You're the One: a Contemporary Romance Novella Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème)

by Nichols, Alix

  YOU’RE THE ONE

  a Bistro La Bohème novella

  Alix Nichols

  Other books by Alix Nichols:

  What If It’s Love? (a Bistro La Bohème novel)

  Under My Skin (Bistro La Bohème Book 2)

  Copyright © 2014 by Alix Nichols

  All Rights Reserved .

  Editing provided by Write Divas (http://writedivas.com/)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ONE

  Natalie sat on the couch next to Fred. She had five minutes. After that, his favorite show would start, and then he’d go straight to bed and drop off.

  “Chéri, how do you feel about starting a family?” she asked.

  He blinked a few times. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “This is a good time. We’re both professionally stable—”

  “But we’re still young,” he cut in. “What’s the rush?”

  “Twenty-seven and twenty-nine is a perfect age to have a first baby.” She took his hand. “We’ve been together for three years now . . .It’s a natural next step.”

  “I’m working like crazy. Remember the project I told you about? It could be my breakthrough.” His gaze darted to the TV. “I’m not very . . .available for a baby right now.”

  She didn’t reply as she searched for the right words.

  He gave her palm a little squeeze and then pulled his hand free. “My career is my top priority right now.”

  “That’s fine. Luckily, I have short working hours and long holidays. I’m hundred percent available.”

  He kept silent, and Natalie wondered if he was reconsidering.

  Perking up, she added, “And my parents would be happy to give us a hand.”

  “Nat, I’m . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “There’s no room for a baby in this apartment.”

  “We can rent a bigger one, maybe less centrally located—”

  “Out of the question. I love this neighborhood. I’m not ready for suburbia yet.” He turned back to the television and increased the volume.

  The beginning credits of his show were rolling on the screen. Her audience was over. Even though Fred hadn’t actually said no, his message was loud and clear: I don’t want a baby, now please drop the subject.

  And so she did.

  For the next hour, she sat quietly, biting her nails and blaming herself for having handled the matter so poorly. Fred was the man of her life. She was lucky this well-liked, smart, and handsome guy wanted to be with her. But he was also complicated. He often said one thing and meant another, expecting her to read between the lines. He expected her to respect his boundaries, not put pressure on him. He also expected her to steer clear of certain topics—those being his parents, his siblings, marriage, real estate, and children.

  Natalie clenched her fists. She should have known better than to bring up one of the taboos without careful preparation or a test run. What had come over her? If only she’d stopped for a moment this afternoon, when she fussed to make sure Fred was in a good mood tonight, and remembered she was fighting a lost cause?

  But she’d lost the big picture behind details. When she finished work earlier today, she rushed to the Metro at four o’clock to beat the crowds, then to the bakery to get a fresh baguette. After that, she ran to the dry cleaner’s to pick up Fred’s suits, and then to the cheese shop and the butcher’. Once at home, she cooked, cleaned the apartment, and ironed Fred’s shirts. She went over her mental checklist, afraid she’d forgotten something. Something important . . .

  And then it came to her. The button! Fred had asked her last night to fix a loose button on his gray suit jacket. It had slipped her mind, and now it could ruin everything. A tiny spot of ink on a white sheet of paper that would spread inexorably until the whole sheet turned black. That was how it was with Fred. He would get all worked up over the most stupid, insignificant thing. And there would be no talking to him.

  Natalie scooted to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Right. Half of his expensive Italian suits were gray. She checked all the buttons one by one until bingo! She found it. Now, everything would be perfect. All the boxes were ticked, no ink stains. Fred would be in a good mood and they’d talk.

  He came home at nine, earlier than the previous few days. He collapsed on the bed and kicked off his shoes.

  “The dinner’s still warm,” she said.

  “I’ll take a rain check. We stuffed ourselves with junk food at the office, so . . .”

  She shoved the food in the fridge and waited in the living room until he changed and slumped down on the couch in front of the TV.

  And that was when she sat next to him and screwed up the most important conversation in her life.

  ***

  TWO

  Adrien had expected October to be a lot milder here in Okinawa than in Paris, but this wasn’t just mild—this was need-a-dip-in-the-ocean hot. As he walked from his hotel to the Okinawa Convention Center, he took in the sights, smells, and the general feel of Ginowan. It was different from Tokyo and Kyoto in so many ways, and he liked it better.

  Not that he didn’t appreciate the rest of Japan. He had a lot of admiration, even awe, for its refined beauty and achievements. But he found it too stiff and rushed. The island of Okinawa was relaxed. People in the street wore flip-flops. They smiled. They ate pork soup for breakfast and lived to be a hundred.

  As he stepped into the convention center, the air conditioning hit him with an icy gust. Like most buildings in Asia, the air conditioning ran at maximum capacity, cooling the air a little too much for his liking. He should have packed one of his sweaters. His wool sweaters were bulky, but they were comfy and warm.

  He had an appointment with Gustavo del Rio, the world chess champion, five years running. Adrien had arranged to stay on for three days after the tournament to play a few practice matches with Gustavo—at Gustavo’s request.

  Adrien was a little early, so he wandered over to the coffee machine. Gustavo was there, frantically patting his jacket pockets, his face contorted in anguish.

  “Need some coins?” Adrien asked.

  “Adrien—thank God.” Gustavo smiled, and his whole body relaxed. “Yes, please.”

  After the machine spat out two espressos, Adrien said, “Thanks again for having suggested this practice. It’s a great opportunity.”

  Gustavo took a sip from his paper cup. “Ay! I burned my tongue.” He gave Adrien a plaintive look before adding, “It was my pleasure.”

  Adrien pursed his lips, choking back a joke on the pleasures of burned tongues. This was Gustavo del Rio, after all.

  “I’m not quite sure what’s in it for you, though . . .” he said instead.

  “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

  “Gustavo, I may be a well-rated grand master, but I won’t be able to challenge you the way Tokalov did earlier this week. Or the way your computer does any time you want, for that matter.”

  “Ah, I see now.” Gustavo blew on his coffee. “My interest is in your style. It may not be as aggressive as Tokalov’s or as well calculated as a computer program, but it’s elegant. You play the most elegant chess, Adrien. And I like it.”

  “Why, I’m flattered,” Adrien said.

  And he was. To hear words of admiration from a better player—from the best player in the world, as it happened—w
as gratifying.

  He finished his coffee and threw the cup into a trash can. “Have you seen the room where we’re supposed to play?”

  Gustavo threw out his cup and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure I can find the way. You see, my assistant got a stomach bug last night, so I’m left to my own devices today.” He spread his arms. “I must say I’m completely lost.”

  Adrien smiled. “Follow me.”

  As they crossed the spacious lobby, Adrien thought about how thoroughly Gustavo’s life was centered on chess. His absent-mindedness was legendary and when he traveled, his longtime assistant Jimena was his key to survival, his lifeline. When in Argentina he rarely left his house, which he shared with his mother. Gustavo played chess most of his waking hours and, admittedly, in most of his dreams. He played with a partner or a computer or—if he was stuck somewhere without access to either—an imaginary contender.

  They entered the room where everything was prepared for their practice match. The local organizers greeted them warmly and offered refreshments. Adrien stole a glance at Gustavo who radiated good mood, now that there were people around to take care of the practical side of life.

  It takes this kind of single-minded dedication to be the world’s top chess player. And I don’t have it.

  Worse, he didn’t even want to have it. Life was about more than chess. He wanted to save a good chunk of it for his family, friends, a girlfriend, and the new family they’d create someday.

  Which meant that even though he had enough talent, he’d never be the world’s top chess player.

  ***

  THREE

  The Clandestine Book Club embarked on its third day. The first two days, Natalie had been excited and anxious in equal measure, her perception heightened by a sense of transgression. But today was different. Today, she didn’t worry about being caught. She knew she could do this. As it happened, she was beginning to turn their act of civil disobedience into a reassuring routine—exactly what little children needed and loved. Even the rebellious nap-skipping ones.

  As soon as the dormitory went quiet—barring a snore or two—Natalie made a sign, and four pajama-clad munchkins tiptoed into the adjacent room.

  “Mademoiselle Legrand, can I go pee?” Téo whispered.

  “Of course,” she whispered and helped him into his little sneakers. “Go. Just don’t run, OK? We mustn’t wake the other children.”

  Unlike this batch, most of the kids in her group needed and enjoyed their afternoon nap.

  Five minutes later Téo joined his little friends on the floor cushions. In spite of their tender age, the children were remarkably disciplined—they knew what was at stake. If madam director caught them, she’d make them nap again and she’d tell their teacher off.

  So they sat quietly, eyes brimming with excitement, while Natalie distributed the books. A hardback about princesses for Samira, a coloring pad and crayons for Adèle, a sticker book for Téo, and a book about cars and trains for Thomas. A few minutes later, the club was in full swing.

  It had all started on Monday when Madame Blanc begged Natalie to allow her daughter to skip the mandatory nap.

  At first, Natalie tried the party line. “I’m sorry, but it’s the policy of the Lafayette School that all children in the Small Section should nap.”

  “But the nap is more than an hour long!” Madame Blanc exclaimed. “My daughter stopped napping when she turned three in May. She’s lost the habit over the past five months.”

  “I understand. And, believe me, I sympathize with her. I’ve got three more like her in my group. They can’t sleep no matter how hard they try. They get so bored during nap time.”

  Madame Blanc gave her a beseeching look. “Can’t you do something?”

  “How about I talk to madam director?” she suggested.

  “I already tried that. And got a long lecture on how it’s for my child’s good, how she knows better than I do, and how this nursery school is the best in Paris. In short, the answer was no.”

  Natalie concentrated on not sneering at the spot-on summary of the director’s pedagogic philosophy.

  Madame Blanc let out a deep sigh. “Adèle hates the nap time, and she dreads school because of it. Every morning it’s tears and struggle to drag her here.”

  Natalie was taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

  And that was when she thought of the secret book club. It was a risk, but one she was prepared to take. It wouldn’t get her fired. The worst that would happen if they got caught would be a roasting from the director. Natalie could live with it.

  After the children got engrossed in their books, she sat on the floor and watched the perfect little angels. In less than ten minutes their attention spans would run out and they’d start fidgeting and making noise. But she was prepared—she had a big book with pictures and lovely stories. They’d discuss the stories, and then she’d return them to the dormitory for a little rest. Her rest.

  But right now, all four presented a picture of creative concentration. Thomas was humming car sounds. Samira was so absorbed, her tongue was sticking out. Natalie watched them, struggling with the urge to ruffle their hair and kiss their soft cheeks. A familiar yearning rose inside, filling her heart to the brim and moistening her eyes. She was so ready to be a mother. God, what she wouldn’t give to have a child of her own to hug to her chest, a wide-eyed bundle of love.

  But she had to be patient. After yesterday’s debacle with Fred, she needed to retreat and do what it took to repair the damage. She was lucky to have him.

  And he didn’t want to be a father.

  She could only hope that one day he would.

  ***

  FOUR

  “By the way, I’m really good in bed.” Louise gave Adrien a heavy-lidded look and inched closer on the sofa.

  He forced a polite smile. What was he supposed to say to a declaration like that? No kidding? I bet you are? It sounded so ridiculous he opted for silence.

  She drew heavily on her cigarette. “My flatmate won’t be back until morning.”

  He studied his shoes.

  She spoke again. “I’m into all kinds of kinky stuff—”

  “Shall we play blitz?” he asked.

  She slinked to a small desk in the corner of the room, opened the top drawer, and retrieved a chessboard. “Ta-da! How about a game of strip chess instead?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’d loooooove losing this one to you,” she said with a purr as she sat down.

  She emptied her beer and gave him her meaningful stare again.

  Shit. The situation was getting out of hand, and he had only himself to blame for it.

  He took a deep breath and blurted, “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure—”

  “I’ll find my way.” He jumped up before she could say something that would make him even more uncomfortable.

  “It’s the second door on your left.” She sounded a little deflated.

  He got there in five strides. Thankfully, the door had a lock. He turned the key and leaned his forehead against the cool wood.

  Think, Adrien, think.

  He had to find a reason to leave Louise’s place without being too rude. Despite her crass advances, she didn’t deserve a put-down. Nobody did.

  He should’ve known better, heeded the misgivings he’d had about her even before they met in person. An amateur chess player, she had proclaimed herself his biggest fan and wrote to him through Facebook a couple of months ago. They discussed chess. She claimed to rock at blitz games and dreamed about playing a game with him. And then, a week ago, she suggested they meet in real life. By then she had hinted her interest in him went beyond intellectual. Part of him knew meeting her was a bad idea, but it had been eight months since his ex had jilted him and, well, he was feeling lonely.

  His second and worse mistake was agreeing to come up “for that blitz game.” He’d already determined during their dri
nks at La Bohème that he wouldn’t be asking her on a second date. Behind her randiness and garish clothing, he had glimpsed a person who was emotionally unstable and silly. Going up to her apartment was a momentary lapse of judgment that could only be explained by the large amount of wine he’d downed during the evening. Which, in turn, was due to the long lulls in their conversation and his failure to work up any enthusiasm for her convoluted stories.

  It’s no use ruminating now. Get out there and deal with it.

  He stepped into the living room. “I’m sorry, but I just remembered something. I’ve got to go.”

  As excuses went, it was a crappy one, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

  She stood and sashayed toward him. Before he realized what her intention was, she put her arms around him and—taking advantage of her considerable height—planted a slurpy kiss on his mouth. She smelled of beer and cigarette. He stood still, keeping his lips sealed and his arms hanging at his sides while he debated how to extricate himself from this new complication.

  To his great relief, she pulled back and stared into his eyes. “Are you gay?”

  “No, but I’m . . .I can’t do this.”

  She frowned, but then her face brightened. “Oh, I see. You don’t kiss during sex.”

  Oh God. He swallowed hard. “I’m not ready for sex.”

  Her gaze went to his crotch.

  He swore silently as his face grew crimson. “That’s not what I meant.”

  She gave him a hurt look. “But we corresponded for two months! I don’t understand.”

  “We corresponded about chess.”

  Oh, what the hell. She did have a point. He’d known for some time what she was about, and he’d been willing to take a chance on her. Until today, that was.

  “Louise, I’m truly sorry about this . . .If you decide to post ‘Adrien is a jerk’ on my Facebook wall, I’ll let you.”

  “You know where the door is,” she said.

  The next morning, he opened his Facebook account dreading what he’d find there. To his surprise, his wall was insult free. Instead of trashing him in public, she had sent him a private message. Her shortest ever.