The Soulmates Collection

by S. L. Scott

  Rushing to my computer, I sit down at my desk and open a search engine. As soon as it’s ready, I type the phrase engraved on the keychain.

  My heart is yours.

  Leaning forward, I rest my head on my hand while trying to calm my quickening thoughts and heart. Olivier.

  Taking a deep breath, I type in the phrase written on the note—Il en est de mon appartement.

  So is my apartment.

  Tears flood my eyes unexpectedly and I run to the door to open it wide. Stepping into the hallway, I call, “Olivier. Oliver. Are you here?”

  When no one replies, I try again, “Oliver?”

  I’m disappointed again. I go back inside my apartment and close the door. I mentally tally the gifts, trying to piece together who sent them.

  An Eiffel Tower.

  A key to an apartment that I don’t even know where it is.

  Going back to my computer, I type in Olivier DuMarche and wait as pages upon pages fill the screen. Duke Olivier DuMarche, served in the French military as well as from a noble family by birth. I read further, scanning the page until I see his descendents—Grace Hanning, Chicago. Married to George Hanning. Two sons—Christoph and Oliver.

  When I click on images, photos of the Duke pop up. I scroll down the page and pics of Grace and George, Christoph, and Oliver show up. My heart stops momentarily as my gaze lands on the man who crushed me with his lies. Why did he have to do that? Why couldn’t he just be Oliver Hanning from Chicago?

  Why is he contacting me now? Why is he sending me gifts? There is no other reasonable explanation. They have to be from him. This makes me happy in ways it probably shouldn’t, but maybe I can forgive. And if I can, where can I find the apartment this key unlocks?

  Chapter 10

  The next twenty-four hours were spent inside my apartment until I couldn’t take it any longer. The city was crowded with tourists and what felt like most of the U.S. to celebrate New Year’s in Times Square. I thought I had properly prepared by stocking up on soup, cheesesticks, and ice cream. But once all that was gone, I realized I needed to go out with the masses and get more food.

  I throw on sweatpants and snowboots, my puffiest, warmest coat, scarf and knit hat. With my money in my pocket, I open the door and step out almost stepping on a letter that matches the wrapping on the other boxes. Snatching it from the ground, I go back inside and open it immediately.

  Dear Kandace,

  My name is Oliver Hanning. I’m twenty-four years old. I was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois and have one brother. My parents have been married for twenty-seven years.

  A year ago, I dropped out of Stanford and came to Paris to stay with relatives. When I overstayed my welcome, I took some of my inheritance, before I was cut off, and blew through it. I couldn’t afford to fly home and my parents refused to lend me the money. I work odd jobs, but have found a regular waiting/bartending job at an ex-patriots bar in Montmartre. I negotiated a monthly rate at the hostel and lived there for two months.

  I’ve made friends and party too much, so I’ve stayed… probably stayed too long again. I was supposed to leave the day after you arrived. Something told me to stay.

  That’s a lie. I stayed because of you. My boss kept me working and you intrigued me. There was something between us the day you showed up in that yellow dress on a late fall day that made me think twice about leaving.

  You had this innocence that made me want to do bad things and you were just so damn beautiful that what seemed like easy prey turned on me and tricked me into feeling something I hadn’t felt before. So what do I do? I try to be what you want. I didn’t think a guy from Chicago could compete with the French.

  I’ve told you who I am. Now let me show you.

  There’s a ticket with your name on it at the Air France counter at JFK. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, this American will be waiting in the same spot we last saw each other under the Eiffel Tower on December 31st at midnight.

  With love,

  Oliver

  A ticket to Paris? He bought me a ticket to Paris! Is he insane? What makes him think I’ll go back to Paris for him? He lied to me. Why would I go? There’s no reason I should. I’d be a fool to take him up on that offer. I haven’t even forgiven him yet.

  Setting the letter on the table, I walk back out the door, realizing I said ‘yet.’ But I’m too hungry to deal with this level of crazy. As I walk down the wet sidewalk, I begin to wonder what the weather in Paris is like this time of year. What the Eiffel Tower looks like on New Year’s Eve. And why he gave me this key to his apartment. When did he get an apartment? Is he staying there forever? Or for now?

  Walking into the corner market, I grab a handbasket and head to the frozen foods section. I can’t think about Oliver on an empty stomach. But with my hand wrapped around two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey I stop before they reach the basket.

  Paris.

  Paris with Oliver.

  Not Olivier, but Oliver. I didn’t fall for him because he was French. I fell for him because he was awesome. I set the ice cream back in the freezer case, set the basket down, and hurry out the door. Rushing down the street I remember all the little moments we shared—the artist’s squat where he told me I was amazing, when he told the redhead I was amazing, when we were making love and he kissed my temple, when he gave me his phone because he trusted me… Why am I still here?

  I open my door and rush inside, flinging my coat and kicking my boots off. I grab my suitcase from the top shelf of my closet and throw it open on the bed before tossing stuff inside of it. An eight hour flight. That’s plenty of time to figure out why the hell I’m even going, much less giving him a chance to make this right. Sitting down next to the case full of overflowing clothes, I take a minute to process what I’m doing or should be doing. Flying to Paris on a whim is frivolous.

  That’s not me. I’m not frivolous, carefree, or careless. I have responsibilities and my studies. My part time job down at the registration office. And I need to clean the apartment before my roommate returns in five days.

  Excuses.

  All excuses to not face the man that hurt me, but is willing to go to all of this effort to apologize and make it up to me.

  So he lied about being French. I shrug. The positive side is that an American is geographically more conducive to my future plans anyway. He can romance me in two languages and I’ve thought about him every day despite my best efforts not to. Now looking at the situation with distance separating me from the humiliation I felt back in November, the fond memories sneak back in. Maybe it’s time I live a little. Be spontaneous. Maybe it’s time to forgive him.

  * * *

  It’s snowing in Paris. And magical. Just like New Years should be. I keep walking, anticipating the spot up ahead. Though it holds bad memories for me now, I’m hoping to replace them with good ones instead. My heart races and I hold my coat tighter around me, my nerves catching up with me.

  There are families all around and festivities, revelers, but not big action from the Eiffel Tower yet. We still have five minutes to go, five minutes to risk it all and try again with a man I thought I knew. I’ll be meeting him tonight like it’s the first time all over again.

  Champagne is popped nearby and I laugh seeing it spray all over the guy who opened it. Still walking, I admire the flickering lights of the Eiffel Tower—a sight I didn’t get to see on my last trip.

  And then I see him…

  His hair is a bit longer.

  He looks nervous, not like Olivier at all.

  But this is Oliver, so it makes sense.

  My body warms when his gaze lands on me. A small smile plays on both of our mouths.

  “Bonjour,” he greets.

  “Hi,” I reply, not sure if I want to speak in English or French with him, so I go with the old standby.

  He moves his head, his full attention on me. “Come here often?”

  “Not often enough.” I look around, then back at him
finally strong enough to look into his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Kandace. I really am. It seemed fun at first and then… I was in too deep and I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “That happened anyway.”

  He nods.

  But really, is it the biggest sin he could have committed? No, not even close. So I don’t need to torture either of us any longer. I take his hand and say, “Thank you for the gifts, the reminders, and the ticket. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to. And,” he says, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the Eiffel Tower, “You were the only one I wanted to kiss at midnight. It’s almost time. What do you say?”

  There’s no big countdown or production, just two people throwing caution to the wind and choosing to be together, whether it be for a day or eternity. I have no idea, but because this man before me, kissing me with a passion I’ve only ever felt with him, was strong enough to not only apologize, but try to win me back, I’m willing to find out.

  Our mouths part and I slowly open my eyes. “I missed your lips.”

  “I missed everything about you.” He smiles, and says, “Now that we’re warmed up…”

  He never finishes that sentence. He is way too busy kissing me again and when I pull him closer, we both forget about words and futures, pasts, and lies. All that matters is the here and now.

  Moments later, I pull the key from my pocket, I hold it up. “Did you mean what you said?”

  “I did. I still do,” he says with his arms wrapped around me, keeping me warm. “I’m renting, but I have options these days. My parents have come around and support my decision to stay here for awhile, so I’m working on my degree again and start back at a university here in a few weeks.” Looking worried, he asks, “How long will you stay?”

  ~ Four Months Later ~

  I never thought I’d have this kind of decision to make. My path had always been set since high school. But here I stand at the door of my empty apartment, my roommate left a few days ago, with three paths to choose from:

  Earn my Master’s degree from Yale in New Haven.

  Take a job with an awesome firm here in New York City.

  Or return to Oliver in Paris.

  It’s a win anyway I look at it, but I can only choose one…

  * * *

  It’s been said time and time again, but Paris really is beautiful in the springtime. Oliver’s hand tightens around mine as we stroll down the Champs-Elysee for the first time as a couple.

  Unlike other decisions I’ve had to make regarding my life, the direction I want to go in, and more… this decision was the easiest. My family called me frivolous. Carefree. Careless. I didn’t care because my heart knew where it wanted to be.

  We might not be rich, though I’m thinking Oliver has come into more of his inheritance by the apartment in Montmartre. He bought it a few months ago, so rent is not something we worry about.

  For the time being, I have no plan in place. We are living off love and sex, food, drinks, and air. As he once said, the basic necessities.

  And life has never been better—Oh wait…

  Oliver stops, setting the picnic basket down on the lawn. He looks down at me and says, “Je t’aime, Rayon de Soleil.”

  “You’ve never told me why you call me Sunshine.”

  “You were the answer to a question I hadn’t been brave enough to ask. The light that gave my life direction. You were sunshine in that yellow dress and I knew right then that I couldn’t leave just yet.”

  Running his hand over my cheek, he adds, “Thank you for taking a chance and staying in that room with me. You changed my fate.”

  “I like to think we changed each others.”

  “We most definitely did.”

  We kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower. When we part, he smiles. It’s sexy and a lot arrogant. And I’m madly in love with this man who stole my heart with a few lines and a fake accent, but kept it with his honesty and a key that gave his heart to mine.

  The End.

  English to French Reference Key

  Hello/Hi/Good Morning - Bonjour

  Goodbye - Au revoir

  Yes = Oui

  No = Non

  Cheers = Santé

  Okay = D'accord

  Good = Bien

  Very Good = Très bien

  Excuse me = Pardonnez-moi

  Please = s'il vous plaît

  You taste great = tu as si bon goût

  I'm going to make love to you, then fuck you so you’ll remember me long after you leave Paris. = Je vais te faire l’amour et ensuite te baiser de telle sorte que tu te souviennes de moi longtemps après avoir quitté Paris. .

  Do you want coffee? = Prendrais-tu un café?

  I don’t speak French = Je ne parle pas Français.

  Incredible = incroyable

  Back away from her = Éloigne-toi d’elle!

  Relax man, I’m just holding the door open for her = Détendez-vous, l'homme. Je suis juste en tenant la porte ouverte pour elle

  Get lost, asshole = Con casse-toi

  Shut up, American = Ta gueule, Américain

  I’m sorry = Je suis désolé

  How are you? = Comment ça va?

  My American friend = mon ami américain

  Hello Beautiful = bonjour ma toute belle

  Good to see you again = Heureux de te revoir

  Take care of her = Prends soin d'elle

  I want you = Je te veux

  Fuck = Baise

  Shit = Merde

  Stay = Séjour

  Sunshine = Rayon de soleil (if it's a term of endearment)

  Sweet Dreams =Fais de beaux rêves

  Dear Sunshine = Cher Rayon de soleil

  Happy Birthday = Joyeux anniversaire! All my love = Tout mon amour

  Typical stubborn American = Américaine typiquement têtue

  Even if she does have the sexiest green eyes and a dreamy body, she is frustrating = Même si elle a les yeux verts les plus sexy qui soient et un corps à faire rêver, elle est frustrante!

  My heart is yours = Mon coeur t'appartient.

  So is my apartment = Il en est de mon appartement.

  I love you, Sunshine = Je t’aime, Rayon de Soleil

  Part Two

  Sleeping with Mr. Sexy

  Introduction

  Lydia Nichols is on the fast track for career success. She's landed the job of her dreams after working her way up the corporate ladder. The only problem is she's in San Francisco and the dream job is in New York. With one last night to party with her friends before moving cross country, she goes all out, letting down her guard, and following her heart.

  Dubbed Mr. Sexy, the ladies love Chase Andrews. Despite his bad boy good looks, he's a nice guy with a good heart. While out celebrating his best friend's promotion, Chase decides to go after the one woman who has always captivated his mind and body, but eluded him. The only problem with his plan is the object of his affection is too caught up in following her dreams to notice.

  A few cocktails, laughs, secret crushes, and good friends set the stage for these two to discover what they've been missing all along.

  Sleeping with Mr. Sexy is the story of two people who do the best they can with the choices they make. Join Lydia and Chase as they navigate their post-college years trying to balance careers, love, friendship, and the discovery that finding yourself sometimes means coming home.

  © 2013 S.L. Scott

  Chapter One

  The soft, high-thread count sheets slide to the side, slipping off my thigh as I sit up slowly. My head pounds with sheer aggravation from the sunlight that floods the room. "Damn," I mumble, closing my eyes. I push the palm of my hand against my temple, hoping to alleviate the pain. It doesn't help.

  Instead, I inwardly curse my affinity for strong cocktails. Long Island Iced Teas are for co-eds and stay-at-home moms making the most of a night out with the ladies. I am neither of those.

  I open my eyes slowly while pulling the black st
rap of my bra back onto my shoulder until it's securely in place. As my eyes adjust to the brightness of a new day, I recognize my surroundings. They are very familiar though not mine.

  "Double damn!" I mutter under my breath as I turn and look behind me on the bed, knowing what I'll find, but still praying for a different outcome.

  My irritation softens as I look at Chase sleeping, admiring all 6’2” of him. Chase Andrews was one of the best-looking guys on campus, and the two years since we’ve graduated from college have been kind to him. When we go out, I hear the whispers. The ladies call him Mr. Sexy. He’s the man every woman wants to date and every guy wants to be. Successful, charming, attractive, funny, great body—a body I might have taken advantage of last night—twice.

  His sandy blonde hair is not long enough to hang in his eyes like it did in college, but it’s still not office proper. I secretly love that he looks like a bad boy whether he’s in jeans or a suit. To me, he’s always been handsome, but he’s also my comfort and biggest supporter. Yes, he’s hot, and yet, all I can think of is how by sleeping with Mr. Sexy, I just fucked up the second best thing I had going in my life. The first best thing I have is my job, which as of this morning, is now waiting for me in New York City.

  I stand up, unsteady on my feet, and unsure of exactly how I ended up in bed with my best friend. Making my way over to my skirt, I pull it on, waiting to zip it until I am out of his earshot. I don't want to wake him. I roll my eyes when I find my shirt wadded up on the floor at the base of the small Ficus tree in the corner of the room. Silk should never be abused like this. Letting the light fabric glide down over my head and arms, it cascades over my torso.

  With all my belongings in hand, I quickly head for the bedroom door. But I stop, feeling the need to take a second. Leaning against the doorframe, I look over my shoulder, wanting to see him one last time before I leave.