Wanderlust

by Lauren Blakely

  A burst of possibility flares in me. She’s closing in on a yes. “All those confusing chocolate flavors. You’d want to make sure you chose the right one.”

  “Absolutely. After all, who wants to take home a milk chocolate truffle when there are dark chocolate ones to be consumed?”

  “No one does. Simply no one, Judy,” I say as she takes a sip of her coffee.

  She points to the cup. “This is quite good.”

  “So it’s a yes then to a date where I take you to a chocolate shop and personally ensure you don’t suffer with milk chocolate?”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lip, then takes a deep breath. “Look, that sounds fantastic, but the truth is I just got out of a very bad relationship, and I’m not looking for anything.”

  Her bluntness makes me want to thread a hand in her hair and kiss her lipstick off. Then again, everything I know about her makes me want to do that.

  “How fortuitous. I’m not looking for anything, either.” I lower my voice, my words just for her as I lean a little closer, a feat made easier by the lovely proximity of these tiny chairs. “Except to get to know you more.”

  She sighs. “I really need to focus on work and my new job. I honestly don’t think I can make time for anything else.”

  “I need to focus on work, too. Which makes me think we’re on exactly the same page. Keep it casual. Keep it light.”

  She inhales deeply. “Stop making this so difficult.”

  I smirk. “Does that mean you’re having a hard time saying no?”

  “You’re a terrible flirt.”

  “And terribly convincing with my flirting, yeah?”

  She swallows, and a strand of her hair blows gently in the breeze. I brush that strand off her shoulder. When my fingertips touch the fabric of her shirt, her breath hitches. She raises her face, and her eyes lock with mine. “You’re saying we could be not looking for anything together, Archie? Just exploring?”

  I raise an eyebrow at her wordplay. “Yes. Let’s explore . . . together.”

  She licks her lips and nods. “Give me your phone, and I’ll give you my number.”

  I’m ready to punch the air.

  In an instant, I whip out my mobile and hand it to her. She clicks open a text message, taps in her number, and then hands the device to me. “Send me a text, Archie. With your real name.”

  As she sips her coffee, I type and hit send.

  Her phone buzzes from inside her handbag. Grabbing it quickly, she slides her finger over the new message, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  As she reads, her smile erases itself.

  “Nice to meet you, Griffin.” Her voice is heavy. “I’m Joy.”

  7

  Joy

  * * *

  Well, that’s a bit of a downer.

  To say the least.

  Honestly, I was getting a bit excited—and by excited, I do mean down there—at the possibility of both shopping for sweets and aimlessly exploring with this handsome man.

  Both of those might be euphemisms.

  But the point is this—a little diversion with no strings, no ties, might have been fun. Something to keep me busy on the occasional evening while I focused on work during the day. But now . . .

  “You’re really Griffin?” I ask, each word coming out stilted.

  “You’re really Joy?” His voice is leaden.

  I point to my chest. “Your client.”

  He taps his breastbone. “Your translator.”

  I flash him a wan smile. It’s reflected back at me.

  Griffin blurts out, “You don’t look like a chemist.”

  My brow knits. “What does a chemist look like?”

  He scrubs a hand across his jaw, and the look in his blue eyes—concern, worry—tells me he realizes he just goofed. “I just meant . . .”

  “Oh, please. Do tell me what you meant.” I rest my chin on my joined hands and bat my eyes. I’m baiting him, but I want to make sure he’s not a sexist pig. The last thing I want is for the guy who’s about to become my mouthpiece to have some sort of issue with my job or role.

  He stammers. “I just . . . didn’t think . . .” He waves a hand at me. More precisely, at my chest.

  “You didn’t think scientists had breasts?” I ask innocently.

  He shakes his head in a flurry and lifts both hands in surrender. “No, no, no, no, no.” He fires off each denial like a round of ammunition. He stabs a finger against the tiny table, and it wobbles. “Also, I knew you were a woman since they gave me your name, so yes, I’m well aware that scientists can have breasts.”

  Okay, so he’s not a chauvinist. I breathe a sigh of relief, and I think I know why he made the you don’t look like a chemist comment now, and I kind of can’t resist toying with him. It’s been so long since I had someone to spar with. Someone who wanted this kind of rat-a-tat-tat game of verbal badminton.

  “You just didn’t think they’d be breasts you’d want to touch,” I say pointedly, because there’s no need to pretend we aren’t attracted to each other.

  He blinks. His expression is curious, as if he’s trying to process the oddity of my remark. “You’re quite blunt, and it’s ridiculously attractive, so maybe you ought to stop that now.”

  I laugh and decide to go easy on him. But only a little. “Stop being blunt? That’ll be mighty hard, but I’ll do my best. Maybe you can stop being ridiculously attractive, then, too? Sound fair?”

  He laughs. “Absolutely.” He takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes. “Does that mean I’m forgiven for thinking your breasts are fantastic, or forgiven for thinking you weren’t a chemist?”

  “Only if you admit you thought I’d have beakers with me, a white lab coat, and Coke-bottle glasses.”

  “I don’t think I completely thought you’d look like a nerd, per se . . .” He sounds like he’s trying to avoid saying something.

  I drum my fingers on the table and take a sip of my coffee. “What did you think I’d look like?”

  He drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you were a chemist because you’re fucking gorgeous, and I don’t know any gorgeous chemists so I suppose, yeah, maybe I did think you’d have a lab coat on, rather than a stun-me-with-your-stupendous-figure-and-incredible-eyes-and-pouty-mouth costume on.”

  And for that, right there, I can’t be mad at him, not even a little. “You’re too much, and I wish you were still Archie,” I say, shaking my head, letting the reality sink in that the man I momentarily contemplated having a fling with is now most decidedly off-limits. I don’t believe it’s a written rule anywhere, but if there were, I’m pretty sure banging my translator would be in the chapter on Very Bad Judgment Calls.

  He points a finger at me. “And if you think I’m stereotyping chemists, then you’re guilty, too, since you seem to think Brits all have stuffy names,” he says, as if he’s caught me on something as well. He straightens his shoulders, adopting an admonishing look.

  “Because of Archie?”

  “And Alistair and Rupert.” He crosses his arms. He’s too damn adorable.

  “Fine, so we’re both stereotyping. But what’s the stereotype of a translator, then?”

  He scratches his head. “Hmm. Good question.” He screws up the corner of his lips. “I suppose just tall, dark, handsome, and completely charming.”

  I shrug. “Funny. I was going to say, ‘Good with tongues.’”

  He laughs then leans across the table and whispers in that ridiculously sexy accent, “I’m very good with my tongue.”

  Shivering, I let the innuendo waft over me. Then I try not to linger too long on mouths, or lips, or tongues, especially since we shouldn’t be going there. “I guess I’ll never know now.”

  He frowns.

  I let my shoulders sag. But then I adopt a smile. “Since we’re both stereotyping, I’m afraid I’m guilty, too.”

  He lifts his cup and takes a drink. “How so?”

  Breezily, I answer, “Naturally, with yo
ur tall-dark-and-handsome costume on, I thought you were a hot male model, and clearly I was wrong.”

  As the waiter zips by, Griffin catches his attention and makes a scribbling gesture. “L’addition, s’il vous plait.” He returns his attention to me. “Question. Why do we need to say male model? As if I could be anything but a male model? Why not just model?”

  “Models are usually women.”

  “And chemists usually aren’t beautiful women I want to shag, but now suddenly can’t.”

  Shag. Dear Lord. The way he says it, the fact that he says it, the sheer sexiness of that word in his delicious accent triggers a wave of goose bumps over my skin. Here it is—the great admission that we weren’t just heading toward a date. We were going to explore aimlessly together, with that exploration being conducted in a clothes-free mode.

  Le sigh.

  Le big, heavy, kick-my-toe-against-the-ground sigh. “Fine. You’re not a model, I’m not Judy, and we’re not going to explore together, since we can’t shag.”

  He heaves a sigh, too. “Yeah, I suppose that’s how it has to be.”

  That’s for the best, surely. I didn’t come to France looking for a no-strings-attached fling. In fact, I’m probably better off focusing squarely on my new job, my new home, and my new life. But, for a few seconds there, I was enjoying the possibility of a little tryst. Of getting lost in something that felt like the opposite of guilt, the opposite of too much attachment. Something that felt only good.

  Perhaps I was looking for an antidote to my ex and I didn’t even realize it.

  A pill of bliss. A drink of pure desire.

  It’s been so long since I experienced that pull with someone. After more than a year together, the spark between Richard and me had faded, and before he’d been injured, I’d been ready to rip the Band-Aid off. We were drifting, two magnets stripped of their charge.

  Then he had his accident.

  I cringe inside, my stomach twisting at the memories—the harsh, cruel memories of how everything changed. How I stayed longer than I intended.

  Now, everything has changed for me once again.

  Time to zero in on why I’m here in France. I have a brand-new chance in my career. I’ve been given a great gift with this job, and the fresh opportunity to succeed in my field. I can’t afford a distraction like a tall, sexy British man who’d kiss me senseless, knock the breath from my lungs, and then take me hard by the terrace window, all of Paris at my feet as he pleasured me.

  Whoa.

  Talk about getting ahead of myself.

  I wipe the triple-X version of this man from my mind.

  My brain is pure as the driven snow again.

  “Let’s just start fresh.” I hold out a hand. “I’m Joy Danvers-Lively. It’s a mouthful, and it’s taken me years, but I’ve finally found it in me to forgive my parents for saddling me with their last names hyphenated. So cruel, don’t you think? They each kept their last names, but made that double clunker my problem.”

  “It is a lovely name, all three words,” Griffin says with a smile as the waiter brings a little slip of paper.

  I point to the bill. “I can get it. Expense account and all.”

  Griffin shakes his head, snatches the receipt, and says, “It’ll be our first and only date it seems, so at the very least, I ought to be a gentleman.”

  First and only. My heart drops a little at the stark truth, even though I know it has to be this way.

  He grabs a few euros from his wallet, leaves them on the table, and rises. As he stands he extends his hand. “Griffin Thomas.”

  We shake. I’ll admit, I want to yank him close and kiss the hell out of that handsome face. But I’m going to be good. This man is about to become my voice, and I can’t take a chance. The job is too important, the chance to carve out a new life too valuable. I don’t want to risk it by doing something foolish like boinking the person I’m supposed to spend so much time with.

  “And it’s not even a quintessentially British name,” he says as we weave away from the tables and to the sidewalk.

  “Yes, Griffin Thomas does in fact sound more like a male model’s moniker.”

  He tuts. “Don’t be silly, Joy. If I were a male model, my name would be something ripped straight from a list of macho and sexy names.” He takes a beat as we reach the corner of the cobbled street. “I’d be Blaze.”

  I crack up. When I catch my breath, I say, “You’ve clearly given this some thought.”

  “You haven’t?” He adopts the most serious look. “Don’t you think that would be a fantastic name for a model? Blaze Dalton. Admit it, if that were my name, I’d have no choice but to be a model.” Demonstrating, he gives a smoldering look as we turn onto the side street, passing a sundial on the side of a building. “A male model.”

  “Blaze Dalton, Male Model, PI,” I say, like a TV announcer. “They’d make a TV show about you. You’d solve crimes, and you’d probably even be a nurse, too. Blaze Dalton, Male Model, PI, Moonlighting Nurse.”

  “For when you need a crime solved and a bandage to go along with it.”

  “Where are you from, Archie Blaze Dalton Thomas the Translator Male Model with a first aid kit?”

  He chuckles, as we stroll past old buildings with names on the buzzers like Mercier, Bernard, and Dubois, heading toward my furnished flat. “I grew up outside London. French mother, English father, bilingual in French and English since I was little. My parents still live outside London.”

  “Are you close with them?”

  He nods. “I text them often, and ring them once or twice a week.”

  “You are a good son.”

  “I try. And what about you? Where are you from?”

  “Born and raised in Austin. Went to school in San Francisco. Worked long and hard not to have a Texas accent.”

  “Why?”

  I nudge him with my elbow. “I didn’t want people to stereotype me. To say I had a Texas drawl or what have you.”

  “You don’t really have a Texas drawl,” he says, in a perfect imitation of a standard American accent. It’s hilarious to hear him slide from his sophisticated voice to one I’m so accustomed to.

  And yet, I’ve had enough of men from there.

  “Never speak like that again,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “I’ll stick to Archie talk.”

  “You do that.”

  We navigate a stretch of sidewalk that’s perhaps two feet across, and it delights me. The streets here are so different from the wide concrete ribbons back home, and I find their oldness, their foreignness, so damn charming. The street curves and narrows as we close in on the end nearest the river. I point to the addresses above the doors. “Almost there. Now that the housekeeping is out of the way, are you ready for your first big assignment? Because it’s time to kick ass and take names. I have a hunch this company is trying to pull a fast one on me, and I’ve no idea why.”

  He nods intensely. “Yes, my boss mentioned your concern. And now you have Blaze Dalton, Male Model turned Translator turned Kick-ass Fixer of Problems with Furnished-Flat-Leasing Agencies, at your service.”

  I quirk up my lips, giving him a challenging stare. “But can you say that in French?”

  “Mais oui.” He rattles all that off, and I don’t know if he said peas and carrots or that ridiculous title, but either way it sounded hot.

  Except “hot” is precisely how I can’t think of Griffin anymore.

  I take a look at the handsome man who’ll be spending many of my days with me. Shame that he won’t be my French booty call, since I quite enjoy chatting with him. Since the moment I met him in the bakery, we’d begun an effortless repartee. That kind of banter is hard to give up. But, I don’t have to let go of that side of him, since he’ll be in my life in this professional role. Maybe he can become something else, too. Something I need even more than a lover. “I have an idea, Griffin.”

  “I happen to be quite fond of ideas,” he says.

  This feels e
ven riskier than flirting. This is exposing my true heart. “Would you be interested in being friends with me?”

  When his smile spreads, nice and slow, it warms me from the inside out. “I would very much like that, Joy.”

  8

  Griffin

  * * *

  Friend is such a loaded word. It can mean all sorts of things. Cover all manner of relationships. It’s a blanket term that can suggest something deep and abiding, or something casual and relatively meaningless.

  It can apply to the most important relationships. My brother was my best friend, no question. Since I’ve lived in Paris, I’ve made plenty of new friends. Christian is a good mate. Always up for a drink, a laugh, a night out. We share a common background—both of us have English dads and mums from other countries. Mine’s French, his Danish. I have plenty of other friends here, too—some French, some English, some from many other places.

  Most—wait, make that all—I didn’t want to shag first.

  I’m not saying men and women can’t be friends.

  It’s just harder to be friendly when you start wanting one thing, and then you need to press the brakes. Actually, slam on the brakes is more like it with this woman.

  But I can no longer think of Joy as the stunningly hot American with the quick tongue and fantastic tits. Instead, I have to reroute all brain circuitry to consider her as not only a client, but also the direct route to getting the very thing I want most—money for a ticket out of town. I suppose a friend is precisely what she should be.

  What she should only be.

  It’s a good thing she wants that. It’s a great thing we’re setting clear boundaries now. They’ll help us as we work together over the next few months.

  “Friends,” I say, rocking back and forth on my toes. “Like a good mate.”

  She blinks, then smiles. “Sure, I’ll be your mate.”

  Even though it’ll be hard to think of her that way, I’ll soldier on. “Before we go in, tell me more about why you think they’re trying to screw you over.”

  She fills me in, telling me she placed a deposit for a one-bedroom flat on the third floor on a road near the river, but the rental agent now insists her place is a studio on the second floor. Her eyes narrow as she tosses out possibilities. “Did he rent mine to someone else? Is he trying to swindle me? Does the third-floor flat have a better view, and now he’s thinking because I’m a foreigner that he can pull the bait and switch and give me the crappier one?” She raises her index finger. “Most of all, what would Blaze Dalton do?”