by Alix Nichols
I keep thinking of our la java dance in that tacky bistro, two weeks back. We goofed around and I kept her at a safe distance from start to finish, but boy, was it hard. Just like the first time we met when I did a full salute within seconds of pinning her to the wall.
As we danced, the hand I’d placed on her hip as lightly as I could, itched to hold her harder. My fingers ached to caress her slim back. My palm burned to press into her hip so I could learn its exact curve and imprint its shape into my flesh before sliding lower to gloss her mind-blowing butt. As if that wasn’t enough, the urge to crush her against my chest and claim her full mouth almost drove me to the brink of insanity.
Had the singer done one extra chorus of “Padam… Padam…,” I might’ve lost control and done all of those things.
There’s no denying that Sophie Bander is the worst distraction I’ve ever had to cope with. She draws me away from what’s important. Worse, when I’m around her, my mind clouds over and I get this traitorous impression that nothing else matters. The season, Maman’s work, Uma’s future—all my goals and wishes pale next to my need to hold her.
What’s even worse is that I doubt a night with her would quench my thirst.
Something tells me the opposite would happen. Having sex with her would make me want more sex with her, and the whole thing would spin out of control. Because that’s who Sophie is. A dormant siren. A femme fatale pretending she’s unexceptional. Believing she’s unexceptional.
This… this thing has to be quashed before it’s too late.
I ring Zach’s doorbell.
Behind the door, someone stomps down the stairs.
“Let me get it! Let me get it!” Sam shouts excitedly.
A second person scurries to the door.
“OK, but you have to ask the question first,” Uma says, laughing.
“OK! Who’s there?” Sam hollers.
“It’s me,” I say, putting an eye to the peephole.
There’s a silence. I picture Sam looking up at Uma for guidance. She says something I can’t make out.
“State your first name and…” Sam commands before stalling. “…and…”
Uma says something again in a quiet voice.
“Last name,” Sam shouts. “And step away from the peephole so we can see you.”
“Let me help you, buddy,” Uma says behind the door, lifting him so he can look through the peephole I guess.
I draw back, smile, and say loudly. “Noah. Masson.”
“I remember you,” Sam cries. “You’re the goalie!”
The door opens, and I step in.
Ten minutes later, the three of us sit around the kitchen table. Uma hands Sam a mug filled with some unidentified beverage and makes a Nespresso shot for each of us.
“I’ll be with you in a minute!” Zach calls from upstairs. “Just need to finish this conference call.”
Uma prepares another Nespresso with more water—the way Zach likes it.
“So, how is everything?” I ask.
She grins and glances at Sam who’s hiding his face behind his Winnie the Pooh mug. “Couldn’t be better.”
Sam sets his mug on the table. “Daddy’s going to the lions tomorrow, and I’m staying with Uma for two days, and we’ll watch Lilo and Stitch and Leroy and Stitch.”
I turn to Uma.
“Zach is going on a two-day business trip to Lyon,” she explains, wiping Sam’s mouth. “So, yeah, it’s going to be a late night for us with Sam’s favorite movies.”
“Totally unfair,” Zach says, walking in and sitting next to Sam. “I love that cartoon just as much as you do.”
“You can join us next time,” Sam says magnanimously.
Zach gives his shoulder a light squeeze. “Thanks, man.”
When the boy runs away to play with his electric train, a deep crease appears between Zach’s eyebrows. “I’m still nervous about going away for two days.”
Uma hands him his cup. “You shouldn’t be.”
“You started only a week ago, and already I’m leaving you alone with him,” Zach says, shaking his head.
“It’s just one night.” Uma sits down next to me. “Besides, you had no choice.”
Zach turns to me. “I was hoping Colette would rise to the occasion for once… but that didn’t happen.”
I smirk as I picture Sam’s mother serving Zach her standard response. Had Zach listened to her, Sam would be somebody else’s responsibility now. But Zach chose to keep him, well aware of the boy’s condition, so now Sam is Zach’s problem. Not hers.
My teammate gives Uma an apologetic look. “Just say the word, and I’ll cancel the trip.”
“I know exactly what to do if Sam has a seizure. You should stop fretting.” She stares into his eyes. “This trip is super important for your business, right?”
Zach nods. “It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even consider going.”
She shrugs.
“Uma’s right,” I say to Zach. “Stop fretting. You’re leaving your boy in capable hands.”
I mean it, too. Uma is the most dependable person in the world. She’s kind, gentle, competent, and always in control. The kind of person I’d entrust with my life… and with my kid’s life, if I have a kid one day.
Maman is right—she’s perfect. It’s humbling that a woman like that has feelings for me.
“Hey,” Zach turns to me. “I never properly thanked you for arranging the outing next Saturday. Sophie sounds exactly like someone I’d want to date.”
I shrug dismissively. “You’ll thank me later if everything goes well. Did you find a solution for Sam?”
“I can babysit him,” Uma offers.
“No way. You’re coming with us.” Zach gives her a wink. “Noah here would be very disappointed if you didn’t.”
“But what about Sam?” she asks.
Zach grins triumphantly. “Mathilde has agreed to come over for the evening.”
“Cool.” I stand up. “Thanks for the coffee, Uma.”
She smiles. “Anytime.”
“Will you be at the morning practice tomorrow?” I ask Zach.
He nods. “My train to the lions leaves at one fifteen.”
When I get home, there’s a letter in my mailbox. The handwriting on the envelope is Diane’s.
Fantastic.
Yet another missive from my unwanted sister-in-law, who appears to be even more pigheaded than my brothers are in her refusal to let me be.
I plop onto the couch, tear the envelope open, and retrieve a sheet of paper. She’s slipped in a few pictures, too, as per her habit. I set the photos aside and read the letter.
Dear Noah,
Sebastian, baby Tanguy, and I are spending another wonderful weekend at your estate. Take a look at the photos I enclosed. What do you think of the park? And isn’t the castle absolutely gorgeous? The wild grapevine on the façade is so pretty against the old stones, you’d think I photoshopped it. (Just in case you do, please note I am not that kind of girl).
You should come and see it with your own eyes.
Oh, I will—sooner than you might expect.
Just so you know, I made several dozen large prints of that grapevine. They are framed and stacked in the storage room. They might come in handy should you choose to revamp the interior when you do the renovations, which are badly needed.
Pff. As if I cared.
Believe me, I’m not exaggerating. Chateau d’Arcy is falling apart. Given the thickness of its walls, the structure is in no danger, but the rest… If you set foot inside, I’m sure your heart will bleed. I tried to convince Seb to fix the worst of it, but he says it’s not our place. He says he’ll be happy to fund the works, so you won’t have to deplete your trust fund for that, but you should take charge.
Do you think you could do that?
Hugs,
Diane
I lay the letter on the coffee table and lean back, clasping my hands behind my head. This note will go unanswered just like all of Di
ane’s previous letters.
She seems to be a good girl. What a shame she had to ruin her life by marrying Seb, a.k.a. His Pompous Ass, Excellency Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice. My friendly sister-in-law is in for a lot of heartache the day she finally opens her eyes and faces the bitter truth.
Beneath the veneer of respectability, the country’s oldest, richest, and most envied family has no honor. The way my late father and Seb treated Maman with Raphael’s tacit consent is ugly. I’ll never forgive them for that. My older brothers are unworthy of the riches they own.
If only my Papa chéri hadn’t made a will!
Had he kicked the bucket without leaving one, his estate would’ve been divided equally between his three sons, according to French inheritance laws. Nothing for Maman, of course, whom he’d conveniently divorced.
But he did leave a will, and I can’t legally dispose of my share until I’m twenty-seven.
Guess what? I’m turning twenty-seven in six weeks’ time.
I feel a prick of conscience. It has nothing to do with my plans for the estate. But it has to do with how my cryptic answers might’ve led Sophie to believe I’d starved in Nepal.
When I told her Papa had refused to help Maman, I failed to mention that the money she was asking for wasn’t for food or shelter. She needed a half million dollars for her foundation. The initial endowment having dried up and no new sponsors forthcoming, Maman’s life’s achievement was going down the drain.
But she and I were doing fine on alimony. More than fine. Compared to local standards, we were rich.
So why did I let Sophie think otherwise?
I guess it was the only way to stop her from asking more questions. She’s my landlady, for Christ’s sake—not my friend like Uma and Zach. She’ll be gone by Christmas. There’s no reason why I should share with her the fucked-up story of my life.
No reason at all.
EIGHT
Sophie
The first thing I see as we enter the Moose is a rustic stone wall behind the bar with a couple of flat screens tuned to hockey.
“How very North American,” Uma says with a smile. “Not that I’ve been to North America, but that’s exactly how I imagined a sports bar somewhere in Seattle.”
“This one is more Montreal than Seattle,” Zach says.
The place is lit by the dim glow of ceiling spots and at least a dozen wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. Polished wood and moose antlers dominate the decor.
The four of us had met by the statue of Danton at Odéon, which is spitting distance from here. I’d ridden the métro from work, Uma and Zach had arrived in his car, and Noah on his scooter.
Now that it stays warm after dusk, I revel in the pleasant coolness of this bar.
We make our way to the sitting area and pick one of the two vacant tables.
To our left, a large boisterous group is having a lively conversation in Quebecois French so thick you could slice it with a knife.
I jerk my chin in their direction. “Looks like we’ve found the place where Canadian tourists come to chill after a hard day’s sightseeing.”
“But that’s a good sign, right?” Uma says. “Canadians wouldn’t come here if this place wasn’t authentic.”
Noah smiles. “The main reason they come here is that there aren’t a lot of sports bars in Paris.”
Zach nods. “And even fewer where you can watch the Super Bowl, Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs in real time.”
“And eat a decent poutine,” Noah adds.
Zach raises his index finger. “Pootseen, please, if you want to sound Quebecois.”
“What’s a Pootseen?” I ask.
Noah and Zach exchange a meaningful glance.
“You’ll discover soon enough,” Noah says.
I think he was warning me, and I burst out laughing at his amusing air of mystery.
“Ladies.” Zach looks from Uma to me and then to Noah. “Gentleman. Do I have everyone’s permission to order your food and drinks?”
I narrow my eyes. “Depends on what you’re ordering.”
“You allergic to anything?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Relax, Sophie,” Noah touches my hand. “Nobody’s treating you to fried crickets. We’ll have Moosehead—a Canadian beer—and poutine.”
I sigh. “Beer is fine. It’s poutine that I’m worried about.”
“Hang on.” Uma rummages through her tote bag, muttering, “He used to do this all the time when we were kids—asking if I’d like a profiterole or a bit of aligot or a slice of tatin, and I had to say yes or no before he’d tell me what those things were.”
“Did I ever trick you into eating something you hated?” Noah asks her.
“That’s not the point.” She pulls out a smartphone. “Ta-da! Don’t you love modern technology? No more surprises. We’re going to find out what poutine is in a moment.”
Zach waves a server over, while Uma fumbles with her phone.
“Found it,” she announces a few seconds later and begins to read out loud.
Poutine was invented in Quebec under mysterious circumstances and in an undisclosed location sixty years ago. It has since become Canada’s national dish. The classic poutine (“la classique”) is made from hand-cut French fries topped with cheese curds (called crottes de fromage by locals, which means “cheese poop”) and with hot brown gravy called velouté. Greasy and calorie rich, poutine is the ultimate comfort food.
Uma drops her phone back into her handbag and grins. “Sounds yummy.”
Does she mean it?
I peer at her face and conclude to my horror that she does.
If I were a blunt kind of girl, I would’ve told these people what poutine sounded like from a health-conscious Floridian’s perspective. It sounded like love handles, pimples, and a heart attack.
Zach turns to the waiter. “We’ll have four Mooseheads and four classic poutines.”
“Awesome.” I bare my teeth. “Right up my alley. Can’t wait.”
I wonder if any of them can hear the sarcasm in my voice.
Noah hems before shifting his gaze from me to one of the TV screens. His lips are twitching.
Five minute later the server brings our frosty beers and steaming plates.
I stare at the huge serving of fries and rubbery cheese curds smothered in gravy. “This doesn’t look very… appetizing.”
“Don’t be afraid to say it looks like shit,” Noah says.
“The proof of the pudding isn’t in looking pretty,” Zach says. “It’s in the eating.”
With the fuck-it-all determination of a kamikaze pilot, I pick up my fork and knife. “All right, let’s eat.”
The cheese curds squeak in my mouth as I chew.
“I recommend you wash it down with beer,” Noah says, his eyes riveted to my mouth. “It’ll help your palate handle the shock.”
Uma turns to me. “Isn’t this the kind of food you’re used to?”
I shake my head. “In Key West, we have lots of options to choose from. You can eat Cuban or vegetarian or French or… whatever. I usually go for French as I’m used to it.”
“Sophie’s mom is French,” Noah says.
“That explains it.” Zach gives me a bright smile. “I was wondering why your French was so good—barely a hint of an accent.”
I acknowledge his compliment with a polite smile.
“What kind of place is Key West?” Noah asks.
“In one word?” I chew on my lower lip, thinking. “Relaxed. You’d like it.”
“Tell me more.” His eyes are on my mouth again.
Is that why I keep biting my lip?
I’m not in the habit of doing that—actually, I never do that. But there’s something highly addictive in the way he stares at my mouth. The heat of his gaze makes me want to encourage him, makes me hungry for more.
Get a grip, Sophie.
I shrug. “In a nutshell—we have a tropical climate, the best beach
es and sunsets, occasional hurricanes, and hordes of tourists on Duval Street.” Winking, I add, “As well as lovely wood houses for sale via my dad’s agency. Should anyone be interested.”
An hour later, Zach settles the bill, and I use the occasion to study his face. The man is certainly good-looking. He’s been the perfect gentleman throughout the dinner. So, why am I hoping Noah will offer me a ride home?
“Can I offer you a lift?” Zach asks me, standing up.
“I live in the 18th,” I say. “You and Uma would have to make a huge detour and lose an hour, if not more.”
This would be Noah’s cue to jump in and offer that ride.
But he doesn’t. He studies his shoes.
Uma turns to Zach. “Why don’t I take the métro so that we don’t delay Mathilde, and you take Sophie home?”
“I’ll give you a lift,” Noah says to Uma. “It’ll be faster.”
Shoot.
Inside Zach’s Beamer, he makes small talk and I nod as we drive north through the quiet city bathed in the soft light from windows and street lamps. The stereo streams jazzy French music. Add that to the air-conditioning and Zach’s deep, masculine bass, and this should be a very pleasant ride. Romantic, even.
But it’s confusion, not romance, that fills my mind right now.
My thoughts return to the Moose. The food sucked, but I truly enjoyed the company. Uma was totally sweet. Zach was gracious. Noah was… Noah. We ate, drank, joked, and pretended our “dinner among friends” wasn’t really a double date, and we weren’t really two couples in the making.
Couple Number 1—Uma and Noah, childhood besties teetering between friendship and something more.
Couple Number 2—Zach and I testing the waters to see if we click.
Do we click? I guess so.
In addition to being gorgeous, Zach is also a wealthy go-getter interested in a relationship. Unlike Noah.
Besides, he fits Dad’s idea of a perfect catch to a T.
