by Alix Nichols
Miracles do happen.
Maybe—just once—a small miracle could happen to me, too? Maybe the Sword of Damocles that’s gotten so close to my neck I can feel its blade against my skin would vanish as if by magic. And never ever come back.
A loud sneeze distracts me from my daydream. It’s Marcus, the night shift bartender, who has just come in and is heading toward the bar.
“Hi, Mia,” he says before sneezing again.
I say hi and follow him to the bar area.
He doesn’t look good.
“You should’ve called in sick,” I say, putting my elbow on the counter.
“I did,” he says. “But Karim couldn’t fill in for me tonight.”
“Sorry, mon pote.” Karim emerges from the staff room, already changed out of his uniform. “I’m in the early days of a relationship. Can’t risk her thinking I’m blowing her off.”
Marcus nods. “I understand.”
“But I called Raphael,” Karim says. “He’ll be here in half an hour or so.”
Marcus blows his nose. “To do what?”
“Give you a hand, mon pote. You look like you’ll need it.”
I’m about to add that our customers will need it, too, unless they like germs in their drinks, but I bite my tongue. Poor Marcus is feeling bad enough as it is.
Exactly half an hour later, Raphael shows up in all his perky, masculine glory. He smiles, positively thrilled as he removes his jacket and tie and rolls up his sleeves. How can anyone look like that after a fourteen-hour workday is beyond me.
But, evidently, not beyond him.
He says hi to Sebastian and Diane, shakes hands with a few other patrons, and then swaggers behind the counter.
“Hello, Mia,” he says before giving the pasty-faced bartender a nod. “Marcus.”
“Hi, boss,” Marcus and I say in unison.
“Why don’t you come sit over here?” Raphael sets a chair under the wall-mounted wine rack and motions Marcus to it. “That way, you can be my prompter without scaring off our customers.”
Marcus slumps down onto the chair and lets out a relieved sigh.
The next few hours are a sharp learning curve for Raphael, who discovers how limited his cocktail-making skills really are. But he puts on a brave face and does his best to follow Marcus’s achoo-punctuated instructions. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in creative shaking techniques and humor.
It also helps that whenever Marcus moans “Nooo, that’s too much rum (vodka, tequila, wine, syrup, sugar, lime, ice), Raphael just puts that cocktail on the counter next to a napkin that reads “Experimental / On the House.”
A line of eager patrons has sprung up by that napkin, growing fast as the news of free cocktails spreads through the bar.
Sebastian and Diane leave a little after midnight. By two a.m., the bar is finally empty and we can go home.
Raphael calls two cabs—one for Marcus and the other for him and me. The poor rich man is without his car tonight. His Ferrari is at the mechanic’s and his company driver was sent home with the company car several hours ago.
In the cab, I put my head on Raphael’s shoulder and doze off. It’s Thursday night, which means I have to be at the office at nine tomorrow morning. Any shut-eye I can catch between now and then is welcome.
A gentle rub of my shoulder wakes me.
“We’re in front of your building,” Raphael says.
I sit up and try to peel my lids open.
He pays the cabby, climbs out, and slides his arms under my thighs and back.
“Grab your purse,” he says.
Before I realize what’s going on, I’m out of the cab and in Raphael’s arms.
I snuggle to his chest as he halts in front of the intercom. “Can you key in the code?”
I do.
“Which floor?” he asks, carrying me into the foyer.
“Second.” I smile. “You can put me down.”
He ignores me and heads to the staircase.
I try again. “I’m fully awake now.”
Even if this does feel like a dream.
“I know.” Raphael kisses the tip of my nose. “And I will… as soon as we’re in front of your door.”
When he does and I begin to fumble with the wonky lock, an inkling I’ve had since he lifted me up grows into a certitude. A bubbly, singing-to-forest-animals-and-dancing kind of certitude.
For the first time ever, Raphael is going to walk into my apartment.
And he’s going to stay the night.
Chapter 17
“Shoes off,” I say, switching on the light. “The floor is squeaky clean, so you can walk around in socks or barefoot.”
I sit on the tiny bench by the door and remove my sandals.
Ooh, the relief.
Raphael pulls off his shoes and socks. Then he moves to the center of the room and surveys my studio apartment.
“How much are you paying for this?” he asks.
“Seven hundred euros.”
“It’s a rip-off.”
I arch an eyebrow. “It’s the market price for this neighborhood. When was the last time you paid rent in Paris?”
He gives me an apologetic look. “Never.”
“Thought so.”
He points to the small desk with tall piles of books and printed pages on it. “Is this where you write about the respectable and less respectable women of the Middle Ages?”
“Yep.”
“Did you finish the new chapter? Can I read it?”
I nod. “Once I’ve cleaned it up.”
Raphael turns the handle on the door next to my desk. “This must be the bedroom.”
It’s a broom closet.
“Seven hundred? Really?” He shuts the door. “The whole place is smaller than my kitchen. And I don’t have a very big kitchen.”
I shrug.
“No wonder you need a second job.” He nods in sympathy. “So, where’s the bedroom?”
“Right here.” I march to the wall bed and pull it down. “Et voilà!”
“Wow. It must be black magic!” Raphael drops to his knees and stretches himself out the floor. “Madam, you must be a powerful sorceress.”
I throw two pillows onto the bed and go over to my prostrating boss. “And what are you, my good sir?”
“A frog prince.” He sits on his heels and puts his hands on my hips. “How do you feel about frog princes?”
“Not sure.”
“Is my being green and slippery an issue?” He pulls me closer.
“It’s the least of your issues.”
“You’re too harsh, sorceress.”
He slides his hands to the front of my Le Big Ben uniform shirt, which I’d been too tired to change. With a rush of sweet anticipation, I let him undo one button after another.
“I’m not as slippery as people think,” he says, tugging on the sleeves.
I help him remove the shirt. My lacy bra comes off next.
He presses his face against my tummy and spends some time kissing and licking every inch of it. I give a small “oh” when he dips his tongue into my navel.
His hands glide along my sides, gripping and rubbing. Then they move on to my back and then my ass, which they knead and squeeze with utter dedication.
I love what he’s doing to me.
Careful, Mia.
Using the L-word in relation to Raphael is a no-no, even when it isn’t about feelings. I must not forget who he is. My lover isn’t a frog prince as he claims to be. He’s a fuck prince. As everyone knows, when a fair maiden—or a sorceress, as the case may be—kisses a fuck prince, the act doesn’t turn him into a real prince and her into his princess.
It turns both of them into fuck buddies.
And yet…
When this gorgeous male kneels before me, presses hot kisses to my stomach, and worships me like this, all caution flies to the wind. I run my hands through his hair as my gaze caresses the perfect lines of his strong neck, shoulders, an
d arms wrapped around me.
Throwing my head back, I close my eyes to savor the feel of his lips on me. My breathing becomes uneven as he slips his hands under my skirt and grips the backs of my thighs.
“Soon, my beautiful sorceress,” Raphael murmurs, his voice husky, “you’ll be the slippery one here.”
Oh, I think I already am.
A few long moments later, he brings his hands to my left hip and unzips my skirt. He tugs the waistband, pulling it and my panties down over my hips. I open my eyes and look at him. Raphael’s gaze is riveted to my mound. It’s hot with lust, dark and hungry with need.
Beware, Mia—it will scorch your soul.
When my skirt and panties pool around my ankles, I step out of them. He pulls me back to him immediately and brings his mouth down on my very slippery flesh. His tongue explores and strokes me, while his fingers spread me open.
I clutch his shoulders because my legs are suddenly too weak.
The orgasm that follows isn’t the deepest or most intense I’ve ever had, but it’s incredibly sweet. It’s as if my loins had grown tastebuds and savored honey.
When I return to reality, Raphael is gripping my hips, arms stretched. Sitting back, his lips glistening from what he’d been doing a moment ago, he watches me.
All of me.
I stare into his eyes.
What I see in their depths makes my heart quicken. They hold lust—tons of it—but also admiration. And tenderness. So much of it that my knees wobble and I sway forward.
He props me up and levels his gaze with mine.
I gasp.
That “funny” look I’d noticed before is back, amplified a hundred times. Do I dare name it? Could it be that the admiration and tenderness in his eyes weren’t just for my body, but also for my person? Is it possible that the country’s most notorious womanizer has a crush on a girl from work? A girl with quirks, ragged edges, and a bluestocking level of nerdiness.
I must be imagining it.
Those double shifts must be taking their toll, making me delusional. I should know better than to let myself think Raphael d’Arcy has feelings for me. Because he doesn’t. He can’t. That’s not how he’s built. A twenty-nine-year-old unapologetic bad boy can’t change his tiger stripes for someone like me.
Or can he?
Chapter 18
I wake up surrounded by Raphael.
His chest is pressed to my back, his left arm is under my head, and his right arm is wrapped around me. I don’t dare budge for fear of disrupting the sweetness of this moment. As I lie in his arms with my eyes wide open but my body still gooey and listen to his steady breathing, a realization begins to form in my mind.
For a while, I pretend everything’s fine, but my inaction allows the epiphany to take shape and grow. By the time I start shooing it away, it’s too late. The bastard has made itself comfortable at the forefront of my consciousness and is opening its mouth to say something.
I begin to sing in my head, La la la la la la. Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you—
Except I can. Loud and clear, every murmured word.
I’m in love.
Carefully, I lift Raphael’s arm, roll out of bed and head to the shower. I’m going to take it cold. And long.
When I return to the bedroom, wrapped into a bathrobe, Raphael is sitting on the bed, his feet on the floor and his phone in his hands.
“Bruno just texted me. He’s on standby,” he says.
Bruno is his driver.
I sit down next to him. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“That he’s having a coffee in the nearest bistro, waiting for my signal.”
“I see.”
“When do you think you’ll be ready?” he asks.
“Why?”
“So I can give Bruno a heads-up.”
“I’m going to walk,” I say.
“Don’t be silly. DCA is at least an hour’s hike from here.”
“Actually, it’s only forty minutes of brisk walking. And it’s the only exercise I get these days, soooo…”
“All right.” He taps something on his phone before looking up at me. “I just told Bruno to take his time and then drive to the office without me.”
I frown, confused.
“I’ll walk with you,” Raphael says.
“What if someone sees us?”
“They won’t. We’ll split where I usually let you off when we go to work from my place.”
It’s a great spot, actually, in the middle of a roundabout a few blocks from DCA. It swarms with office people and cars. If you’re dressed for work, you immediately melt into the crowd like an ant stepping into an anthill. You’re no longer a person—you’re just a suit among suits.
“I don’t know this neighborhood well,” Raphael says as we emerge from the bistro on the corner of my street, steaming paper cups in our hands. “Will you give me a guided tour?”
I shrug. “It’s super ordinary compared to yours. No sites or historical monuments to speak of.”
“I’m not interested in those. What I want you to tell me about is Mia’s Ménilmontant quarter.”
“OK. Sure.” I give him a bright smile. “Welcome to Mia’s hood! I’ll try to make your tour as exciting as it can be.”
“Thank you.”
“On your left”—I point to the bakery across the street—“you see one of the many wheat temples of our capital.”
“So we’re a nation of wheat worshippers?”
“Of course.”
He lowers his brows, unconvinced.
“Picture a freshly baked, warm baguette,” I say.
He shuts his eyes for a second. “Done.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“Break off a piece, smell it, and sink my teeth into it.”
I smile.
“Or, if I make it home,” Raphael adds, “I’ll cut my baguette in half lengthwise, butter one half, layer sliced goat cheese and dried tomatoes onto it, top it with the second half, and wolf it down.”
He sighs dreamily and swallows.
My lips quirk. “Now picture a rice cracker.”
Raphael stares at me for a moment and then throws his hands up in surrender. “You win. I’m a wheat worshipper.”
“On your right,” I say, pointing to a colorful building, “is our local médiathèque.”
“Is that a fancy multimedia library?”
“Correct.”
We walk in silence for about five minutes until we reach a crossing with traffic lights.
“And this is the fateful intersection,” I say.
“Why is it fateful?”
I point ahead of us. “That way is an early arrival at the office. And that way”—I point at the corner to our left—“has the best chai latte in Paris.”
Raphael grins. “I can see your dilemma.”
“You have no idea what I go through every morning as I wait for the green light here.”
“The call of duty versus instant gratification, eh?”
I nod.
“Which one carries the day?”
I give him an apologetic look. “I’m only human.”
He chuckles softly.
“Now, look at that building,” I say.
Raphael looks at the classic nineteenth-century limestone façade with cast-iron balconies and wooden shutters.
“Follow my finger.” I point.
“Are those…” He peers at the mosaic above the main door, blinks, and then peers again. “Space Invaders from the video game?”
“Oui, Monsieur d’Arcy.”
“How? Why?”
“It’s pixel street art. We owe it to an artist who goes by Invader and to his copycats.”
“I love it.” Raphael snaps a picture with his phone.
“Invader claims he’s placed a thousand installations all over the city.”
“Really?”
“I read it online,” I say.
“Must be true, th
en.”
When we reach the next intersection, I spot a bright yellow postal van and stop in my tracks.
“What is it?” Raphael asks.
“You see that La Poste van?”
He nods.
“It’s almost always at this crossing when I get here.”
Raphael surveys the van, looking amused.
“What’s worse,” I say, “it always stops to let me cross.”
“Why is it so bad?”
“Because it feels wrong. You know how even the most polite Parisian turns into an a-hole behind the wheel? Not this guy, not once. And that gives me a creepy Truman Show feeling.” I give him a comically panicked look. “What if my life isn’t real? What if it’s the Mia Stoll Show?”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Of course,” I say, going around a pile of dog poo. “I know that. But here’s the thing… I can’t prove it.”
“I can.”
“How?”
He puts his hand on his chest. “I’m real.”
I look at him expecting a grin but his expression is earnest. Way too earnest for the conversation we’re having.
“And so is my cock,” he adds, the anticipated smile finally curling his lips. “I promise it hasn’t been enlarged, elongated, stiffened, or otherwise tampered with surgically or chemically.”
I roll my eyes.
“And here”—he points to the postal depot on our right—“is the explanation for the mystery of your ever-present van.”
“I have considered it,” I say. “What do you think? The depot may explain the van, but it doesn’t explain the driver’s unflagging courteousness.”
“You know you’re weird, right?” Raphael asks.
I sigh. “I’ll work harder on suppressing my weirdness.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “I love it.”
I look at my feet, grinning.
A pair of fairy wings sprouts on my back, and I have to stay very focused for the rest of the walk so I don’t fly.
When I get into the office and fire up my computer, there’s an unread email at the top of my Inbox. Its subject line draws my attention immediately. “The day of reckoning.” My hand trembles when I click it open.
MEET ME AT THE SANDWICH PLACE OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE AT NOON. IF YOU DON’T SHOW UP, I’LL POST SOMETHING ON THE INTERNET THAT YOU WON’T LIKE. I’LL ALSO EMAIL IT TO YOUR PARENTS.
