by Alix Nichols
The crowd nods.
My love affair with embroidery started in my early teens when I saw Sequins at the European Film Festival in Kathmandu. Noah’s mom Marguerite, aka my French “fairy godmother,” dragged Noah and me there every afternoon. Her aim was to improve our “general culture” through exposure to the best of contemporary cinematography.
Noah, who would’ve preferred to watch the Olympics on TV, got seriously bored with the artsy movies the festival showcased. So did I, with most of it, except Sequins. Every single scene of that film in which the master embroiderer and her young apprentice put together fabric, thread, beads, feathers, and sequins to create a piece of exquisite beauty took my breath away.
For two hours I watched, mesmerized, leaning forward in my seat between Marguerite and Noah. The credits rolled, and people began to stand up and move toward the exit. I sat there, spellbound until Marguerite cleared her throat and Noah tugged on my sleeve.
That night excitement made it impossible to sleep.
I kept replaying the movie in my head and picturing myself adding one tiny stitch after another to silk organza stretched taut on a frame. There was no doubt in my head I could do that for hours every day. What better way to use my hands and my imagination than creating a magical play of textures, colors, and shapes from which beautiful flowers and fantastical birds are born?
The first thing I did when I got up at dawn was draw a pattern on a page torn out of an old math workbook. I had decided what I wanted to do with my life when I grew up.
Just like the women in the movie, I would embroider for an haute couture house.
After school, I told Aama and Baba about my newfound calling and begged them to buy me some supplies—the cheapest ones, anything they could afford. They did, bless their kind hearts. They were quite happy with the embroidery part of my dream. They still are.
Unlike driving a bus or tightrope dancing—my dreams as a kid—embroidery is a perfectly respectable and safe occupation for a young Hindu woman.
It’s the haute couture part with all its unsavory implications that bothers my parents. Working on indecent gowns that reveal too much skin. Being involved—even remotely—with worldly designers, indecorous models, debauched fashion photographers, and decadent runway shows.
Not that I’ve had a chance to do any of it yet.
Before I enrolled in Ecole Lesage and came to Paris to do the training and get my certificate—all thanks to a grant from Marguerite’s foundation—I had done quite a bit of stitching for a big sari outfitter in Kathmandu. It was fun, but there was no wiggle room. I was required to stick to the traditional styles and use the patterns I was given. At night, I traced my own patterns. Except, I never had time to embroider them.
“Our school is only twenty-five years old, but Maison Lesage was founded back in 1858,” Monsieur Bloom says. “You are part of the Lesage legend now.”
My chest swells with pride. Even if my training hasn’t started yet, I’m already living a dream, and it feels amazing.
The audience begins to clap, but Monsieur Bloom raises his hand. “I’m almost done. Let me wish our graduates good luck, and say welcome to our new students! I look forward to working with you in September.”
He nods and steps away from the podium, and we give him a round of applause.
Another faculty member motions to the door on my left. “Everyone is invited to step into the courtyard for refreshments and mingling.”
In the courtyard, the sari I’ve embroidered myself and am wearing for the occasion immediately attracts an admirer—a very tall Swedish woman with bright blue eyes. She asks me about the patterns on my gown. I ask her about the needlework on her clutch. We discuss the school and discover with delight that both of us will be taking the same Professional Couture Embroidery course.
When Noah joins us and hands me a champagne flute, the woman holds out her hand. “I’m Freja.”
“Noah,” he says, shaking her hand.
Freja grins. “You’re the first Frenchman I’ve seen since I got here last week who’s taller than me.”
“Go to a water polo game,” Noah says, smiling. “I promise you’ll see more.”
An image of Zach in his Speedo flashes in my mind. Not that I’ve ever seen him like that… live. But I’ve made up for it by watching every YouTube video I could find of his games.
And that is utterly and unforgivably inappropriate. Disturbing, too.
If I am to have such carnal fantasies about a man, the man in question shouldn’t be Zach. It should be Noah.
“Are you an athlete?” Freja asks him.
“Yes.”
She nods in appreciation. “Well, I hope your girlfriend and I can hang out, maybe even travel around France a bit before our butts are fused to our chairs come September.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time as Noah says, “She isn’t my girlfriend.”
Heat creeps up my face. I glance at Noah whose ears are flaming red.
Freja looks from me to him, her expression dubious. “OK. Sorry.”
“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’ll be happy to explore Paris with you, but traveling won’t be possible—I work part time as a nanny.”
“Good for you,” Freja says. “I need to find a part-time job, too.”
We exchange phone numbers, and she moves on to another group.
“Who’s home with Sam?” Noah asks.
“Zach.”
“How’s the little fellow doing? Still keen to be a dancer, spy, hole-set, and engineer?”
“A dancer, spy, and hole-set—yes,” I say. “But he recently decided to sacrifice the adventure-filled career of the international spy to be a lawyer like his grandpa and grandma.”
“What triggered the change of heart?”
“Last weekend Zach and Sam went down to Arles to visit Zach’s parents. Sam returned a man transformed.”
“Oh, boy.”
I chuckle. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I feign nonchalance the best I can. “What’s the deal with Zach’s ex, Colette?”
Noah shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”
“How come she only calls a couple of times a week, never takes Sam to stay with her, and never comes to see him? She lives in Paris, right?”
“She does visit… on occasion,” he says, looking miserable.
I shouldn’t have asked.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
He gives me a weak smile. “It’s not my story to tell. Why don’t you ask Zach?”
I look down at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I won’t. It really is none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it, OK?”
Noah’s smile widens. “Done.”
Oh, how I admire this man.
He’s a good friend to Zach and the best friend I could ever dream of. His looks ensured he was the hottest high schooler at the lycée Français in Kathmandu. The two or three girls he dated while in Nepal used to burst with pride to be seen on his arm.
According to Marguerite, Noah was in love with me while he was in high school. And according to her, he still is. She’s hinted countless times how happy she’d be to see us together. Even my parents might forget about the “heaven-sent” Brahmin who has asked for my hand if the alternative is Noah. I should be thrilled about all of this. And I’m sure I will be as soon as I get over that lustful thing I feel for Zach.
There are a gazillion excellent reasons why I should.
Zach is my employer. He’s Noah’s teammate and friend. Unlike Noah who speaks Nepali better than I speak French, Zach has never been to my country and knows nothing about my culture. He’s a divorced single dad, whom my parents would never approve of.
And, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s interested in another woman—Noah’s foxy landlady Sophie. He’s about to take her out on a date.
The reason I know this is because he’s asked me to babysit Sam when he does.
Chapter Thre
e
Zach
The whole idea of Uma joining Sam and me for our weekly swimming pool session had nothing to do with me wanting to see her legs.
Nothing at all.
At home, both Uma’s and my bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Uma always comes down to breakfast fully dressed. Respectful of her modesty, I do the same. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her late at night in the second-floor hallway, both of us rushing to Sam’s room because he made a suspicious sound. She wore an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants.
In mid-July.
As for her daytime T-shirt and jeans “uniform,” she favors shirts that hang loose and low over her hips.
Naturally, my imagination has been running wild.
Not that I lust after her, or anything like that. It would be pointless with someone as off-limits as Uma, and I have no time or inclination for pointless pursuits. What goes on here is just normal, male curiosity about the shape of the young woman I see every day.
Nothing more.
Add to that the unfortunate circumstance that it’s been ages since I had time for a relationship—even a short-term one—so it’ll come as no surprise that I keep speculating about Uma’s legs.
As well as other parts…
Right. Off-limits, remember?
Anyway, now that Sam has two nannies—Mathilde for mornings and Uma for afternoons and an occasional evening—I’m free to pursue the beautiful Sophie whom Noah set me up with.
And I will. Soon.
“Papa, you’re not even trying to catch the ball!” Sam shouts, breaking me from my thoughts.
Shit.
I’m supposed to be teaching him to shoot. My son is floating a few meters away, decked out in full gear including a water polo cap, goggles, and yellow inflatable armbands. Uma is doing cheat laps at the other end of the pool. She swims crosswise, admittedly because her poor swimming skills won’t allow her to do proper laps down the length of the pool. I suspect she also wants to stay out of our hair… and firing range.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say to Sam. “Try again.”
He nods and throws his junior-sized ball.
I catch it.
We go on practicing until Sam declares he’s tired and needs a break ten minutes later.
I swim to him. “You’re doing great. Your precision has improved a lot since last month!”
“Can I try to shoot, too?” Uma calls out from across the pool.
It’s just the three of us here, which is a true luxury and unusual even at this small-town pool on a weekday morning.
“You want to teach her?” I ask Sam.
He nods with enthusiasm.
We swim toward Uma who’s still refusing to venture from the shallow end.
“First, we’ll practice on firm ground,” Sam says, going all bossy.
Uma climbs out of the pool.
Sam shinnies up the ladder behind her.
I follow, feasting my eyes on her body.
Uma is wearing a navy blue one-piece, no doubt the thickest and most conservatively cut she could find on the market. It stretches over her small breasts, effectively flattening them to a mere hint. The high neckline of her garment reaches her throat, and its legs are cut so low, the swimsuit looks like a prewar vintage piece.
Still, it reveals parts of her body I’ve never seen.
Her legs are slender and very nicely shaped with slim ankles and smooth, lithe thighs. She has lovely, narrow hips that taper to a thin waist. Her butt is adorable. It’s compact and curved just so, each cheek about the size of the ball I’m gripping in my hand right now. If I were holding one of her butt cheeks instead, it would fit just as snugly.
Shit. Where did that come from?
I hand the ball to Sam.
He motions me to stand by the wall. “You’ll be the goalie.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
He turns to Uma. “It’s easy. Just grab the ball and throw like this.”
He pretends to throw with one hand and passes her the ball. She takes her first shot.
“No!” Sam cries out in frustration. “Not with both hands and not from the chest! Didn’t you see how I did it?”
“Sorry,” she says. “My attention must’ve slipped.”
Was it because she was staring at me?
I doubt it. She’s supposed to be into Noah. It’s just my sick imagination.
“OK,” Sam says. “Maybe Papa can explain it better. I’ll be the goalie.”
He marches to the wall where I’m standing and motions with his head for me to take his place by Uma’s side.
Nice show of leadership, I note with pride, bumping his fist. Way to go, kid!
As I plant myself next to Uma, she hands me the ball. It’s too small for me, but since the size of Uma’s hands is somewhere between Sam’s and mine, this ball is perfect for her.
“What you need to do,” I say, “is to spread your pinky and thumb wide for a good grip. Like this.”
She nods, eyes on my hand.
I rotate it so she can see better what I’m doing. “Use your middle finger to adjust the position of the ball and let it sit in your hand, nice and snug.”
She looks up, smiling. “Seems easy enough.”
“Try it.”
Uma grabs the ball, splaying her fingers like I showed her.
“Good,” I say. “Now point your left shoulder toward the goal. Right leg and hip back. Raise your arm and pull it back a little, cradle the ball—arm rigid—and throw.”
As I speak, I show her what to do, and she mimics my motions. When she’s ready, she shoots. The ball hits the deck a few meters short of Sam’s goal.
She rolls her eye. “That was pathetic.”
“First shots always are.” I pat her delicate shoulder before glancing at my watch. “Sam can coach you a bit more in our garden this afternoon if you’d like.”
“Will you, Sam?” She gives him a pleading look.
He beams before schooling his features into a sober expression. “OK.”
I point to the pool. “Now, Samuel, why don’t we get back in there for some eggbeater practice before we leave.”
“Yay!” Sam runs toward the edge of the deck and jumps into the water.
I follow him.
“What’s eggbeater?” Uma asks, returning to the pool.
“A water treading technique to stay upright and have your hands free.”
She blinks. “Is that possible?”
“Of course,” I grin. “How else do you think we can play a ball game in a pool when we aren’t allowed to touch the floor?”
“Oh.”
“Watch me!” Sam shouts to her. “I turn my feet out, like a duck, big toe to shin. Left, right. Left, right.”
She widens her eyes. “Wow.”
“Knees wider,” I instruct Sam. “You can’t jump out of the water with tight knees. Faster legs. Stretch them out more. You want to pull as much water as you can.”
He tries harder, putting all he’s got into his practice. I observe and comment. Uma grabs the rail and tries to imitate what Sam is doing.
“How’s this?” Sam cries out, panting. “Am I doing good?”
I open my mouth to say he’s doing great when he begins to blink rapidly. Then his body starts to convulse.
Lunging at him, I pull him out of the water as fast as I can and lay him down on his right side, sticking my hand under his head.
Uma runs up to us, a look of panic on her face.
“It’s OK.” I stroke Sam’s pale cheek, not quite sure if my words are for Uma, Sam, or myself.
Probably all three of us.
Sam will come to in a couple of minutes, feeling tired and a little dazed after his seizure. Then I’ll take him home.
The party’s over.
Get Playing with Fire now!
Books by Alix Nichols
New!
Clarissa & the Cowboy
~ Nathan ~
Right now Clarissa, our tour guid
e, is talking about prehistoric cave paintings.
In a moment, she’ll point at the mammoth… Wait for it….
“Look at the mammoth on your right,” she says.
Told ya! I’ve done her tour six times in two months.
Everyone gawks at the mammoth.
My eyes stay trained on Clarissa’s lovely face.
After the tour, I’ll ask her out, fully expecting her to say no.
I mean, why would a hotshot Parisian archeologist go on a date with a dairy farmer from the sticks?
But I need to hear Clarissa’s no.
Maybe then I’ll be able to forget her.
~ Clarissa ~
Nathan, aka Cowboy, is here again. Staring at me again.
I ignore him.
Just as I’ve ignored the hot, disturbing dreams I’ve been having lately.
Dreams in which a handsome cowboy undresses me.
Kisses me.
Pleasures me into oblivion.
Crazy dreams!
In real life, I’m going back to Paris to start a new job in a big museum.
The one thing I don’t need during my last week in Burgundy is a roll in the hay with Nathan.
Even if that roll turns out to be better than my craziest dreams…
Game Time Series
Playing with Fire
He was supposed to look out for her, not kiss her senseless.
Au pair Uma is all kinds of wrong for single dad Zach. She is his son’s nanny, a twenty-three-year-old virgin, and a guileless ingenue to boot. Zach knows all of that.
Then why can’t he rein in his lust for her?
If there is one man Uma should not be attracted to, it’s the father of the adorable five-year-old in her charge. Once burned twice shy, Zach is the captain of a Paris water polo team and a wealthy entrepreneur who can have any woman he wants. No strings attached.
Small wonder he goes all out to shun Uma!
But when, with the help of a bottle of fine wine, Zach confesses all the dirty things he’d like to do to her, Uma astounds him by saying she wants that, too.
What’s a man to do but oblige?
