Best Maid Plans

by Klaire, Jody

  “Not like this.”

  She met Pippa’s eyes. “Pardon?”

  “Maybe I’m more like Babs than I let on.” Pippa picked up her chocolate, testing it and smiled. “I think I like being wined and dined.”

  Berne didn’t doubt it. “If I thought you would let me, I would happily do so.” She tapped Pippa’s menu. “I wish to spoil you but you say you do not like this.”

  Pippa picked up the menu, flicking it open. “I do and I don’t. I can’t take you out.” She sighed. “I can’t even afford my drink.”

  “I cannot massage.”

  “Oh, I think you can.” Pippa raised her eyebrows at herself and became too focused on her menu.

  Berne chuckled, sexy and awkward. “You chose to be with me over a rich man.” She hoped she could broach the topic now Pippa was in a light mood. “I know that you do not want to depend on me.” She took a breath hoping it wouldn’t spoil their lunch. “I want to help as you wish to help me with my back, oui?”

  Pippa nodded, still looking at her menu. “I know. I’m being a pain, aren’t I?”

  “Non, you are trying to find your feet. I adore you for it.”

  Pippa’s gaze lifted and she smiled a soft smile. “You like spoiling me?”

  Berne nodded.

  “Really?”

  “Oui.” She smiled at the shy look. How could Pippa doubt it?

  “Then what do you recommend because I’m starving.”

  Berne laughed and motioned to the loitering waiter. Relief that Pippa was listening fused with the delight she could finally treat her. “Two of your specials.”

  He jotted it down and handed her the pink rose. “As requested.”

  She nodded to him, taking it and held it up as the waiter hurried off. Pippa took it with a stunning smile. “I have no idea why I’m so excited. I hated getting flowers from Doug.”

  “Perhaps it is more welcome from me?” She hoped. There was always that faint flicker that it may not be so, that Pippa could miss all he offered her.

  “I’ll say. I’m about ready to propose.” The words hung there. Pippa’s eyes widened as she clamped her lips shut.

  “You look like you confess to some crime?” Berne frowned. Why did Pippa look so panicked?

  “It’s not... I just... I didn’t realise how much I meant that.” She pulled her mouth to the side. “I shocked myself.”

  “Good thing we are already married, non?” She tapped the ring on Pippa’s hand. Pippa had kept on the ring even when she had been engaged to Doug. That meant more than Berne could ever tell her.

  “It is, because it means I can do this.” Pippa leaned in, pulling her into a kiss.

  “You do not need a ring to allow this. It is welcome.” She studied Pippa’s face, her eyes, her smile. Loving her was like rediscovering beauty every day.

  The waiter brought over their plates and Pippa’s eyes glinted. She loved exploring French food and the special was a mixture of seafood. She smiled up at the waiter as if she’d kiss him too.

  Berne cleared her throat and nodded to him. He was fast falling in love. She couldn’t blame him. “Merci.”

  He flashed a delighted smile and hurried off.

  Yes, it was so very easy to fall in love with Pippa; Pippa had fought to find her confidence, her strength, her courage to come back to France, to Berne. Slowly, but surely, the woman underneath sparkled into life before her eyes. It was a joy to watch. Pippa looked up and smiled a brilliant smile, mouth full of food. Oui, a true joy.

  Chapter 3

  Faint sounds of cockerels; the smell of freshly baked bread; the gentle warmth of sunlight on my back brought me to wakefulness with a smile. I loved France, really loved her... and my arm was tingling. I extracted my limp arm from under Berne’s head, enjoying the way her dark hair splayed out across the pillow and the sun bathed her face in radiance... My arm was still tingling.

  I flopped it around but, nope, it was squished. Maybe I could dangle it over the edge of the bed to try and get the blood back? I’d have to turn on my front. Hmm. I hadn’t done that since childhood—May as well.

  I tried not to wriggle too much as I turned over but physical proportions made it hard to manoeuvre. That, and where did people who slept that way stick their heads? Side to side didn’t work—Cricked neck. I turned forward and smothered myself in the pillow: Not comfortable in the slightest.

  Soft fingertips brushed over my back and I smiled. The feel of Berne’s fingertips made it worth the lack of oxygen. I was ready to surface for air but she followed with her lips.

  Oh boy.

  “Bonjour, Pepe.” Her purred husky words rumbled through me. My stomach fluttered and wriggled in response. I was helpless. I swore, if France ever contemplated invading England, they should send over soldiers to purr at the opposition; There’d be no contest.

  “You are awake, non?” She trailed her fingertips over my shoulder blades.

  I wanted to impress her, say something so clever, so romantic that she would be rendered speechless by my utter charm. “Alwaf or foo.”

  It didn’t sound much like “always for you,” at all—Might have been better to have taken my head out of the pillow first.

  “You speak your own language to me once more?” Berne’s soft chuckle made the hair on the back of my neck ripple like it was swooning too.

  I lifted myself up, clattered into Berne’s chin and she rolled onto her side with a groan.

  Not quite the kind of speechless I’d been going for.

  “You okay?” I pulled her hands away to survey the damage then rubbed at my own head. She had a really hard chin.

  Berne’s eyes twinkled as she chuckled. “Très bien.” She waggled her eyebrows at—well, lower than my collarbone. I grabbed for the bedclothes and I’m quite sure I shrieked like a girl.

  She chuckled and yanked them away. “I have seen you before, non?”

  And then some. If I’d known lunch and a massage would have been such a hit, I’d have done it before, a lot, maybe every day.

  She laughed her soft laugh, holding the covers away.

  “Even so...” I launched for the cover but hit the edge of the bed. My hand slipped.

  Balls.

  I lurched forward. Berne grabbed my wrist. I tried to clasp the bedpost but snagged the pillow. We clattered to the floor and Berne crunched onto me, the pillow nestled between us.

  Right.

  Her eyes twinkled as laughter rumbled from her lips. She rested her head on the pillow, peeking over it at me. “I adore you so very much.”

  “Who, me or the pillow?”

  She pulled her “eh, maybe,” face. The one only French people can pull off with such ease. “I like both mais this is not so much fun to sleep with, non?”

  My cheeks roared into life on cue. She loved making me blush. My discomfort was a constant source of amusement.

  “Pip, quit playing with the locals, breakfast is ready.” Rebecca’s voice sounded from somewhere near the doorway.

  Oh no. I buried my head in the pillow. Oh no, no, no.

  “I fell,” I mumbled, inhaled down feathers and spluttered. Why was I bothering to explain? I was on the floor au naturel with a woman on top of me. Despite the pillow, it didn’t look very innocent, but I was a lady so I had to try. “Berne was trying to save me.”

  Rebecca’s “uh huh,” made my stomach squirm. “Were your clothes on fire?”

  I could hear it in her voice: This was ammunition. She planned on taunting me with it, indefinitely.

  “I hate you,” I managed from my pillow cover. Pillow cover, pillow... cover. I chuckled, that was quite drôle.

  Rebecca’s smutty laugh stopped my amusement. “I know,” she shot and the door clicked shut.

  I groaned. I was staying put until she went out for the day... Wait... Could I smell... chocolate? My stomach grumbled. Another waft of chocolaty goodness tickled my nostrils. No, I could resist.

  “It demands that you feed it, non?” Berne sa
id with a chuckle.

  Either that or there was a growling lion in the room.

  I peeked out from my pillow and Berne brushed her lips over mine. She pushed herself up, winced and slumped onto the bed.

  I threw the pillow and sprang to my feet. “Oh, did I hurt you?”

  Head-rush made me woozy and I lifted my hands to my pounding temples. The blue spots subsided enough for me to focus on Berne. She had an odd smile on her face and was thumbing at the window.

  I looked out. There was a clear view of the bridge and road into town. A very clear view because, in my haste during the night, I hadn’t closed the shutters. A very, very clear view of the road and Monsieur Saint-Clerc, our postman.

  He waved with enthusiasm. I politely waved back until he disappeared below the window-sill. Then I dropped down onto the bed next to a guffawing French woman.

  Right.

  “You’re just as bad as Rebecca, you know that?” I muttered.

  Berne was on her back, tears streaming down her cheeks, shaking the bed with sobbing laughter.

  I sighed—She’d be awhile. I pulled at the discarded sheet and wrapped it around me, wandering over to pull out my clothes.

  “Pepe, you do not laugh also?” Berne calmed her chuckles, wiping at her eyes. She looked rather fetching: Her long hair flopped over her shoulders, shiny and well... she was rather attractive with nothing on.

  “Not my most suave moment,” I managed, clearing my throat.

  Berne strolled over. She didn’t care if people saw her. She had the French superpower of being completely unfazed by nakedness. She stroked her thumb over my cheek, moving me backward, away from view. “You are beautiful. I laugh at the cute wave, your politeness, your expression. You fill my heart with happiness.”

  The woman could bend me to her every whim. “I love you.”

  She flashed me a dashing smile and kissed me on the forehead. “Je t’aime aussi.”

  “At least I made your back better.”

  Berne smiled. “Un peu mais... I still wince, non?”

  I felt quite honoured she was so seduced by my skill. Rebecca had been having massages for years and, as far as I knew, hadn’t found it remotely sexy... I hoped.

  Berne purred and I realised I was running my hands over her arms: Solid arms; Arms so fascinating, I wanted to be able to draw so I could sketch them. Only I couldn’t draw and definitely not arms. My stick men looked like orang-utans—Doug had always poked fun at them.

  “Rebecca wants me to ask Doug for help.” I clamped my mouth shut—I had decided not to tell her; What was I doing?

  “Pardon?” Her brow dipped, a veiled look in her brown eyes.

  “We don’t have money. Rebecca wants him to recommend us. If he knows anyone here.” I stilled my hands. “I don’t want to.”

  Berne stared into space. “It is something you turn to him for...” Her voice trailed off. Either she was deep in thought or I’d bored her into a stupor.

  “I don’t want to ask for anyone’s help.” I ducked my head to capture her eyes. “But if I did, I’d ask you.” How could she be insecure? She’d been sleeping in my bed most nights since we’d gotten back together. “I know most of your work is for Babs now though and I don’t sculpt.”

  Berne’s eyes filled with love. She grabbed me, planted a smacker on my lips and grinned. “You are a genius, my beautiful genius.”

  For admitting I was terrible at sculpture? “I am?”

  “In my eyes, always.” Berne strolled over to the chest of drawers. She pulled out a fresh set of clothes from one.

  I cocked my head. I’d not realised she had a drawer. My stomach back flipped in celebration.

  “Perhaps I can be of help,” She said, putting on her underwear.

  I loved the way she dropped her Hs. “You can?”

  She nodded. “Oui. Babs and I... we have friends. Stephanie owns properties.” Berne dressed and I felt a pang of disappointment until I noticed that they were her casual clothes; Lunch date with friends clothes. Her jeans hugged her. Snug enough to accentuate yet not too tight that she couldn’t tuck her hands into the pockets.

  “You are happy to come with me to Marseille encore?” She slid her shirt on and I tried not to drool at her buttoning it. That only worked until she brushed her hair up, tucking most of it into a bobble and letting strategic parts loose; Some to cover the scar on the back of her neck and spine, and some just to make her face look more scrumptious.

  She turned and raised her eyebrows at me.

  Oh right, we’d been having a conversation, hadn’t we? About what? Speak. “I’d love to.”

  She smiled so I knew I’d said the right thing. Phew.

  “Bon,” she purred at me. I was dopey. How could I love her more each day? It just seemed to get deeper, more intense each time I looked at her.

  She cocked her head at me. “It may help if you dress, non?”

  I looked down at myself still in a bed sheet. She had a point. I dropped it, in a way I hoped was as sensual as she managed everything, and turned to my wardrobe.

  I could cope with naked. I could. I thumbed through the clothes, trying not to feel vulnerable; what said “I’m a great worker, hire me?” I glanced over my shoulder at Berne and she flicked her eyebrow at me—Jeans, jeans were good.

  Berne stopped mid-text and leaned against the wall with a wistful smile. I could rock naked. Yay.

  “Do you remember the first time I take you to site?” she whispered.

  I pulled on the jeans, attempting decorum, then turned. Where had I flung my bra in the night? I only owned three: one for work, one for sport—which was like brand new—and a lacy one. I normally battered my work one because it was comfy, only it was in the wash and had been... for a fortnight. I was not domestically gifted.

  “I remember Guy trying to chat me up.” I shook my head. He’d been a lovely, cheeky man. It was his bet that had seen me running across a beach topless with Berne close behind.

  “And you needed to wash away the dirt.” Berne smiled and pulled out my bra from a pile next to the bed. She dangled it from her finger. “You come to my place, do you remember?”

  I’d been worried about Guy’s attentions so Berne had stepped in gallantly but I still wasn’t sure what that had to do with bedsheets so I nodded and held out my hand.

  She tutted and motioned with her finger for me to go to her.

  “Why’s that in your head?” I asked, attempting to stroll like a supermodel—In reality, I probably looked like I needed a pee and had a shoulder-twitching problem.

  “Your hair was wet. You look for a hairdryer.” She smiled—from the twinkle, it was more in amusement than seduction—Ah well—She gripped the band of my jeans with her finger and pulled me into her.

  “You can’t go outside with wet hair, you’ll catch cold.” Why that was such a fond memory of hers? Her eyes twinkled like it was.

  I reached for my bra but she pulled her hand away, teasing me with a long, languid kiss. Somehow, in the process, she had fastened the bra for me. “You were a little undressed.”

  I cleared my throat, defenceless. I had no resistance at all.

  “I was?” I tried rerunning the memory, which was hard with her nipping at my neck: I’d taken a shower at hers; the soap had smelled of her and I’d felt giddy; Fluttering in my stomach, excitement, nervous excitement rolled through me— of course, I didn’t know why back then, I thought it had just been because I was in France, that I was on an adventure; I’d wandered into her bedroom to ask for a hairdryer...

  I opened my eyes. “I didn’t know you were... well... you then.”

  I’d been half naked, completely unaware of the fact Berne may find me interesting. Even if I’d known she was gay, I wouldn’t have ever thought she’d have looked at me. Maybe the sun had gotten to her?

  “It was hard not to stare at you,” she purred in my ear. “I am very happy that I can do this now.”

  I didn’t know why she was teasing, I was
putty. “I’m sure my eighteen year old self wouldn’t have minded a bit.” Looking back, I’d stared at Berne an awful lot. Nothing much had changed.

  “Oui, I am glad of this... mais...” she motioned to the window. “You may have more admirers if you do not dress, non?”

  I snapped to stare out the window, expecting Monsieur Saint-Clerc to be waving, but the road was empty and Berne’s rumbling chuckle rolled through me.

  My cheeks roared back into life and I sighed.

  Yes, I was very sexy, sensual and bright red.

  Who could resist?

  Chapter 4

  Berne was called to Monsieur Coin’s, one of our elderly neighbours, as we got downstairs—I didn’t fancy tackling his miniature lion, also known as a golden retriever called Barnaby, so elected to get Winston ready for the trip to Marseille.

  “You’re acting pretty calm about it,” Rebecca said as I checked Winston’s oil level. He was my ancient Mini. The car I’d had since I was seventeen. I loved him.

  “Well he is burning oil. Hope it’s not the head gasket.” I chewed on my lip. It was a big deal. I’d have to take the top of the engine off and—

  “Not Winston, going to Marseille.” Rebecca held up her finger. “Head gasket? You think so?” Her eyes filled with concern. “We can’t afford to fix that.”

  “I know.” I topped up the oil. “Maybe it’s not that. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  Rebecca squeezed my shoulder like any worried parent. “We’ll find a way to fix him.”

  I nodded and closed the bonnet, giving Winston a pat.

  “So you know Berne and Babs are taking us to the café they go to a lot?” Rebecca pulled out a rag, giving Winston’s windscreen wipers a clean. “Need to change these soon.”

  “I know.” I bent to check his front tyres, then stopped and stood back up. “What café? The one we were at yesterday?”

  Rebecca scrubbed at a bug mark on the windscreen. “No, the one Babs’s friend owns... or maybe Babs worked on... or something.”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.” I bent back down to check the tyre.