by Alix Nichols
“Good night.”
“Sweet dreams.”
I breathe in the faint scent of Noah’s aftershave and shut my eyes. The lawn where we’re camping is a lot quieter now than it was half an hour ago, with almost everyone around us having crept into their tents and sleeping bags. I should be able to fall asleep easily.
Fifteen minutes later, I turn toward Noah again.
He’s still flat on his back with his eyes wide open.
“The mesh on the other side lets too much light in,” I say to justify my change of position.
He turns on his side to face me, folds his right arm under his head, and places his left hand between us, a bare inch from my breasts.
The heat coming off him and the scent of his skin—a touch of aftershave and a lot of Noah—messes with my brain. They take my thoughts and my senses to a place that’s entirely new to me. I feel like I was beamed into a rain forest. It’s hot, lush and full of surprises.
And scary.
“There’s this theory in quantum physics,” I say, scrambling to find my bearings.
He gives a crooked smile. “My fair landlady is a closet geek?”
“Not at all.” I chuckle. “I just stumbled upon an article a few years back, and it stayed with me.”
“What’s it about?”
“The mechanics of touch,” I say. “According to quantum physics, you can never really touch anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything is composed of tiny particles, right?”
He nods.
“Particles repel other particles of the same kind,” I say. “For example, when you sit in a chair, you’re actually hovering above it.”
He furrows his brow. “Then why did my ass always feel sore after sitting in a chair through a double period at school?”
“If I remember correctly,” I say with a smile, “it’s because the waves you generate overlap with the chair’s waves, and your brain misinterprets it as touching.”
“So if I do this,”—he puts his hand on my hip—“I’m not actually touching you. Is that what you’re saying?”
I swallow, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Yes.”
He lets his fingers and the ball of his palm gently sink into my flesh without pressing or rubbing. With every second that passes, I feel my body respond to his hand hug. Through the thin silk of my dress, my skin tingles, and the flesh under his hand begins to burn.
Suddenly, the mischievous gleam in his eyes gives way to an entirely different expression.
My smile slips, too.
What’s happening to me?
How did I go from pondering if I should date Zach earlier this evening to wondering which direction Noah will move his hand—up to cup my breast or down to stroke my thigh. And how my body would react to it. And whether my need for him to do that is bigger than my fear.
What if this excitement I’m feeling isn’t real and has nothing to do with a normal arousal a normal woman would feel? What if it’s just wishful thinking? I may believe I’m aroused, but what will happen when he touches me more intimately? Will the illusion melt into thin air? Will my body stiffen with revulsion, just like it’s done before?
The ironic truth is I’d be less anxious if I felt nothing—I’d know what to expect.
But with my body acting so out of character, setting my expectations high and giving me hope, it’s just too scary.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I say, butterflies in my stomach.
He doesn’t respond for the longest moment with his hand on my waist and his eyes riveted to mine.
“That’s OK,” he finally says. “We should try to get some sleep.”
Nodding with relief, I turn my back to Noah and push the pillow to the middle, offering him half of it. “I doubt it’s comfortable sleeping on a folded tee.”
He draws closer, laying his head on the pillow. I feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.
“Do you mind if I put my hand back where it was?” he asks.
“Suit yourself.”
His hand returns to my waist and slides over to my belly. Should I tell him off for taking more than he was given? While I’m mulling over that question, he shifts, wrapping his entire arm around me and pulling me closer.
This is so much more than the authorized hand-on-waist that I lose my tongue momentarily.
Next thing I know he’s pressing his chest against my back and snaking a leg over my thigh.
“Good night, Sophie,” he says, his voice hoarse.
Recovering from my stupor, I finally move. But, instead of drawing away, I arch my body into him, looking for an additional point of contact.
There it is! The hard ridge I’d felt the day we first met when he’d tackled me in his kitchen. I love its length and thickness and the way it nestles against my derriere.
How shocking.
How totally inexplicable and sexy.
“Good night,” I rasp, barely recognizing my voice.
What does the quantum theory have to say about this, I wonder? For years, it’s been my handy justification for not reacting to a man’s touch. Except I’m reacting all right to Noah’s. Let’s face it—I may not be as frigid as I thought.
How else can I explain that at the ripe age of twenty-four, and against all expectations, Princess Sophie was suddenly roused from her sexuality-free slumber?
I wish my savior were Zach the Successful Entrepreneur.
Or—even better—some hotshot business shark in Florida. But instead, it’s Delivery Man Noah… Damn! Why did I have to be awakened by a guy who, on top of having neither money nor ambition, possibly nurtures a longtime crush on his childhood bestie?
How fucking ironic is that?
ELEVEN
NOAH
Sophie and I head to my place, our feet sinking into the heat-softened asphalt with every step. If I focus on it, it looks as if it’s steaming. Just like my brain.
The plan is to drop in, take a quick shower, swallow some coffee and toasts, and jump on my scooter. I’ll give her a lift to her office and hightail it to the swimming pool.
We haven’t uttered a word that wasn’t practical since we woke up this morning.
Last night was… I don’t even know what it was.
We drank a can of beer. Neglected to admire the stars. Chatted. Connected.
She flirted with me… I think.
I lusted after her, touched her, hugged her.
She let me.
But she wasn’t ready for more. She suspects she’s frigid.
As we lay down in the bivvy, I breathed in her head-turning scent and struggled to appease a raging hard-on. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I fell asleep, still clutching Sophie to my chest.
I woke up to the alarm on my phone, a little dizzy—and very confused.
My mind is still muddled. The sticky heat that hasn’t abated in weeks isn’t helping. I can’t wait to climb into the shower and let a cold jet lower my body temperature a notch. Perhaps it will cool my brain, too.
I glance at Sophie, but she won’t look at me. She’s eyeing an ice cream stand instead with an expression of desperate longing on her lovely face.
Halting in front of it, I touch her arm. “Ice cream break?”
She beams.
“What flavor for Mademoiselle?” the vendor asks.
“Strawberry cheesecake and chocolate chip cookie, please.” Sophie opens her purse.
I beat her to it, placing a tenner onto the counter.
She scowls at me.
I scowl back.
She closes her purse and takes her cone from the vendor.
“Aren’t you having one?” she asks me.
“I lost my sweet tooth with my milk teeth,” I say, collecting the change.
“You should’ve let me pay,” she says as we march away. “Five euros for two scoops is a ripoff.”
“I delivered four pepperonis in the 6th yesterday, and the guy tipped me fiv
e euros.” I shrug. “Easy come, easy go.”
“Still…” She gives the frozen treat an enthusiastic lick. “So good. And exactly what I needed right now.”
Watching her tongue flick in and out of her mouth, I struggle not to dwell on what I need right now.
“I hope the heat lets up by Saturday,” I say to take my mind off those dangerous thoughts. “The Derzians are coming back with my dog, and I wouldn’t want the poor thing to suffer the way he did before they left.”
“Is he very furry?” she asks, turning to me.
“Not very, but enough to have a harder time than humans coping with the heat.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s nice of your neighbors to take care of your dog like that.”
I nod. “They’re the best. Of course, it helps that Oscar and their own dog, Cannelle, get along like gangbusters, but still. The Derzians have been incredibly kind to Oscar and me ever since I moved into the apartment.”
“Do they have children of their own?”
“A grown son and a daughter, both living abroad with their spouses and kids,” I say. “The son is in China and the daughter in the US.”
“You know where?”
“LA.”
“Don’t your neighbors want to move closer to at least one of their kids and grandchildren?” she asks. “Or are they such hardcore Parisians it would take a bubonic plague epidemic to get them to resettle?”
I chuckle. “As it happens, they are hardcore Parisians, even though they weren’t born here. They’re Armenians from Lebanon.”
“Oh?”
I nod as we stop at the traffic light. “They visited Paris as tourists in the seventies and fell in love with the city. When war broke out in Lebanon and they fled, Paris was an obvious destination.”
“They must’ve had a hard time rebuilding their lives from scratch in a foreign country.”
“Apparently, it was easier than they’d expected,” I say as we turn onto my street. “They made friends, found jobs, and felt at home within a month of their arrival. Madame Derzian is convinced the love they have for the city is mutual.”
Sophie smiles. “So she believes Paris fell in love with them, eh? Just like that, at first sight?”
“Yep,” I say. “Not immigration authorities, though.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“When the Derzians applied for a residency permit, an immigration official said, ‘You must understand—we can’t allow everyone who loves Paris to stay here. If we did, we’d have to make room for at least a billion people. You should return to your home country.’ ”
“What did the Derzians do?” Sophie asks.
“They momentarily forgot they spoke fluent French like many Lebanese.”
“And?”
“Monsieur Derzian spread his arms and said, ‘Pardon. No speak French. Speak Armenian.’ ” I raise my hands, palms up, imitating Monsieur Derzian’s gesture and accent. “The official didn’t speak Armenian, which gave the Derzians an excuse to ignore his instruction and stay put.”
She laughs. “How convenient! So your wonderful neighbors are illegal aliens?”
“Not anymore,” I say. “They reapplied a few years later and were granted a residency permit.”
We enter my building and rush up the stairs to my apartment. Which, technically, is Sophie’s. Just another bit of weirdness she’s brought into my life.
I hand her a clean towel and a new toothbrush. While she showers, I brew some coffee.
She comes out of the bathroom less than ten minutes later, smelling of my shower gel. “Your turn.”
When I return to the kitchen, having washed and changed into clean clothes, Sophie has toasted two slices of bread.
I pour both of us some java.
She takes her cup from me and points to my toast. “Wasn’t sure how you like it.”
“With butter,” I say, opening the fridge. “You?”
“Peanut butter and jelly.”
I make a face. “Really?”
“I know,” she says. “It’s an affront to good—that is to say, French—taste. But it’s stronger than me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have either of those foods.”
“No problem,” she says. “I’ll channel my French half and eat my toast with regular butter. We have to go in a few minutes, anyway.”
I glance at my watch and nod.
“About last night,” Sophie says, as I drink my coffee.
I set the cup on the table and stare at her.
“I feel guilty.” She looks downward. “I sort of led you on and left you hanging.”
“I don’t—”
“I just want you to know I wasn’t playing or anything.” She glances at me and looks down again. “I did enjoy being touched by you. It’s just… I don’t know if I can handle another disappointment if it turns out that I am hopelessly frigid, after all.”
“Sophie Bander,” I say in a know-it-all teacher’s voice. “You are not frigid.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because you want me.”
She looks up at me again.
I hold her gaze.
She mustn’t suspect how much I’m gambling here.
Both of my claims—that she isn’t frigid and that she wants me—are based on a gut feeling, not certitude. Especially the latter one. For all I know, it’s Zach she’d rather hook up with. He’ll probably take her to dinner one of these days, charm her, date her, pamper her, and marry while the iron is hot.
“You know what?” she says at length, her gaze still locked with mine. “I think you’re right. It does look like I want you.”
I suck in a sharp breath.
She tilts her head to the side. “So what are you going to do about it, Noah Masson?”
TWELVE
SOPHIE
I get off the métro and march toward Parc de la Villette where I am to finally meet Noah’s dog, Oscar.
We’ll walk around the park—seeing as dogs aren’t allowed inside—and head to Noah’s for a bite and chilled rosé.
I didn’t take my backpack as I have no intention of sleeping over even if it’s Friday night. Véronique has tasked me with showing an apartment at ten tomorrow morning, all by myself. This fills me with a ridiculous amount of pride… and anxiety. I’ve spent the last two evenings revising my notes about the apartment and the neighborhood and rereading the survey reports. When I get home tonight, I’ll go through everything once again, and one last time tomorrow morning before I meet with the clients.
There’s a second reason I’m seeing Noah this evening, and it makes me even jitterier than tomorrow’s baptism of fire.
Lovemaking.
It’s always so smooth and easy in movies, but it’s been the opposite in my personal experience. Just thinking about doing it again makes my hands clammy.
I’ll think about Oscar instead.
Even though I’m a cat person and have no clue how to act around a dog, meeting Oscar doesn’t stress me at all. Probably because Noah has told me his dog is part feline.
Yesterday afternoon right after I hung up with my soon-to-be lover, Zach texted me that he’d had fun at the Moose and we should get together again sometime.
I replied:
Definitely, as friends.
He texted:
Sure, no problem.
In the evening, I went to Mom’s and told her about Zach and Noah, fully expecting a rant on my lack of common sense. Instead, she declared that Noah sounded like the kind of guy I needed.
Mom’s eccentric like that.
She never sees the world the way Dad and I do.
To any rational observer, Zach is the kind of guy I need. The kind of guy who’d be right for me.
Such a bummer I don’t want what’s right! Not at this juncture, in any case.
I spot my wrong kind of guy and his wrong kind of pet from afar. They’re engrossed in a game of catch. Noah hurls a stick. His four-legged friend races afte
r it and brings it back. But instead of giving it to his master, he keeps it between his clenched jaws, bounces around Noah, and wags his tail.
Noah picks up another stick and throws it. Oscar drops the one in his mouth and zooms to snatch the second stick. When he returns with it, Noah pets him and hurls the first stick.
“Doing what you do would drive me mad,” I say after Noah and I exchange greetings.
“It’s not so bad,” Noah says. “Oscar loves this game.”
I point at the stick in Oscar’s mouth. “Isn’t he supposed to give that to you?”
“I’m sure he’s considered it.” Noah shrugs. “But he prefers to keep it for himself.”
“How very… un-doglike.”
“I told you he’s part cat.”
I smirk. “Yeah, you did.”
“It’s not just the failure to fetch, there are other symptoms.” He crouches and begins to play tug-of-war with his dog. “Oscar takes five or six catnaps during the day, with the first one beginning a few minutes after he wakes up in the morning.”
“Why does he even bother waking up?”
“So he can relocate to my bed.”
“Right.”
“But I can close the bedroom door for the night,” he adds quickly. “Oscar will take his first morning nap in his own bed.”
I finger my watch strap. “Can you make him purr?”
Noah nods. “Oscar, sit!”
Oscar looks at him, then at me and then at Noah again. After Noah repeats the command three more times, Oscar sighs and sits down. Noah squats next to him and rubs Oscar’s throat. The dog makes a soft guttural sound you wouldn’t expect from a canine. Noah scratches him behind his ears, and Oscar purrs louder.
“Satisfied?” Noah asks me.
“Awed,” I say.
When we get to his apartment, Oscar rushes to his water bowl and drinks thirstily.
Noah kicks off his flip-flops. “You can keep yours on, if you want.”
“No problem.” I slip out of my clogs. “The floor looks clean enough.”
“It is clean,” he says, heading to the kitchen.
I follow him.
