hands. They translated into images the contours, size, and shape of her torso, the pattern and cadence of its little shakes and twists, and the rhythmic rocking of her hips.
The song ended all too soon. He refused to let go of her, hoping the next piece would be something danceable. Thank God—or, rather, Rob—it was. He continued exploring her delectable curves for a few more songs while his hunger for her grew by the minute until somebody stopped the music to make another speech.
Reluctantly, he broke contact with her, praying the party would never end.
And then he heard her soft voice. “How about we sneak out and party on our own terms… at your place?”
Of the thousand different suggestions she could’ve made, this was the indisputable, hands-down winner.
In every category.
When he pushed open the door to his apartment, he could hardly wait to put his arms around her and claim the kiss he’d been craving for several hours now. But she marched right past him, and he heard her drop her backpack further down the hallway.
“Will you give me a tour of your apartment?” she asked.
“Sure.”
The bedroom would be a great place to start.
She placed her hand in his. “Let’s begin with the kitchen.”
Argh, the minx. “Your wish is my command.”
Once in the kitchen, she flooded him with questions. How did he find stuff? How did he go about cooking? How did he make sure not to eat expired foods?
He explained all the tricks and techniques he’d learned over the past weeks. After that, he operated his expensive talking machines. She tried his Braille labeling gun and the food thermometer. When he thought he would explode with pent-up lust, she announced she was ready to continue the tour.
“Would you like to see the bedroom?” he asked, heart thumping.
“Yes, I would.”
He nodded, all businesslike. “Follow me.”
Thank you, God. I take back my complaints against you. All of them.
As he led the way to the bedroom, he tried to recall if he had made his bed this morning. Not an easy task, given that most of his blood had pooled in his crotch. Hmm… he may have left a pair of socks on the floor. He wasn’t sure. Oh well. Laura didn’t seem to be one of those cleanliness maniacs who would whirl around and leave at the sight of an untidy bedroom.
His gut feeling proved to be right about her lack of fanaticism, but he hadn’t factored in her rampant curiosity.
“How do you make sure to wear socks of the same color?” she asked.
Merde. He must have left those socks lying around, after all.
“The trick is to keep them tucked together in the wash.” He sighed before adding, “It’s a good method if you remember where you keep the tuckers.”
“And do you?”
He shook his head. “Another method is to use the color-detecting app. But I found a better strategy a week ago. I gave all my old socks to Dad and had Mom buy me twenty identical dark gray pairs.”
She laughed her contagious laugh.
“You’re allowed one more question,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“I won’t be able to fight the urge to kiss you for more than thirty seconds.”
“And if I ask two questions?”
“You’ll have to watch me swell with suppressed longing until I turn into a human bubble and blow up in your face.”
“Yuck.”
“My point precisely.”
She took a step toward him, and he could smell her exquisite scent again, just like during the party. It was delicate, sweet, and sensual, all at the same time. It made his body ache with desire.
“Musk rose?” he asked, his voice coming out so winded he wasn’t sure she would hear him.
She placed her hand in his. “Old-fashioned, I know.”
“It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.”
He stroked her graceful fingers, brought her hand to his mouth, and pressed a soft, intimate kiss to her palm.
She inhaled sharply.
He jerked her to him, savoring every sensation as his hands roamed her already familiar back and her breasts brushed against his chest. He cradled the back of her head, playing with the fluffy wisps at her nape. Her hair was gathered into a high ponytail, and he itched to set it free. But that could wait—he had something a lot more urgent to do. He bent toward her and tilted his head, preparing to sample the taste and feel of her lips. His heart pounded in anticipation.
“Cyril, I—” she began.
“Don’t worry about a thing, mon ange,” he cut in, his words rushing out hot and hungry. “We’ll only go as far as you’ll want us to.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s something else.”
“I have condoms,” he whispered in her ear, hoping he had decoded her hesitation.
“That’s… great. But it’s something else.”
He didn’t like the anxiety in her voice. He didn’t like it at all. “Is it something… upsetting
?”
“Possibly.” She drew in a long, heavy breath. “Probably.”
He had to lighten things up.
Now.
Clearing his throat, he gasped in feigned shock. “Are you a man?”
“What? No!”
“Phew. Good. That would’ve been a deal breaker.”
She chuckled.
His hand went to cup one of her little breasts. “As real as they come,” he commented, kneading it. “Could that thing you want to tell me… could it ruin this night for us?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Then don’t tell me now. You’ll tell me tomorrow.”
“OK,” she said quickly and raked her hand through his hair.
He gently tugged at the rubber band restraining her locks. He wanted it off now—he needed to bury his hands in her hair, to feel its weight, its texture, to bring it to his face and inhale its scent. But the contraption wouldn’t give in. He was silently cursing and fighting the urge to yank at it when her nimble fingers joined his. She removed the elastic, and her feathery strands spilled over his hands.
Pure bliss.
He stroked her nape and the back of her head, his fingers delving into her hair, scooping it up, and letting it slide between his fingers.
“I love how sleek your hair is,” he said.
“I believe the appropriate word is silky,” she murmured.
“To hell with appropriate words,” he rasped, lowering his head to brush his lips against hers.
So soft.
As he kissed her, his awareness of her breasts, abdomen, and thighs pressed hard against his body intensified, building to a fever pitch. He penetrated her mouth, stroking her tongue with his and tasting the sultry-sweet flavor of pinot noir. A wave of heat jolted through his veins, warming his face and shattering his control.
Three steps.
Three small sideways steps and he could lower her to the bed.
She slid one hand under his T-shirt and splayed her palm over his stomach. Her other hand tugged at the hem. “Take it off.”
He removed it in a wink and dropped it to the floor.
“Your turn, mon ange,” he whispered, pulling her to him and pushing her T up and over her head.
She snapped open her bra, and her deliciously soft breasts spilled against his chest. He palmed and fondled them with total abandon until he heard a crisp sound. She had unzipped his jeans.
