by Alix Nichols
I don’t really know why.
“Your hair is different,” Noah says after I step in and we exchange polite greetings.
Oh, shoot. He doesn’t like it. Not that I care, of course.
“It’s beautiful,” he adds, giving me an appreciative nod. “Is this your usual hairstyle?”
“A special effort for my mom,” I say. “She’s crazy for small box braids.”
It’s true—Mom loves the look of “easy chic” this style gives me.
What I failed to mention is the last time I had the patience to get Mom’s favorite hairstyle was three years ago. And now, this morning.
“Is that how she wears it, too?” Noah asks.
“My mom?” I snort. “She’d love to, but Caucasian hair gets way too damaged from box braiding.”
He gives me a confused look. “I’d assumed your mother was black.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because…” He screws up his face as if to say, Help me out here.
I frown and raise my brows. I have no clue what he’s struggling with.
“Because…,” he tries again.
I nod supportively. “Yeeess?”
He gives a shy little smile that could charm a corpse back to life. “Because your dad is named Ludwig Bander?”
I crack up. “You’re not the only one to assume he’s white.”
“He’s not?”
“Nope. But there’s an explanation.”
“I’m all ears.”
“When Dad was born, Grandpa wanted him to have a king’s name. So, he looked up all the kings who came into the world on the twenty-fifth of August.”
“And he found a Ludwig?”
“Exactly. King Ludwig of Bavaria, born on the twenty-fifth of August eighteen something something.”
He cocks his head. “Did your father name you Sophie after a queen born on the same day as you?”
“Very smart.” I bow in mock admiration. “Princess Sophie. That’s what he calls me, by the way.”
“Was it the only royal name available for your birthday?” he asks. “Not that I have anything against Sophie. It’s a lovely name.”
“The other option was Marie Antoinette, but Mom said, ‘Over my dead body’.”
He gives me a wink. “She should’ve said, ‘Over my guillotined body,’ given our last queen’s unfortunate ending.”
I giggle but force myself to stop, remembering I’m here on business in my capacity as his landlady.
It’s time I started acting like one.
“How’s your sink?” I ask.
“As good as new. Thank you so much for your help!”
“It’s my job.”
For a brief moment, we stare into each other’s eyes as the air grows thick with something unspoken and totally inappropriate.
“Can I offer you a cold drink?” Noah asks, shifting his gaze to his hands.
“A glass of water would be great.”
He strides into the kitchen and fills two glasses with water. Then we sit down at the table and I explain the change in his contract.
Noah’s gray-blue gaze is locked on my mouth the whole time.
“So, are you OK with the new terms?” I ask when I finish.
He gives me a funny look. “Are you planning to reclaim the apartment?”
“No.”
“Because if you are,” he adds, “just tell me so I can start looking for a new place.”
“I don’t have a hidden agenda, really.”
I hope he can see I’m telling the truth.
Noah stares at me as if gauging my sincerity and then nods. “OK.”
“OK?”
“Yeah, I believe you.” He picks up the pen I’d set on the table. “Where do I sign?”
I point at the last page. “Here, please, on both copies.”
Thirty seconds later, I rip up the old agreement and push one of the new copies toward Noah. “For your files.”
“Thanks.”
I stick my own copy in the briefcase.
We’re done. My business here is finished, and I can go home.
I should go home.
“More water?” he asks, pointing at my empty glass.
“I’m good, thank you.”
Both etiquette and common sense dictate that I leave now. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. Soon.
The moment he stops looking at me like that.
Any second now…
“Did Mr. Bander buy a second apartment for you in Paris or are you renting?” he asks without taking his eyes off me.
“I’m renting.”
“In this arrondissement?”
“In the 18th.”
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“The part where I live, yes. Very much. Do you know rue des Batignolles?”
“Uh-uh.”
“It’s lovely. I’m close to my mom’s place, not far from work, and within walking distance from Montmartre.”
“Sounds like the perfect location,” he says. “My first year in Paris, I lived in the 18th, too.”
I release a frustrated damn. “So much for my good ear for French accents! I’d pegged you as a Parisian.”
“Your ear is good,” he says. “I spent the first eight years of my life between Paris and Burgundy. Then Maman and I moved to Nepal.”
“Nepal as in the country in the Himalayas?”
“Yes,” he grins. “That one.”
“Wow,” I draw out. “Was it hard living there so far from home?”
“I didn’t mind once I stopped missing my b—” He stops himself and his expression hardens. “France.”
“Were you in the capital city?”
His face relaxes into a smile again.
That smile will be the death of me.
“Nepal’s capital is called Kathmandu,” Noah says. “And yes, we stayed there most of the time. Maman and I enjoyed a lot more comfort than the vast majority of people she was helping.”
“Did she volunteer for a nonprofit?”
“She still does.”
“You must be very proud of her.”
“I am.”
There’s another stretch of silence, during which we stare at each other without uttering a word. Forgetting about decorum, I let my gaze caress his strong neck, firm jawline, and chiseled mouth before it reaches his eyes the color of the ocean on a rainy day.
Our gazes meet.
My heart races—faster, louder—until it starts to feel like a countdown timer in my chest.
What’s happening to me?
Come on, Sophie, you’re smart enough and big enough to know.
It’s called sexual attraction.
Something I’ve never experienced before. Something I thought was beyond my reach. Which was fine by me, because—let’s face it—what good has lust ever done anyone?
Lechery has ruined brilliant careers. Randiness has pushed people to make irrational decisions. Passion has messed up so many perfectly happy, accomplished lives… and for what? A moment’s gratification?
My inability to be sexually aroused isn’t a flaw as I’ve come to realize.
It’s a blessing.
“Got to go,” I say, standing up. “I need to hit the shops before they close.”
Noah stands up, too. “Looking for something specific?”
“Folding chairs. I’d like to buy two inexpensive folding chairs for my studio apartment and a bright-colored poster to give it some personality.”
“Do you know where to look for that sort of stuff?”
I nod. “BHV.”
“BHV is pricey.”
“So is everything in Paris.”
“But not outside of it.” He gives me a mysterious smile. “Have you been to Les Puces of Saint Ouen?”
“What’s that?”
“A huge flea market north of Paris, next to the Porte de Clignancourt. If you want items with personality, that’s where you should look.”
“I would need a car to g
o there and I can’t drive in Paris. Neither can Mom.”
“Two folding chairs and a poster, eh? Is that all you need?”
I nod.
“Does your poster have to be big?”
“No.”
“Then I have a solution.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“My scooter,” he says.
“It’s kind of you, but if I won’t dare to drive in Paris, I’m definitely too chicken to ride a—”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ll take you to Les Puces.”
My jaw slackens. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
“Aren’t you busy enough with your own life and obligations?”
“It’s no trouble at all.” He smiles brightly. “I’ve been meaning to go there, anyway. A friend told me about this bistro, Chez Louisette, where you can eat overcooked lentils, drink cheap beer, and listen to terrible covers of Edith Piaf songs.”
My lip curls. “You make it sound so enticing.”
“Trust me, it’s great fun. Besides, now is the perfect time for me to visit Les Puces of Saint Ouen.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m grounded in Paris between two water polo seasons, and I can’t think of a better plan for next Sunday.”
I hesitate.
“Listen,” he says. “Will it help if I tell you I have a vested interest in taking you to Saint Ouen?”
“Maybe… Go on.”
“I see it as a unique opportunity to ingratiate myself with my new landlady. Who knows, I may never get another chance.”
I raise both my hands in defeat. “OK, you convinced me. What time?”
“Nine thirty in the morning. I’ll pick you up if you text me your home address.”
“Texting as we speak.”
I fish my phone out of my briefcase and a few seconds later, Noah’s phone beeps with my message.
This isn’t wise, Sophie, the voice of reason whispers in my head.
Don’t I know that? I whisper back.
A Sunday outing with my sexy new tenant is as ill-advised as it gets.
But, man, I’m excited about it.
FIVE
Noah
Maman video calls me via Skype over breakfast.
I mute the radio, prop my tablet up, and answer the call.
“Bonjour, mon chéri,” Maman says.
Her hair, clothes and makeup are as impeccable as ever.
“Salut, Maman.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I miss you, too, Maman.”
“My sweet little boy.” She gives me a smile tinted with nostalgia. “All grown-up and handsome. Just look at you.”
I clear my throat. “Shouldn’t you be at the office, bossing people around right now?”
She sighs. “I should, but… I took a day off.”
“Are you OK? Migraine?”
“Yes.” She rubs her left temple. “Uma’s latest news triggered it.”
My heart skips a beat. “Did something happen to her? Is she all right?”
“She’s OK.” Maman gives me a funny little smile. “But she must get out of here real soon. Sooner than we thought.”
I sit back, waiting for details.
“Mr. Darji told her over dinner last night he’d been approached about her and expects her to be married by October.”
“What?”
She rubs her forehead. “I knew this would happen. Last time I paid them a visit, Mrs. Darji said something about Uma being ripe for marriage, but I hoped it was just a general observation.”
Uma is twenty-three, so by Nepali standards, she’s close to overripe.
“But what about her plans? I thought the Darjis were proud of her talent, and that she was going to Paris to learn haute couture embroidery.”
“They were,” Maman says. “And now, all of a sudden, they aren’t anymore. I had the most unpleasant conversation with Mr. Darji after Uma called me earlier tonight. She was on the verge of a meltdown, the poor thing.”
“What did Mr. Darji say?”
“That the man who approached him about Uma is a Brahmin.”
“Shit.”
Maman smirks. “Certainly not from Mr. Darji’s perspective. To him, it’s a chance of a lifetime and an honor. You should’ve heard him rave about the match. How do you reason with someone who’s ecstatic?”
I can’t say I’m surprised. Brahmins are the high aristocracy in Hindu societies, and the Darjis are Dalits—one of the lowest and poorest castes. Mr. and Mrs. Darji love their children, but I’ve always suspected their letting Maman encourage Uma’s dreams wasn’t because they believed in the economic emancipation of women. They just thought that beautiful, educated Uma was too good for street peddlers and manual workers of their own caste.
And then a Brahmin comes along.
No wonder he’s ecstatic.
I exhale a heavy breath. “Does Uma want to marry the man?”
“Absolutely not!” Maman bugs her eyes out for emphasis. “She dreams about Paris, the Ecole Lesage, and…” She gives me that funny look again.
“What?” I prompt.
“She’s in love with you,” Maman blurts out.
For months now, there have been hints and allusions, but it’s the first time Maman has actually said it.
I tilt my head to the side. “Oh, come on. We’ve been friends for years. I’d know.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Men are terrible at knowing things like that.”
“What are you saying, Maman?”
“Nothing. Just that I’ve suspected for a while now that my lovely protégée is enamored with my darling boy.” She hesitates. “I’d be just as ecstatic as Mr. Darji, if it turned out the feeling was mutual.”
At a loss for words, I blink and stare at her.
This conversation starts to feel like the dreaded game situation when I’m on the wrong side of the goal cage with the opponent’s top scorer at the two-meter line, and not a single defense player around to give me a hand.
Fortunately, I’m not in the pool right now.
I can dodge the ball.
“Can you speed up her visa?” I ask. “Is Uma prepared to go against her father’s wishes?”
“To answer your first question, yes, I can. Remember Monsieur Strausse from the consulate?”
“Not really.”
“Anyway, I’m going to call in a favor.” She clenches her jaw. “Uma will have her visa next week.”
“What about Mr. Darji’s consent?”
She studies her hands. “Uma hopes the two of us can persuade Mrs. Darji, and that the three of us can make Mr. Darji change his mind.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you?”
She gives me a pleading look. I know that look. It was what I’d get every time I asked for more details about my father and my brothers. Especially Sebastian.
Maman told me once, five or six years ago, that it hurt too much to talk about it. Didn’t I have all the facts? Didn’t I know what my father had done to her, and how my older brothers took his side so he wouldn’t disinherit them? Wasn’t that enough?
She was right, of course. It should be.
I mean, it is.
Just as I’m about to say bye, Maman purses her lips, and her gaze hardens. “No, I don’t believe we can convince Mr. Darji. I don’t even think we can sway his wife. They see this proposal as a gift from the gods.”
“So what will Uma do?”
“Why don’t you call and ask her?”
“I will.”
She nods and a few minutes later we hang up.
I finish my breakfast with a lot less appetite than before Maman’s call.
When I get to the pool, it turns out I may not be the only one with bad news today. At least that’s what the look on Zach’s face suggests, as he jumps into the water fifteen minutes after the practice has started.
Zach’s never late.
“You OK?” I ask him when Lucas lets us rest a few
minutes between leg conditioning and shooting drills.
He nods. “I’m fine. It’s… I’ll explain later.”
Lucas blows his whistle, and Zach mucks up his first try from a perfect position. He mutters a curse before picking up the ball again and slamming it with all he’s got. I jump high out of the water and block it. His next shot is going to be a lob. That’s bad news for me, because Zach is one of the rare players who is able to do it right.
He throws, netting the ball.
By the end of the practice, he’s fully recovered his legendary control, and the coach’s face relaxes visibly as a result. Small wonder. Our captain isn’t just our club’s best scorer. He’s quite possibly the best shooter in France and one of the best in Europe. While my moniker is “The Rock” due to blocking talents, we call Zach “The Nuke” as in a weapon of mass destruction.
“Is it Sam?” I ask him in the locker room. “Has he come down with something?”
He shakes his head. “Sam’s fine. It’s his nanny.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Mathilde the Perfect?”
“Mathilde the Perfect is cutting her hours in half starting Monday,” Zach says with a sigh. “I’ll have to miss the afternoon practice, and possibly sit out the season. I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Doesn’t she owe you a longer notice?” I tie the laces of my sneakers. “Is something wrong with one of her own kids?”
He rakes his hands through his hair. “Her older son has been hanging with the worst cads at school. Almost got expelled last week for something that upsets her so much she won’t even talk about it. The kid’s only thirteen.”
“Shit.”
“She’s cutting her hours so she can spend more time with her children.”
“Can she afford it?”
“Unfortunately for me,” Zach says with a smirk, “she can. Her husband is a security guard at a shopping mall, and he’s about to get a promotion, so they’ll manage.”
“Hey, you should see this as an opportunity to get that au pair you’ve been thinking about!”
“Your friend Uma,” Zach says. “Did she get her visa?”
“Not yet, but she will in a few days.”
“You said she’d be looking for a part-time job as soon as she gets here, right?”
“Oh, I see where you’re going with this.” I give him a happy grin. “She will, indeed.”
“Mathilde will keep the mornings, so I’m looking for an au pair to babysit Sam in the afternoon.”
