Playing to Win (The Complete Series Box Set): 3 romances with angst and humor

by Alix Nichols

  After we kiss, bow to the crowd to signal that the show is over and take a bunch of selfies, I grab Noemi’s hand and lead her to our cabin.

  Once inside, she claps her palm to her mouth. The space has been transformed into something out of a tacky romance movie. Rose petals litter the room, soft music plays, and a fine vintage champagne sticks its long neck out of the ice bucket.

  If she had said no, I was going to spend the night in an armchair in one of the lounges rather than rush here and un-decorate. But luckily for me—and unluckily for my betrothed—there’s no need for either of those unpleasant options. I can enter the cabin with my head high and a smug grin on my lips.

  Roland will be pleased to hear that the first stage of my Payback Plan went without a hitch.

  I pop the bubbly and move on to stage two.

  “To our future,” I say, raising my flute.

  Noemi smiles and touches her glass to mine. “To our happiness.”

  We drink.

  “Want to sit on the balcony?” she asks.

  I grab the ice bucket, and we step out on our private balcony just big enough for two chairs. But that’s as good as it gets on a boat.

  Setting the bucket on one of the chairs, I sit down on the other and pat my lap. “Come to daddy.”

  I should’ve said, “Come here, my love,” but there are limits to the amount of kitsch a man can handle in one day.

  Besides, if there’s one thing I won’t do even if it ends up raising Noemi’s suspicions and ruining my perfect plan is utter the word “love.” That word is a taboo, given our history. Noemi seems to get it, because she hasn’t said it either, not once since we started dating. Nor has she asked me if I love her.

  Smart girl.

  She lowers herself onto my lap and turns her head toward the purple sky. “So beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you,” I say, recovering my romantic groove.

  She glances at me, shaking her head in feigned reproof. “There’s no need to go over the top.”

  “Sweetheart, less than an hour ago, you had me on my knees, begging you to marry me.” I arch an eyebrow. “There’s no bigger proof of a man’s sincerity.”

  She smiles.

  Is it tenderness I discern in her eyes?

  It can’t be. The Noemi I had the misfortune of falling in love with eight years ago is incapable of such emotions.

  Besides, if I’m being honest, I don’t want her to have them. Because if she’s changed, if she isn’t faking it, this proposal—and what I plan to do in a few weeks—becomes even more vicious.

  Fair and deserved, but vicious.

  Despite Roland’s protests, I’ve taken to calling it “the deed of darkness.” It doesn’t make me feel good about myself.

  But, I’m used to not feeling good about myself.

  Noemi runs her hand down the side of my neck to the collar of my dress shirt. As her delicate fingers undo a button and then another one, the affection in her eyes gives way to something different.

  Desire.

  A sigh of relief escapes me. I must have dreamed up the tenderness. Just like my fevered eighteen-year-old brain had imagined all those little signs that Noemi liked me back in high school. They were nothing but self-delusion.

  But this—this is the real Noemi.

  My Noemi.

  The girl I’ve been obsessed with ever since I laid my eyes on her when we were seventeen. The princess I thought I’d never have the privilege of touching except in my fantasies, but who is now my fiancée.

  The woman I’m about to fuck.

  “I want you,” she murmurs against my mouth as her hand slides under my shirt.

  In reply, I grip the back of her head and claim her mouth in a wet, languorous kiss. Our tongues dance together, stroking and teasing, a brief prelude to the ravenous sex that will follow. Her taste invades my senses, making my need to fill her deeper, stronger. I fight it, like I’ve been fighting it for three months now, letting her take the lead, letting her decide when, in what position, and for how long we do it.

  I believe letting Noemi be in charge has been the key that softened her heart of stone just enough to let me in. Not that I don’t enjoy this kind of sex—I’ll probably enjoy any kind of sex if Noemi is involved—but I do wish I could let my dominant side out every now and then. Nothing crazy, just… take her a little harder. A little rougher. Deviate from “the missionary” on occasion. Explore and penetrate more of her.

  But I keep a tight rein on those urges. Can’t risk losing her now that I’m so close.

  She draws back to catch her breath and slides off my lap. With a seductive smile, she moves inside the cabin and crooks her index finger to invite me to follow her. I do.

  The next hour is filled with kissing and stroking; buttons, cufflinks, and clasps popping open; zippers lowering; Noemi’s fingers digging into my back, and my cock thrusting into her heat.

  I’ll miss this when “the deed of darkness” is done.

  But it needs to be done.

  I need closure, so I can forget this woman, forget what she did to me, and move on.

  “So beautiful,” I murmur as I roll off her, spent.

  I mean it, just as I mean every word of what I’m about to say. “Eight years, and not a day went by when I didn’t look—at least briefly—at your face. It never fails to take my breath away.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean? We were apart most of those eight years. I didn’t even know where on earth you’d gone after your family moved abroad.”

  I reach over and pull my phone from the pocket of my jacket.

  “See this?” I point at a photo of her in a red T-shirt. “I took it at the teacher appreciation picnic when we started our final year of high school.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Are you saying you looked at this pic daily for eight years?”

  I nod.

  She rolls her eyes. “Please.”

  “You don’t have to believe me, but I did, every fucking day.” I shrug. “Guess I never tired of your beauty.”

  What a shame the world’s prettiest girl has its ugliest soul!

  That same comment, word for word, was how I’d started my long-winded suicide note. I didn’t keep it, and I remember only part of the sad ramblings of an eighteen-year-old desperate enough to hang himself.

  I begged Mom and Dad to forgive me and make sure they didn’t raise Flo to be a pathetic loser like their older son. “Hurt his feelings, betray his trust, teach him that nobody loves anyone,” I’d counseled them. “Tell him that if he gives his heart to someone, they’ll walk all over it with muddy boots until it’s just a pile of stinky, bloody gunk.”

  Stinky, bloody gunk, huh?

  Mom and Dad shouldn’t have allowed me to watch so many zombie apocalypse movies.

  Anyway, the letter went on and on over several pages, imparting teenage wisdom mixed with gallows humor. In conclusion, I warned my parents that if they tried to make another kid, and it was a girl, she’d better be plain. That would diminish her destructive capacity and maybe save a man’s life.

  What a drama queen!

  I smirk and run my hand through Noemi’s honey-colored hair. Here I am, the boy who almost succeeded in taking his life because of her unique cruelty. The boy who would’ve broken his parents’ hearts and never had a chance to become a man.

  The boy who spent the last eight years plotting how to make the beauty in his arms pay for what she’d done.

  Noemi

  A morning lark for as long as I can remember, I wake up at dawn and beam happily the moment I find my bearings.

  Life is good.

  Unable to stop grinning, I lift my left hand and stare at my gorgeous engagement ring. If the size of the rock reflects the depth of Julien’s feelings, then I’m a lucky girl. He must love me, even if he hasn’t uttered those words since his disastrous declaration back in high school. Can’t blame him. In his place, I would probably be wary, too.

  Besides, me
n are known to have trouble voicing their feelings. They express them through gifts and tokens of their commitment instead. Since Julien and I started dating, he’s taken me to the most expensive restaurants, bought me costly trinkets, and paid for this pricey cruise.

  He’s asked me to be his wife.

  As he said, what more proof do I need?

  Turning quietly to my side, so I don’t wake him up, I survey my fiancé.

  Even up close, it’s hard to spot a trace of the ills that blighted him in high school. Today, Julien is a magnificent man with a gracefully muscled body you’d expect in a pro swimmer. As for his face, apart from a few faint scars on his cheeks, it’s spotless.

  Who knew the ugly duckling of Lycée Molière would attain this level of hotness in his mid-twenties?

  The only thing he had going for him in those days was his height. And even that… I remember how he suddenly lengthened in a violent growth spurt that neither he nor his mom, who still bought his clothes, were prepared for. Julien’s response was to stoop. He never seemed to know what to do with his long limbs—with his whole body. Come to think of it, being tall only made things worse for him.

  In addition to his teenage clumsiness, he was saddled with metal braces.

  But the thing that made him truly stand out—not in a good way—was his acne. God, it was awful. Oversized red zits all over his face, neck, and shoulders. He was painful to look at.

  “Hey, Julien, do you ever wash?” Lise asked him once.

  He gave her a wounded look and turned away. Lise, Tanya, and Irene burst out laughing. I did, too, proud to be part of the school’s in-crowd, “the Cats.” I should’ve known better than to delude myself into thinking those girls liked me and were my friends. But I was stupid. And I did something truly mean to Julien in my eagerness to be part of Lise’s gang.

  A fat lot of good it did me in the end.

  As quietly as I can so I don’t wake up Julien, I slip out of bed, wrap a bathrobe around me, and head out of the cabin. The hallway is empty. Treading softly, I climb up to the deck where Julien proposed yesterday. The boards are darker and wetter than usual, but I’ve never come up so early just after the deck was hosed down.

  The clinking of tableware from the buffet area draws my attention to the restaurant staff, who are preparing the tables for early risers like myself. I smile to them. They smile back. I turn away and lean on the railing.

  My timing is impeccable.

  The sun is cresting halfway on the horizon, bejeweling the sea and the sky—the whole world—with magic. The weather is as balmy as you’d expect for mid-September in the southern Mediterranean. I smell salt and watch a flock of remarkably silent gulls. A sense of wonder and awe fills me at the splendor of the sunrise unfolding in front of my eyes. It makes me feel small—but also a part of something big and beautiful. My heart swells with the honor of living on planet Earth with its cycles of day and night, summer and winter, life and death.

  And the gift of love she’s given to its babies.

  As I return to our cabin and crawl back between the sheets, I wonder if Julien remembers Lise’s spiteful put-down or any of the other taunts the Cats and I subjected him to. One day, when we’re older and when that drama-filled final school year is truly water under the bridge, I’ll ask him.

  Or maybe not.

  Because if I do and if we start talking about that year, there’s no way he won’t mention my eighteenth birthday party. The one I invited him to… and made him the laughing stock of the entire school.

  I’ve been working on erasing that episode from my memory ever since. Good thing Julien is mature enough to see it for what it was—an ill-advised childish prank. The one time we came close to broaching the topic, he smiled and said he’d gotten over it by the time he’d recovered from his pneumonia.

  Thank God.

  If someone had done to me what the Cats and I did to Julien, I would’ve needed therapy to get over it. What went down at my birthday party was awful for Julien, but the part I’m least proud of took place a couple of weeks earlier.

  “I think Julien has the hots for me,” I announced as Lise, Tanya, Irene, and I perused Tanya’s copy of Elle. “I think he’s going to make a move any day now.”

  Beats me why I said those things. The only explanation I can give is that Julien’s and my mutual staring was becoming too obvious and I feared the Cats would suspect me of returning Julien’s feelings.

  The ignominy! The mortification!

  I couldn’t allow that.

  “You can’t be serious.” Lise looked up from the fashion pages she was studying. “You guys barely talk to each other.”

  I smoothed my hair back. “That was true last year. But this year, we’ve done quite a bit of talking.”

  Lise arched an eyebrow.

  “In September,” I said, “he and I were on the same debate team. In October, Madame Fonteneau put us on the same chemistry project. And last month, we spent three afternoons together preparing a World War 2 presentation for Monsieur Narboni.”

  Lise nodded. “I see.”

  “Is he so stupid he doesn’t see how far out of his league you are?” Tanya said.

  I shrugged.

  Lise shut the magazine. “It makes me so angry.”

  I turned to her. “What exactly?”

  “That boys like him dare to fancy girls like us.” She sighed. “It’s like they believe they deserve us, you know?”

  “Er…” I wasn’t sure I did.

  “I do!” Irene cried out, giddy in her obsequiousness. “I know exactly what you mean!”

  “Will you please explain it to Noemi here?” Lise pointed to me, an angelical smile on her face.

  “When boys like Julien dare to pursue one of us,” Irene said, aping Lise’s smile, “it lowers us to their level. It cheapens us.”

  “Let’s teach him a lesson,” Lise said.

  Tanya clapped her hands and Irene squealed with delight.

  I tried to look appropriately thrilled. “What do you have in mind?”

  Lise laid out her idea.

  It was surprisingly well thought out and uniquely cruel.

  “Oh, come on.” She nudged me with her elbow, seeing my hesitation. “It’ll be fun. And it’ll send the right message to all other losers who might be thinking of trying something like that with one of us.”

  Tanya raised her hand. “I’m in!”

  “Let’s do it!” Irene said.

  The three of them trained their eyes on me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  In the middle of my recollections, Julien opens his eyes and stretches before giving me a dazzling smile. “Did you sleep well, sweetie?”

  If I were wearing underwear, it would’ve melted at the seams.

  “Better than ever,” I say. “You?”

  He nods. “I ordered us some breakfast. It should be here any minute.”

  “Ooh, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

  He slips a hand between my legs and cups me. “Actually, that was a mistake. I thought we’d be famished when we woke up, but now I’m hungrier for you than for food.”

  There’s a knock on the door, and I scoot away from him.

  Julien pulls on his boxers and heads for the door.

  I watch his broad well-muscled back. At this distance, you can’t see the tiny spots and scars left by the tattoo he had removed from his upper back. One day, I’ll ask him when he removed it and how—laser, most likely—and if having it burned off his skin hurt as much as having it needled in.

  One day, when I’m ready.

  But right now, we’re about to feast on a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham, smoked salmon, buttered toasts, croissants, orange juice, and three kinds of jam. Mmm. As I pick up the coffee pot to fill our cups, I notice a small note behind it.

  Mademoiselle Dray and Monsieur Boitel,

  May I have the honor of your company at my table tonight?

  Please RSVP.


  I lift my eyes from the note. “It’s signed by the ship’s captain!”

  Julien grins.

  “I always thought his table was reserved for his personal friends and VIPs,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Guess it wasn’t.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this your doing?”

  “I plead innocent!” He claps his hand to his chest before bunching his eyebrows. “Come to think of it, maybe, indirectly.”

  “Because you booked one of the most expensive suites?”

  “Could be.” He butters his croissant. “Or because we treated the guests to a heartwarming show last night.”

  “I should’ve said no,” I say, chuckling. “Just for kicks.”

  My grin fades when I see the expression in his eyes. Stung, angry—like a wounded beast.

  Stupid cow!

  I, of all people, should know it’s no joking matter for Julien, not after that horrible birthday party. So what that he’d told me he was over the whole thing? That doesn’t mean it’s an open invitation to rub salt in his wound.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I say, touching his hand. “I shouldn’t joke about that.”

  He plasters a smile on his face. “Nonsense. Of course, you can joke about that and anything else you want to joke about. It’s my problem if I can’t handle it.”

  We spend most of the day off the boat, enjoying a guided tour of Rome.

  In the evening, we dress up—Julien dons a chic suit and me, an evening gown—and join today’s crop of the lucky guests gathered for pre-dinner cocktails in the lounge. We’re quite a mismatched group of different ages and nationalities, but it only takes a complimentary cocktail or two for the conversation to flow. It never halts once we join the captain at his table, and he treats us to a couple of colorful tales to match the superior quality of the wine poured by white-gloved servers.

  It turns out that one of our tablemates used to play handball in college. One of the women was a decent tennis player, and—lo and behold—our captain played water polo in his youth. Quickly, Julien becomes the center of attention with everyone curious to know what it’s like to be an athlete on the national team, how he prepares for the Olympic Games, and what exotic places he gets to travel to.