Game On

by Snow, Wylie

  “Look, Riley. I believe it’s the ladies from EuroNow,” he said, his eyes darting to Lydia before settling on Clara. She quickly looked down, embarrassed at the thought he might spot the giddiness exploding inside of her. “What a coincidence.”

  “What took you so long?” Lydia said with a flirty smile. Clara envied her smooth self-assurance because if she’d been forced to answer, no doubt she’d have tittered like Sue.

  “Charlie is a chatty fellow,” he said, choosing the leather armchair next to Lydia while his friend settled on the banquette next to her. The arrangement secretly pleased Clara for if he sat next to her, she wouldn’t be able to look at him.

  “He is that,” Lydia said, speaking for them both while Clara offered an infantile nod.

  “I’m Luc,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  Luc. His name suited him so perfectly, Clara had to stop herself from sighing it. Hard, masculine, sexy. Luc.

  Clara, sure she looked like a doe in headlights, intended to return the gesture but before she could raise her hand, the surfer leaned in between them and thrust his palm toward Lydia. “Oh, and I’m Sutter. Riley Sutter. I hope we’re not interrupting.”

  “Not at all,” Lydia said. “We were just discussing John Wayne.”

  “Ah, The Duke,” Sutter said, surprised. At least Clara assumed he was surprised from his tone. His eyebrows probably shot up at the prospect of two British women discussing a dead American actor, but she had no intention of taking her eyes off Luc long enough to check.

  Casual small talk filled the next half hour. Or it could have been hours. Clara lost all sense of time and place whenever she happened to look across the cube table and collide with Luc’s cerulean-blue stare.

  Try as she might to follow the conversation, she was distracted by the back flips in her tummy. She was supposed to play along with this plan and, though on some level she wanted to drag Luc to her suite and have wild, reckless sex, an orgasmic night to forget all her worries, she had no intention of sharing her cushion-soft duvet with anyone tonight. Not even with the desperately handsome man who was looking at her, moving his luscious lip over those glorious teeth—

  “Are you enjoying Miami?” Luc asked for the second time. She hadn’t said more than a few words since he and Sutter had arrived, and Luc was getting desperate to hear her voice. She was looking right at him, watching his mouth. He could feel the heat of her eyes on his lips, making him conscious of every word he spoke, and yet the pixie didn’t answer. He hated himself for being banal, longed to ask what she wrote, but Lydia made them swear on their swizzle sticks not to bring up anything work related. “We’re all journalists,” she had declared. “And that’s all we need to know.”

  It was hard finding excuses to look at Clara for more than a passing glance, but if she’d only say something, preferably a long oration, he could stare without appearing creepy.

  Luc watched her eyes widen as she realized she’d been addressed.

  “What? Oh, who? M-me?” she stammered. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

  “I asked if you’re enjoying Miami.”

  “It’s lovely, from what I’ve seen, from the air, you know, and the taxi ride.”

  “You’ve been so quiet; I thought you weren’t enjoying yourself—”

  “Oh no, I’m fine, thank you—”

  “Because I was thinking, if you like—”

  “It’s just—”

  They were speaking at the same time, words overlapping, thoughts colliding, until they both halted in mid-sentence.

  It’s just what? What was she about to say? He leaned forward, but instead of saying anything, she blushed. The hockey game was worth missing to see the pink bloom rise from her cleavage to her cheeks, though he’d never admit that to Sutter. Technically, his time owed had expired and he could take his leave. First, he needed to figure out a way to see Clara again and he figured asking her about Miami would be the perfect segue to offer a guided tour during her stay.

  Before either of them could continue, Lydia spoke. “Her dog died yesterday.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” Clara said, bravely trying to hide her sadness. “My little pup went off to the great bone yard in the sky.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Luc knew what it was like to lose a pet. No wonder she was subdued.

  “Thank you. You’re too kind,” she said, holding his gaze.

  He didn’t want to break this connection, even if he had to talk about her dog all night. The sound of her voice was enchanting—soft, lilting, and moderated, as if she’d given great thought to every word, every syllable pronounced to perfection. “Was he very old?”

  “He was about eleven, but I inherited him from my aunt so I only had him for four years.”

  Luc was about to ask the dog’s name and anything else he could think of, but Lydia butted in again. “Let’s toast the old mutt, shall we?” She held up her glass. “Bloody hell, I’m empty.” She motioned for the waitress with a royal wave.

  “Not for me,” Clara said, pushing her glass away. “I’ve had enough alcohol to pickle a bucket of herring.”

  Before he could think, before his brain could formulate a strategy, Luc blurted, “There’re a few coffee shops along Ocean Drive if you feel like a stroll.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  It may have been wishful thinking, but he thought Clara sounded eager.

  “I could kill for a cup of tea,” she added.

  “You two kids run along. I’ve got an early flight,” Lydia said. “Mr. Sutter, would you join me for a nightcap?”

  “And there’s the buzzer,” he mumbled to Sutter, knowing he’d get the game-over reference. Though if this night went as hoped, technically it was game on.

  “Shall we?” He offered his arm to Clara, pleased that she took it, and turned to Lydia. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Truelove. I hope we can do this again.”

  “Likewise,” Lydia replied. “And Luc? You will see that Clara gets back to her room safely, won’t you? Miami is a very dangerous city.”

  Chapter 5

  “If you don’t mind a fifteen-minute walk, I know this all-night cafe where we can get coffee and food. I’m starving.”

  “Sure.” Clara could have dropped to her knees in gratitude. Her stomach had been gurgling on empty for some time.

  “Have you ever had Cuban food?”

  Considering she wrote about food for a living and had travelled extensively, Clara was surprised to find herself shaking her head. “No, I can honestly say I haven’t.”

  “You’re in for a treat. It’s straight up Collins,” he said, turning them southward along the palm-lined street, bustling with pedestrians even at eleven o’clock on a weeknight. “And we can still take Ocean Drive back to the hotel so you can get your fill of the moon over the water.”

  The walk was just what she needed. The night air was a balm to her frayed nerves, and she found herself relaxing despite the fact the hottest man in Miami was attached to her elbow.

  “Did you grow up here in Miami?”

  “No. Montreal, mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “My sister and I were shipped off to my grandparent’s farm in Vermont every summer.”

  “So are you Canadian or American?”

  “Both. I’m a dual citizen. Mom’s from the U.S., Dad’s French Canadian.”

  “And which did you like better, Canadian winters or the summers on the farm?”

  “I liked them both, very much, but I hated having to miss the summer hockey season in Montreal.”

  “Ice hockey in the summer? I didn’t know it was possible.”

  “Indoor rinks.”

  “Of course.” Clara nodded and wished she knew something about the sport so s
he could ask an intelligent question. It wouldn’t be seemly to blurt out what she was thinking: What’s the fun in freezing your ass off chasing after a little black disc? Instead, she stuck with something safe.

  “Tell me about Miami. Give me the For Dummies version.”

  While Luc talked about the culture and nightlife, Clara tipped her head back to enjoy the evening breeze warm against her face. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with humid sea air. When she exhaled, her shoulders felt lighter, less burdened.

  He had a lovely voice, smooth and deep with an unusual cadence. She’d travelled all over Europe, hearing a broad scope of accented English, but Luc’s was unique. Different from the American accents she knew from television, Luc enunciated every word like a stage actor and, though she knew he was French, there wasn’t the barest hint of nasal tonality, nor did he mangle his vowels.

  “Clara?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I asked if you saw The Birdcage,” Luc replied. He looked down with a teasing smile. “I’m going to get a complex if you keep tuning me out.”

  “I’m not listening…I mean I’m not, not listening, I’m not t-tuning—” Clara stuttered, embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to construct a simple sentence. “I heard every word.”

  Luc quirked his eyebrows, clearly not believing her.

  Clara took a breath and recited, “Population around ninety thousand—I’m surprised, by the way, because it feels much bigger—largest collection of Art Deco architecture in the world, considered one of the most dangerous small cities in America—you pilfered that one from Lydia—so yes, yes, yes. I’m listening. And no, I didn’t see that film.”

  He still looked sceptical. “I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Nonsense,” she said squeezing his arm. “Pray continue. If I’m a bit slow on the uptake, we’ll blame it on jetlag, but I promise I’m enjoying and absorbing every detail.”

  Luc continued talking about the city as if it were alive, and Clara relaxed back into the rich timbre of his voice.

  They arrived at the bustling café moments later.

  She seeded him with questions whilst she soaked in the experience. The Latin music made a perfect counterbalance to his narration. And the fact she could eat without analysing every bite, without having to judge the service or sum up the atmosphere in seven to twelve hundred words made her spicy grilled fish sandwich with a mountain of salty plantain chips all the more enjoyable.

  But she mostly loved it because of Luc, an undemanding and effortless conversationalist to whom she could listen to all night, no matter the topic. His beautiful mouth made everything wonderful. She imagined he could even make ice hockey interesting.

  “I feel like I’m dominating the conversation,” he said, laying his napkin across his empty plate. “Are you always this quiet?”

  “Not normally,” she said. “I’m usually quite chatty.”

  “Like Charlie?”

  Clara shook her head as she chewed the last of her plantain chips. “Good Lord, no. That man can talk the feathers off a chicken, and his stream-of-consciousness narratives make us all a bit clucky. I don’t think he’s had a private thought since the seventies. Honestly, Luc,” Clara paused and sipped her water in effort to suppress the quiver that went through her when she said his name out loud for the first time, the way the L deliciously rolled off her tongue. “The things he blurts out to everybody and their aunt is embarrassing. Taboo topics unfit for casual company. But he does it with such honesty, a complete lack of guile, we can hardly take him to task.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like his politics, his religious beliefs, and…” she dropped her voice into a hush. “How he enjoys a good spanking during sex.”

  Luc’s laugh was a low rumble that made Clara gooey inside. “He must be interesting to work for.”

  “Oh it’s never dull when Charlie’s around. Bit of a handful sometimes, but he’s harmless and generous and has a really big heart. He’s never forgotten a birthday in all the years I’ve known him.” Clara sighed, remembering he wouldn’t be her boss much longer. She’d miss him, the way he clucked around her and Biscuit, always concerned with her safety when she was travelling, always on hand for a motherly piece of advice or scolding. “Best boss I’ve ever had; probably ever will have.”

  “Oh, I dunno. Bartel doesn’t do birthdays, but we got these watches for free.” Luc held up his wrist to show off the black and faux gold face with the BMG logo. “Course, we had to buy a subscription.”

  She smiled at his delicious sarcasm. “So tell me more about Bartel, this international media magnate. What’s he really like? Any hot buttons I should know about?”

  Luc shook his head, not saying a word while the waitress cleared the plates. “Oh no, we are not going there. First, we swore on our swizzle sticks that we wouldn’t discuss work, and second, I’m not risking it.”

  “First,” she countered, “that was Lydia’s silly rule, and second, you’re not risking what?”

  “You’re trying to start me on another monologue so you can retreat back into your quiet little shell.”

  “Nonsense. I left my shell back at the hotel,” Clara teased. “And I happen to like your accent, so please carry on.”

  “I don’t have an accent. You have an accent, at least on this side of the Atlantic. And kindly stop trying to charm me into distraction.” He reached across the table and laced his fingers through hers. “It’s your turn to tell me something.”

  Momentarily speechless, Clara couldn’t shift her gaze from their interlocked hands. It felt right and natural, and they fit together perfectly. His long, tapered fingers were tanned to a lovely bronze against her pale skin and French manicure. It made her nervous, excited, fluttery, but she wouldn’t pull away. Never.

  She looked into his eyes, stunningly blue in the artificial light, and said the only thing that came to mind. “I could pull a Charlie and tell you about my politics and religion.”

  “You could, but I’d rather hear your views on spanking.”

  “Naughty, Luc. Spanking should never be discussed before politics.”

  “Right,” he said with a solemn nod.

  Luc guided her from the booth and out the door without letting her hand go. “So, politics,” he said, once they were on the street. “We could start with Italy’s ex-prime minister’s shocking indiscretions, and that should segue nicely into spanking, non?”

  “Good heavens, no. That’s all very passé.”

  “Passé?”

  “Yes, yes, completely over-discussed in Europe. Can’t find a pub patron who isn’t willing to give their two pence on that Italian man-whore. Any juicy tidbits in Canadian politics?”

  “Uninspiring, unfortunately. They never seem to get up to any shenanigans.”

  “What about the Americans? Surely there’s some wickedness happening over here.”

  “Nope, sorry. Not since the Clinton administration. How about Great Britain?”

  “All rather dreary on that front, I’m afraid.”

  “We may have to go straight to religion,” Luc suggested.

  “Agreed, but where do we start? It’s like a bloody buffet of scandal there.”

  “At the top, of course. The Borgia Pope is our best bet.”

  “Too right,” Clara said with a nod, admiring his choice. “The Borgias were notoriously scandalous.”

  “The whole sister-brother-father sex triangle… very creepy.”

  “That,” she corrected, “was never proven, you know. In fact, there are many who feel Lucrezia was a victim and not a willing participant.”

  “You’re delusional. The whole family was poison.”

  “Pun intended?” Clever Luc, referring to the Borgia’s alleged penchant for poisoning their enemies.


  “Of course,” he said with a wink. A wink! The sheer playfulness of the conversation, verbally sparring with a man whose intelligence spanned geographical borders and world history, made her lightheaded.

  The rest of the stroll along Ocean Drive was magical. They flirted shamelessly, hand in hand, while Luc pointed out some of the famous art deco landmarks. They wandered down to the beach and, while Clara dipped her toes into the surf, their conversation forayed into waters inappropriately deep for a first date—serious politics. Their only point of contention was the legalization of marijuana: Luc argued for, and not because he used but because he felt it should be controlled as a taxable industry and get it out of back alleys and the hands of organized crime, while Clara argued against because she didn’t want her airline pilot stoned while flying. “At least you could smell a boozy captain or taxi driver!” she argued.

  Best of all, they laughed.

  The high wire of emotions she’d been balanced on this past year since her accident had grown progressively taut with worries about the takeover, Biscuit’s death, and her impending doom as a food critic. None of these issues would have been so draining had they not been bundled together. Clara felt as if invisible bogeymen were clawing at her from all sides, waiting for her to slip up so they could mercilessly consume her.

  Yet, the moment she laid eyes on Luc, as cliché as it seemed, she felt calmer, safer, shielded against those nasty, grabbing monsters.

  She gave herself a little mental finger shake for acting like one of those women, women who believed a man could make all of her problems go away. No matter how bloody gorgeous, Luc hadn’t made her dog come back to life, couldn’t magically restore her damaged brain, and couldn’t secure her job. Logically, he was simply providing a temporary distraction from it all.