by Alix Nichols
“Oops,” she said saucily.
He pushed his sneakers off, lowered his jeans and kicked them aside, then removed his socks but kept his boxer briefs on. Hands clumsy with impatience, he undid the zipper of her shorts and dragged them down her hips and thighs, kneeling before her until her shorts were around her ankles, and she stepped out of them. He dropped hot kisses on her tummy along the waistband of her low-cut cotton panties, hesitating to go further.
Not yet.
When he pictured her standing in front of him, naked but for her panties, it took all the self-control he possessed not to tear them with his hands and teeth.
He rose, scooped her up, and took those three sideways steps to the bed.
After he lowered her on it and positioned himself between her legs, he drew back, trying to calm his ardor so he could slow things down a notch. All his past experience and confidence couldn’t stop him from feeling like an overexcited first-timer. He hadn’t made love since the accident. Not even a proper kiss, except Gerrie’s fleeting smooches that held nothing sexual. Three months wasn’t such a long time, of course, but to him it had been an eternity. It had been the entirety of his new life.
Laura ran her hands over his pectorals and abs. “You haven’t let yourself go.”
“Dad got me a rowing machine.” His hand traveled to her lower abdomen and slid inside her panties. “I use it when I’m bored,”—he sucked in a sharp breath as he found his prize—“which happens a lot these days…”
As he caressed her there, she gasped and whimpered and writhed under him.
If only he could see her face now.
About a year ago, Gerrie had made him wear a blindfold during foreplay. It had been fun, lying on his back, guessing what she’d do next, and being constantly surprised by her inventiveness. But when things had started heating up, he'd torn the blindfold off. He needed to see the woman he was making love to.
Now his blindfold was permanent.
As if sensing his frustration, Laura slipped her fingers under the waistband of his briefs and tugged. He hurried to remove them while she shifted under him, pulling her own panties off. When they were done, he lowered himself on top of her, bringing every inch of his skin into contact with hers. She wrapped her arms and legs around him.
“I want you so much,” he whispered against her mouth.
“How fast can you get that condom?” she asked.
* * *
After they climaxed and their muffled groans ceased, they lay still, legs entwined and arms draped over each other, basking in the drowsy afterglow of their release. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, inhaling her head-turning perfume heightened from the heat of her skin, and listened to her breathing grow quieter. As she snuggled to him, he closed his eyes and let the rhythmic beat of her heart lull him to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Emma
She woke up with a diffuse sense of happiness. For a moment she lay still, eyes closed, trying to figure out where that feeling had come from. Had she been flying again in her sleep? When she did, she rode the wind wherever it took her, zooming out on magnificent landscapes—ragged mountains, lush forests and crystal blue lakes—and then closing in on people’s faces and smiling as they looked up and waved. That recurrent dream was the most inspiring, most beautiful experience in her life, and whenever she had it, she would spend the whole day in a state of unsinkable benevolence.
But this time, she couldn’t remember flying. It was something else, something… Oh God. Oh, dear God. Images of last night flashed in her mind as she remembered where she was and what had happened. Suddenly, she became aware of a large palm splayed across her tummy. She opened her eyes and turned her head to gaze at the owner of said palm.
This was real. She was in bed with the love of her life.
And he was smiling.
Her hand went to his face, and she stroked his chiseled cheekbones, his trim little beard, and his scar-slashed eyebrows.
This was better than flying in her sleep.
“Good morning, mon ange,” he said.
She loved the endearment, the husky voice that delivered it, and the crooked smile that accompanied it.
“Good morning,” she replied, hesitating to give him a pet name of her own.
Soon.
“I slept like a baby,” he said. “Haven’t slept like this in months.”
He moved closer to her and propped himself on his elbow. “Will you promise me something?”
“Depends what.”
“That you’ll sleep here tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.”
“OK,” she said.
“How about the rest of the week?”
“Granted.”
“And the rest of the month?”
“Aren’t you rushing things?” she teased.
“Absolutely not. But I’ll take the week for now.” He pulled her close and combed his fingers through her hair. “Renewable upon tacit agreement.”
She laughed.
“Laura,” he murmured, running his fingers over her face. “Laura. What a beautiful name.”
Oh no.
She winced as her little bubble of unadulterated joy burst apart, leaving her to grapple with the truth of her situation.
He kissed her shoulder. “I dreamed I was playing my guitar.”
“Will you play for me now? I’ll get it for you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not ready.” Then added with a smile, “Yet.”
“I can wait,” she said. “I have all day.”
“It may take longer than that, mon ange,” he said, a tinge of sadness coloring his handsome voice.
“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
I can wait a lifetime.
He gathered her to him. “The thing you wanted to tell me last night—does it still apply?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I was hoping… It doesn’t matter.” He sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. “Tell me then.”
Already?
She couldn’t possibly. She needed to stock up with more of this connection, this baggage-free trust between them, before she emptied a bucket of water over her sand castle and prayed it would resist.
“I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
“Agreed. Which means you’re coming to La Bohème with me.”
“Why?”
“That’s where I eat breakfast.”
She laughed. “A man of habit.”
When they stepped out of his building into the bustling Parisian morning, Cyril paused and turned to her, a smile dancing on his face. “Can I ask you a small favor?”
“Ask away.”
“On our way to La Bohème, do you mind describing the surroundings and… holding my hand?” He stretched out his left hand for her, the right one holding his cane.
“Sure.” She walked over to his left side and placed her hand into his. “For your balance?”
“Not at all.” He extended the cane in front of him. “For my sense of wellbeing.”
Her mouth twitched. “It won’t hurt mine, either.”
“You see,” Cyril said as they walked down the street, “I used to live in the eleventh before, and the twelfth before that. I know the area around Opéra Garnier, but I have trouble picturing what this part of the ninth is like.”
She looked around. “Your neighborhood is perfect.”
“In what way?”
“You know how some parts of Paris are handsome but insanely boring? And some are so ugly you wonder if you’ve been transported to the outskirts of Brussels or a Moscow suburb? Well, your neighborhood is a perfect mix of elegance, grit, and hipness.”
“That’s good to know.” Cyril smiled. “But I want details. For instance, I can sometimes smell fresh bread around this spot. Is it a baker? What does the shop look like?”
“It’s called ‘Boulangerie Châteaudun.’ The front is art nouveau—curvy wrought iron painted pale mint green. Reminds me of Ladurée. R
ather well maintained. Lots of customers inside, so I guess their croissants must be good.”
“Mental note number one.”
“Take another one while you’re at it—right after the baker there’s a garage entrance. You should watch out.”
Crap. She hadn’t just said “watch out,” had she? Yep, she had. Emma rolled her eyes. What an imbecile.
“I know about the garage, but thanks for the warning. Anything else of interest before the convenience store?”
“Let’s see. Oh yes, there’s a fishmonger further down the street. But you may have figured it out already.”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “I kind of suspected there was something fishy going on around there.”
“And crabby, too.”
He chuckled. “Now tell me about the passersby.”
“Why? You don’t think it’s always the same people, do you?” She stood on tiptoes and whispered into his ear, infusing exaggerated gravitas into her tone. “Your life isn’t The Truman Show, believe me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Remind me why I should believe the woman who just popped up out of nowhere?”
She knew he had meant it as a joke, but it still turned her stomach. Emma clenched her jaw. That was it—she would confess as soon as they ordered breakfast.
And then come what may.
“OK,” she said. “The passersby. I spy with my little eye… a white-haired monsieur with a little boy—must be his grandson—who keeps jumping up and down.”
“The old man or the boy?”
“Take a wild guess.”
He puckered his lips, feigning intense mental effort, and shook his head. “I give up. OK, who else do you spy?”
“A new couple, madly in love. They’re cute.”
“How do you know they’re new? And how do you know they’re in love?”
“I don’t know that, of course, but it’s the way they hold hands, the way they look at each other… And here’s the most telling detail: They stop every ten seconds for a smooch.”
He stopped in his tracks, pulled her to him, and gave her a searing kiss.
As they resumed their walk, she asked, bright-eyed, “Were you trying to make a point?”
“Absolutely.”
Inside the bistro, Emma picked a cozy window table, a little removed from the others. Cyril ordered croissants, buttered tartines, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and coffee for both of them.
Emma smoothed the napkin on her knees.
Time to fess up.
She glanced behind her to check if a particularly speedy waiter was heading their way with the croissants.
But it wasn’t a waiter she saw advancing toward them with the inexorability of a falling tree.
It was Geraldine.
Chapter Twelve
Cyril
The click-clack of sharp heels against the floor tiles grew louder until it stopped somewhere near their table.
“Hey, Cyril,” a woman said.
Funny how she sounded exactly like Gerrie.
“You told me I could always find you at this bistro…”
It was Gerrie.
Her voice trailed off, but when she spoke again, her tone was completely different. “And what are you doing here?”
“Hi,” Laura mumbled.
“You texted me you were home with a cold today,” Gerrie said.
“I… lied,” Laura said under her breath.
What is going on?
“Do you two know each other?” he asked.
Silence.
A wave of nausea clutched his stomach. “Do you guys know each other?”
“Sometimes I doubt it,” Gerrie said, her tone pensive before it changed to shocked. “Oh my God! You have no clue who’s sitting across from you, do you?”
Please, let this be just another one of Gerrie’s stupid jokes.
Jaw clenched, he turned to Laura.
“My real name is Emma,” Laura said. “Emma Perrin.”
No. It couldn’t be.
He swallowed hard and said with as much calm as he could muster, “Lau… Emma, care to explain?”
“I will. I promise… as soon as… we’re alone.”
“I suppose this is what you wanted to tell me last night?”
Jesus. He’d spent the night with Emma. Gerrie’s little sis. The woman who—
“Cyril, please,” Emma begged before her voice broke off, choking on a sob.
He could feel the nausea in his throat now.
“Please, let me explain this,” Emma said, her voice raw.
He turned to Gerrie. “And what is it you want from me, darling?”
“Nothing,” Gerrie said quickly. “Well, it’s just a trifle. Remember Melchior, our biggest corporate client? I’ve told you about them.”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, turns out Jean-Thomas, the CEO, is a huge fan of yours. He thinks you’re one of the best singer-songwriters of this century. The future of the French chanson. Aznavour, Gainsbourg, and Brel rolled into one.”
He smirked but said nothing.
“When I told him our company designed your covers, he was tickled pink. And when I said that you and I were close friends, he became delirious. Begged me to get you to autograph a CD for him.”
“Do you have it?” Cyril asked drily.
“Yes, right here.” Gerrie thrust a CD insert and a pen into his hand.
He put the insert on the table. “Where should I sign?”
“Around here would be great.” She guided his hand to the right spot.
As he scribbled his usual autograph, it struck him that he was writing on a piece of art created by Emma. He pushed the thought away.
“Here.” He held the insert and the pen out to Gerrie. “You’re all set.”
“May I join you?” she asked. “I could do with a strong coffee right now.”
“No,” Cyril and Emma said in unison.
Cyril took in a breath before adding, “I’ll be happy to catch up another time. But right now I need to talk to Emma. Alone.”
“No problem. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Gerrie sounded as cool and nonchalant as always, but he knew her too well to miss the hurt undertone in her voice.
Well, right now, he didn’t care.
As soon as the sound of her shoes faded, he turned to Emma. “I’m all ears.”
“I was… I needed to talk to you after the accident. I wanted to tell you something.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Something important. But I was afraid you’d be too upset to hear me out.”
“So you opted for deceit.”
“Yes… I don’t know what I was thinking. I can see now it was a dumb idea. But at the time, I thought—”
“What did you think, Emma?” he cut in, barely containing his anger.
“I thought that passing for an anonymous fan would give us a chance to be strangers who’d just met and could talk to each other without the baggage of who we are and what happened… a chance at a clean slate.”
“Only we aren’t strangers, are we? And at some point that truth was going to come to the surface.”
“It was supposed to come from me!” She sniffed, and then more words poured from her. “I was going to tell you. Right now, during this breakfast, just before Geraldine showed up and ruined everything.”
“Emma,” he said, the calm in his voice a contrast to her emotion. “Why? Why did you want to talk to me ‘without the ‘baggage,’ as you call it?”
“I… I…” she mumbled.
“I know why. You think it was your fault. You think you’re responsible for my blindness. And you seek some kind of redemption.”
“No! That wasn’t the reason.” She must have leaned in because he could feel her breath on his face. “Well, I do feel guilty, that much is true, and I do hope to earn your forgiveness—”
“There you go,” he interrupted her. “Hey, I have great news. I don’t hold you responsible for what happened.”
“Cyril—”
“Let me finish. There’s something else you need to know. I don’t want pity. Yours or anybody else’s. Pity friendship is bad enough, but pity sex…” He shook his head. “And lies. The last thing I need now is lies.”
Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she put herself in his place—in a handicapped person’s place because that’s who he was now—and imagine how it felt to find out he’d been tricked?
“Don’t you see it, Emma?” His voice cracked. “I’m so easy to fool. I’m blind and I’m deaf without my hearing aids. I’ve become so… vulnerable. You should’ve known better than to fool me.”
“I’m so sorry! I’m so very sorry.” She began to snivel.
“OK,” he said, placing his left hand flat on the table. “OK. I accept your apology, but I need you to leave now. Can you do that? Please?”
She grabbed his hand with both hers and wheezed between sobs, “Don’t send me away.”
He slowly peeled her hands off.
After a moment’s silence, her chair moved, and she ran away.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma
It’s over! Emma thought when she bolted from the bistro. She’d taken her shot at a relationship with Cyril and missed the mark.
He had rejected her as soon as he found out who she was.
He must despise me.
An elderly woman stopped and touched her arm, a mix of concern and pity in her eyes. “Are you all right?”
Emma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and managed a lopsided smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Choking back a sob, she lowered her head and scurried down the street. She marched for a good half hour, her mind vacant and her gaze fixed to the ground. When she finally looked up, she was already on rue du Louvre. The Seine would be no more than ten minutes away. Relieved to have found a tiny purpose, Emma crossed rue de Rivoli and hurried to the waterfront. She needed to sit down somewhere by the river and contemplate its steady flow. It would calm her, dull the crushing pain in her chest to an endurable soreness.
It always did.
Emma picked one of the roomy stone benches on the Tuileries Quay not far from her favorite bridge, Pont des Arts, kicked off her sandals, and hugged her knees to her chest. She watched the breeze ruffle the river’s surface and the quaint péniche barges float by. Barge spotting had been one of her favorite pastimes since she was a kid. She had missed that most about Paris during her self-imposed Chinese exile.
