The Soulmates Collection

by S. L. Scott

  The Soulmates Collection

  S.L. Scott

  S.L. Scott

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Lost in Translation

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  English to French Reference Key

  Sleeping with Mr. Sexy

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Morning Glory

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  All I Want - A Tryst with a Twist

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  Also by S.L. Scott

  Copyright © 2017 by S.L. Scott

  All rights reserved.

  eBook Edition

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  Cover Design: Monark Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940071-46-6

  Foreword

  This collection of novellas and short stories are meant for pleasure with sweet, sassy, and sexy storylines to entertain.

  I hope you enjoy the journey.

  Thank you for reading.

  Part One

  Lost in Translation

  Introduction

  Kandace Miller is a star student who stays on the straight and narrow path of her perfectly planned life.

  Olivier DuMarche always chooses the shortcut in life, wanting the easy way in and out of every situation.

  One room.

  One beautiful American.

  One sexy Frenchman.

  Five days in Paris.

  That’s all it takes to ignite a spark into a flame. But when two opposites attract, can the language of love keep them together or will they be Lost in Translation?

  © 2014 S.L. Scott

  Prologue

  I was in Paris for less than a week, but it was the beginning of everything, everything that mattered.

  We lived in the here.

  We lived in the now.

  Everything in between was fire and passion.

  The beginning of our romance was not that long ago. It was how I always hoped I would meet my soul mate, how all great love affairs happen, or at least how they did in my favorite old movies. I booked the trip wanting to see the city I daydreamed about my entire life. I just didn’t actually expect to meet Olivier. We didn’t know each other long, but it was long enough to change the course of my life forever… Yet, like a flame that flickers, fighting against the wind, would the end of summer bring an end to us?

  Chapter 1

  Mid-November

  The travel guides failed to capture the emotion I felt as the cab driver swerved through traffic, taking me to the hostel. The lines on the roads that kept the lanes separated at home didn’t seem to exist here, so I snapped my seatbelt across my body. Happiness bordered on nausea due to the wild ride.

  It doesn’t matter that he had Spanish music playing and no French accent. The only thing that matters is that I’m in Paris, making the year and a half of scrimping and saving worth it.

  My head hits the window when the driver takes a sharp corner, then raises his voice as if I’ve done something wrong while shaking his hand in the air. With a nod of disapproval, his eyes go back to the road instead of reprimanding me in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

  I do a double take down a cobblestone street, thinking I just got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but we’re driving too fast for me to be sure, the street long gone. I sigh, a heavy disappointment coming over me. A poster of the Eiffel Tower has hung on my wall for the last six years. I’m ready to see the real thing.

  Four days. I have four days in the City of Lights, so I know I’ll see it. I’m lurched forward as the taxi comes to an abrupt halt before I can worry anymore about French monuments.

  “Your hotel,” the driver points toward a building across the street.

  Nodding, I smile. “Merci.”

  After paying and stepping up onto the sidewalk, I straighten my yellow cotton sundress, adjust my wool coat, and flip the tortoise shell framed sunglasses down over my eyes. The driver mumbles something that sounds as though I’ve angered him in some way as he lugs my suitcase to the curb. He walks away waving his arm in the air before getting into his car and speeding off, his music blaring even with the windows closed.

  Looking across the street, another disappointment sets in as I stare at the front of the hostel. The photographer definitely captured it in its best light from the online photos. But it was the cost that sold me. It’s a hostel, so I didn’t expect the Four Seasons, but… With a heavy sigh, I grab the handle of my suitcase and pull it toward the soot covered building highlighting the worst of 1980’s design. I was hoping for historical French architecture, but I guess for twelve Euros a night, I get the eighties.

  When I walk into the lobby, I stop, sliding my sunglasses back to the top of my head. The room is tiny with a dingy, stained green loveseat against the wall and a beat up metal desk in the corner. Nobody is here to greet me or anywhere to be found until a door leading to a hallway opens, slamming against the wall, startling me. I lean my head to the side and see a guy press a girl against the back of it. His hands are roaming her body and her arms are around his neck. Their lips are fused and I look away, so I don’t get caught staring. Okay, I peek one more time, then clear my throat.

  With his tongue still in her mouth, his eyes open and he looks at me. Pushing her back just a bit, she protests in a series of frustrated moans. Something is said in French, too fast for me to understand. But when the girl glares at me, I realize it must have been along the lines of ‘We have company’ or something like that.

  She whispers and then kisses him quickly before heading out the door. He watches her with a fixed smirk on his face until the door closes and just the two of us are left standing here.

  “Bonjour,” I say awkwardly.

  “Américain?” Even after one word, his accent is thick… and kind of dreamy. It’s his attitude that sucks.

  “Yes. Do you speak English?”

  “Do you?” he replies sarcastically.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m here to check in. Do you know if I need to wait here or call someone?”

  He walks to the computer on the desk and begins typing. Leaning over the keyboard he hunts and pecks while muttering something in French, but I hear ‘Americans’ mixed in. Again, not in a good way. Looking up, he eyes me from head to toe, then asks, “Kandeese?”

  “Kandace. Kandace Miller.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  More mumbling is heard as I approach. “
Sorry.”

  “We have one bed left—”

  “One bed? I reserved a room.”

  He flips through a notebook and drags his finger down a page with today’s date on it. After two hard taps, he says, “We overbooked. Veronique put a couple in that room just this morning, but we have the bed. C’est Oui?”

  With exhaustion weighing my shoulders down, I nod. “Oui.”

  Holding a key in the palm of his hand, he says, “Quatre. Room quarante-deux.”

  I pull out my pocket guide and flip through it, but he interrupts me and says, “Forty-two. Fourth floor. Room forty-two.”

  “Merci.”

  “Pas de probleme.” I must look confused because he clarifies, “No problem.”

  “Ah. Oui.” That French night class I took has not helped in real world situations at all.

  Taking my suitcase, I walk toward the stairs, looking for the elevator, but don’t see one. “Is there an elevator?”

  “Non.”

  I was afraid he’d say that. Picking my suitcase up by the handle, I open the door and start up the four flights. I have to stop on the first level to rest. The case is heavy and my flat shoes do not provide stair-climbing support. One of the doors above opens and then I hear footsteps coming down quickly. The stairs are not wide, smaller than we have in the States, so when the footsteps get closer, I move to the side.

  It’s one of those moments… like the ones in movies. He rounds the corner and I see him, my breath catching, my gaze fixed on him. His broad shoulders draw me in while his six plus foot build leaves a lot of body to cover in the mere seconds I have before it’s considered rude. Medium brown hair, olive skin, strong arms. His coloring is not entirely different from mine. I’m paler though with a few freckles left over from summer. I have a lighter version of his hair. When his eyes meet mine, a smile appears. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” I manage to reply like a native, though my heart is racing.

  “Américain?”

  Frustrated my attempt failed, I say, “Yes. Bad attempt at French is always a dead giveaway.”

  With a grin that stops somewhere between fully amused and just slightly, he looks down at my case and offers, “Would you like help?”

  This is a surprise. Not wanting to drag it up three more flights by myself, I anxiously nod before I even reply. “Yes, thank you. Merci.”

  He comes down the remaining five steps and takes the case in hand before turning around quickly and heading back up. “Floor?”

  “Fourth floor.”

  Without hesitation, he’s off carrying a fifty-seven pound suitcase like it weighs nothing, which I find quite impressive. And watching him from behind isn’t bad either. He looks almost as good from this angle as he does from the front.

  When we reach the fourth floor, he asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Kandace.”

  “Kandeese,” he repeats with no inflection that doesn’t tip me off to how he feels about it or me.

  “What’s your name?”

  There are four doors on this floor. He looks back to me, waiting.

  “Forty-two. Quarante-deux,” I say, breaking out my French again. I’ve always heard the French appreciate the effort. Yet no one seems to here.

  “Quarante-deux,” he says with a big smile on his face. A little section of hair flops down in front of his eyes and he puffs twice, trying to blow it away.

  That’s when I notice his eyes, really notice them—a blue that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be cornflower or steel. I bet the color changes depending on what he’s wearing.

  Walking with purpose down the slim hallway, he heads straight for the second to last door on the left. He pulls a key from his pocket and opens the door. I stop a few steps back, and question, “Why do you have a key to my room?”

  I follow him inside, cautiously waiting by the open door as he drags my suitcase into the room and props it against the only closest. “Because I checked in two days ago. You take the top because I’m sleeping on the bottom.”

  “What? We’re sharing a room? But you’re a guy.”

  With a wry grin and a wink, he says, “Oui, all man, my Américain Rayon de Soleil.” While he looks down at his watch, I stare at him in disbelief.

  I have a sister, no brothers, and my mom’s been single most of my life. I have never shared a space with a man before. I purposely chose the women’s dormitories freshman and sophomore year, so I could lounge around without makeup. Fears of snoring, his or mine, or both come to mind. Or worse… what if he brings a girl back here to have sex and I have to listen to it. “Surely there has to be another available room.” Remembering what the guy at the desk said, ‘We have one bed left.’ I sigh. This is not how my trip was supposed to go. After years of dreaming of the perfect Parisian adventure, it’s falling apart before I’ve even had a chance to see the Eiffel Tower.

  “I think they’re full, but I can check for you.” With his hand forward, I take it to shake. His touch is warm and strong, his grip gentle but unrelenting. My eyes travel from where we’re bonded up over the fitted, vintage rock tee that covers his chest past the two, or maybe three days of scruff covering his defined jaw to his full lips that hold a slight tinge of pink. His tongue slips out to wet them and my gaze darts to his eyes. He leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks, lingering longer on the right, then says, “Bonjour, je me presente. Je m’appelle Olivier DuMarche.”

  I don’t understand most of what he just said, but I do know that Olivier DuMarche is gonna be trouble of the best kind if I’m not careful.

  Chapter 2

  In high school I was salutatorian, and I’m still a little bitter about it. My position on that graduation stage had come down to one paper. I earned a perfect score. I thought I had the top title in the bag until I found out the valedictorian got a 103 by doing extra credit I wasn’t aware we could do. That first major loss shaped my college career and my outlook on life. I refuse to come in second place again. So this dream trip is my last break before school starts in three weeks, my last time to let loose before the intensity of senior year kicks in.

  Olivier had grabbed his leather jacket and left me alone to unpack or settle in or whatever it was I supposed to do upon arriving. But after a few minutes of freshening up, my adrenaline was overcoming any jet lag I was supposed to be having. I’m too anxious to explore to sit here any longer. My dream of being in France is too powerful to let a tired body hold me back.

  After adding a pair of tights under my dress and putting my coat back on for warmth, I wander down to the street not sure which way to go and today, I don’t mind. I have no schedule and no aim. It is all about living life like the French. Living the phrase ‘Joie de vivre’ for the first time in my life.

  With all the pre-planning I’ve done, the carefree feeling I felt didn’t seem to weigh down on me now that I was actually here despite the sensation being new.

  Walking down the cobblestone street, I absorb everything—the architecture, the smells, the sounds, and the soul of Paris, breathing it in. When I turn the corner I pass a florist with buckets of colorful flowers filling the sidewalk. My mind has already committed me to daydreaming of living in Paris one day. If I lived here, I would always have fresh flowers, ones that I bought from the neighborhood florist like this. A café sprawls out ahead, patrons filling the tables despite the chill.

  “Kandace?”

  I turn toward the sound of my name and see Olivier sitting at a table near the door. He waves me over and I go with a bigger smile on my face than I want. I’m still undecided if he has earned this grin, so I try to contain it. “Hi.”

  “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” I say.

  “Join me?”

  “Merci.” I sit down, then cross my ankles.

  “You are sightseeing, oui?”

  I nod. “I just left the hostel. Any recommendations of places I should visit in the area?”

  “Kandace, you must learn to slow down and enjoy.
It’s a beautiful day made for enjoying, not rushing around. Have a drink with me. We can celebrate your arrival.”

  The way he says my name and the excitement in his eyes makes me want to stay exactly where we are. “You’re right. I have days.”

  “And tonight.”

  I catch his eyes on me, intense with a spark of something more. With all the possibility that resides in the blues of his irises, it’s easy to be attracted to him. Sidetracked might be a better word though, so I turn away. Looking out over the quiet street, the sun hits. Just as I reach into my purse to pull out my sunglasses, he says, “You have beautiful green eyes. Tis a shame you must cover them, my Américain Rayon de Soleil.” Self talk is a standard for me, but in this moment, all advice I’d normally give myself silently, leaves me under his compliment. “You blush so easily, like a rose,” he says.

  “I’m not used to compliments.”

  “Non? But you’re so delicate and…” he waves his hand as if the gesture is all that is needed. “Enchanting.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “I only speak the truth. There is no reason to hide behind pretenses. We are friends. Oui?”

  “Oui,” I reply.

  “Très bien.”

  The waiter arrives and as Olivier speaks I’m drawn to the sound of his tongue as it slides over the words so provocatively. I find myself staring at his mouth until words end and a cocky grin appears. When I look up, he asks, “Distracted?”

  “Very much so.” I clear my throat and try to do the same for the dirty thoughts crossing my mind. “I just remembered I forgot to turn off my iron,” I lie. “I should probably call my roommate and make sure the apartment is still there.” I start to stand, so embarrassed, but stop when his warm hand lands on mine.