The Perfect Catch: A Sports Romance (The Darcy Brothers)

by Alix Nichols

  I whirl around and march down the hallway to the family room.

  We’re almost done with this site. After a month of drilling, pipe fitting, and redecorating, the place looks exactly how I’d imagined. I stroke the polished wood of the railing that leads up to the second floor. René’s a first-rate carpenter, one of the best in Paris, and he’s done a fantastic job with the staircase and closets. This whole project has been great fun for many reasons, the owners’ attitude being one of them. It’s rare in my profession to come across a client who gives you free rein to redo her home the way you see fit.

  Madame Beauvais is one such client.

  The moment I saw this humble 1920s redbrick home, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it. It was obvious I’d keep the original fireplace and the flooring. There was no question about which partitions had to go and which ones would stay. As for the color scheme, it was a no-brainer, really, considering the general style of the house, its orientation, and the materials I’d decided to use.

  In short, I had a vision and a solid chance at giving my client full satisfaction, provided my dream wasn’t ruined by poor workmanship. This used to happen all the time in the baby days of my design-build firm.

  But not since Hugo turned up in Paris a year ago.

  Chapter 3

  I’m at Lolo again, unwinding after a long day.

  Hugo, René, and I had managed to put all the finishing touches and scrub the house clean yesterday. But this morning Madame Beauvais called to say she did want that custom bookcase in the hallway, and could my team please, please, please build it before she and her husband moved in tomorrow? I agreed, considering this was her only whimsical request and she was paying handsomely for it.

  What with the walls being far from plumb and our electric saw breaking in the middle of the action, René and I spent seven hours making those shelves.

  Did I mention Madame Beauvais wanted them curved?

  If only Hugo’s exam was tomorrow!

  Anyway, we finished by six forty-five. René left, and I used the remaining fifteen minutes to shower and change into a pair of slim-fit blue jeans, a white silk shirt and a black tailored jacket. Clothes that say “I’m a creative professional” are a must if you want to make it as an architect in this city. It’s that way or the highway.

  At seven sharp, Monsieur and Madame Beauvais arrived and I showed them around. Two hours later, I left the house, a fat check in my purse and two glasses of champagne in my stomach. And ended up here in Lolo, the bar being just a few blocks from the Beauvais’ house.

  Tonight, I’m not interested in picking up a man. I’m not in the mood for sex, and I don’t even know why. It’s just like that. Some evenings—usually after we deliver a project and the pressure drops—I let melancholy get the better of me. On those evenings, I walk into the nearest bar, treat myself to the most obnoxious cocktail on the menu, and then foot it home. Meandering the boulevards of Paris, shutting out the hubbub, and zooming in on random faces and words are my way of touching the soul of this city.

  For an ancestry-deprived person like me, it’s important to establish a connection with a place and to nurture it. Although I only moved to Paris at eighteen, I’ve completely lost my singsong Midi accent and taken root here. I’ve become a Parisienne.

  Which is about as much belonging as I may ever be granted because, to quote Cersei Lannister, “The gods have no mercy. That’s why they’re gods.”

  Yeah, I know, I know—referring to Game of Thrones is bad form in good Parisian circles—and I’ve been doing it a lot lately. It’s all Diane’s fault. She twisted my arm and got me to watch an episode the day she moved in, and I’ve been indulging almost every night since at the expense of my reading time.

  But back to the matter of my belonging, I have obviously considered that I was just given up for adoption by a hapless teenage mom. The fact that she chose to give birth anonymously, without disclosing her identity, supports that theory. Besides, it’s the most likely scenario, statistically-speaking.

  Except statistics don’t work for me.

  The most likely scenario in my case is that my birth mother is dead. And probably my biological father, too.

  I was adopted as an infant by an adoring couple—Murielle and François Germain—who had no kids of their own. They gave me a postcard-happy childhood in a sleepy little town near Marseilles.

  When I was eleven, the three of us had one of those spectacular car crashes that ends up on the local newscast.

  My adoptive parents died.

  I survived.

  People said it was a miracle.

  Ha! Little did they know the invisible force that had kept me alive wasn’t the hand of God. It was the Devil’s paw.

  Because I’m the Devil’s own child.

  Anyway, after the accident killed my adoptive mom and dad, I was put in foster care in Nîmes. My foster parents—Claire and Charles Petit—took good care of me, despite being overwhelmed by their son Lionel’s ever-aggravating cystic fibrosis and their daughter Diane’s unruliness. They sent all three of us to the best private school in town, where I acquired my passion for geometry and a buddy who’s now key to the success of my business—Hugo.

  “Chloe!” someone cries out from behind, breaking me from my reminiscences. “I knew I’d find you here.”

  I turn around.

  Fabien stares at me, unsmiling.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Crap.

  I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I returned to the bar where I’d picked up my latest lay so soon. Normally, I’d wait at least six months, letting the trail go cold, before revisiting a hunting ground. Thankfully, Paris has no shortage of bars and cafés.

  “I’m glad you’re by yourself,” Fabien says.

  “I was leaving, actually. I’m knocked out.”

  He nods. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Double crap.

  “Listen,” I say, “we had a good time, but I’m not looking for a repeat session.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Pardon?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Why else would you be hanging at this particular bar when there are so many others in the area?”

  Good question. I could say I like the place and I’d forgotten all about him, but I know it would sound lame.

  “You’re not looking for a relationship, right?” he asks. “I get it, I really do. For your information, I’m not looking for a girlfriend, either.”

  “So, what’s your point?”

  “As you said, we had a good time last week, so why not have another go at it?”

  Why not, indeed?

  I’ve had “sex buddies” in the past, and this type of loose relationship works for me. With the right man—and Fabien seems to be the right man for the job—my hormone-crammed body can take the edge off while my heart remains perfectly safe. We’d continue until the excitement of being with someone new wears off, and then we’d go our separate ways. I was with my last “buddy” almost six months. It didn’t end very well, though. The poor guy began to develop feelings, so I had to ditch him.

  But then again, I’d suspected from the very beginning he was fishy. His smile was way too warm and his touch too gentle. Fabien hasn’t demonstrated any telltale signs of such weaknesses. This means our inevitable parting will likely be smooth and mutually agreed upon.

  So, yeah, why the hell not?

  Chapter 4

  As I hurry down rue Lafayette, maneuvering my umbrella against the elements that leave no doubt summer is over, I can’t help thinking about Fabien.

  We’ve been “seeing” each other every Saturday night for over a month now, and I’m beginning to doubt he’s as right for me as I thought. He hasn’t showed any romantic tendencies, so all’s fine on that front. But he’s started to make observations that rattle me. Nothing outrageous, just an occasional remark on my clothing, in the vein of “your blouse is too transparent” and “your jeans are too tight,” or my person, su
ch as “Do your parents know you sleep around?” That last one really rubbed me the wrong way.

  Last Saturday, he paid and insisted we leave the bar before I’d finished my drink.

  “What’s the emergency?” I asked.

  His eyes darted to the man having a beer at the counter. “He’s been checking you out.”

  “So what?”

  Fabien’s nostrils flared. “What do you mean, ‘so what’?”

  “I haven’t been checking him out, have I?”

  “Maybe you have, when I wasn’t looking,” he said, twisting his lips, and gripped my arm. “We’re leaving.”

  I shrugged and followed him out, disappointed by his sudden outburst of jealousy and by the implications it had for our arrangement.

  Fabien may not be the emotional type, but he’s becoming possessive, which means it’s time to end our affair and begin looking for a new Candidate.

  That’s a shame, really, because things looked good from my perspective. As good as they ever get for me, anyway. But hey, nothing good lasts, as someone clever said. The annoying thing is that Fabien will never know that I’m doing him a favor. He’ll never suspect that my ending our relationship now—at the first symptoms of his growing, albeit heavy-handed, attachment—might spare his life. He’ll be angry for a while, and he’ll despise me. But that’s OK. At least, he won’t become another victim of my unique toxicity.

  It’s not for nothing that they call me “Kiss-of-Death Chloe.”

  Well, to be frank, they—whomever that may be—don’t. I do. Someone has to.

  A car zooms by, splashing rainwater onto my legs. I bend down to rub the resulting polka dots on my shins and calves, diffusing their dampness as best I can across my sheer stockings. When I’m done rubbing, I straighten my back and take another look at the map on my phone. Rue Cadet must be the next one on the left. That’s where I’m headed to meet with Hugo’s big sis, Jeanne.

  He called me last night to say he’d heard from the exam administration—he’s passed it with flying colors and will get his license in a few weeks. He also announced Jeanne wanted to hire us to redo her bistro.

  I’d had no idea Jeanne had bought a bistro.

  “Depends on how much work is required,” I said. “We’re booked from late October through the end of spring.”

  “I know. From what I’ve seen, the job won’t take us more than three weeks. Four with contingencies.”

  “If we take this project on,”—I tried to sound menacing—“don’t even dream of acting like you’re related to the client.”

  “It wouldn’t work even if I tried. I’m her younger brother, remember?”

  “So what?”

  “You know what. Younger siblings are patronized at best and ignored at worst, regardless of their occupation, experience, and age.”

  “Oh, come on. Jeanne adores you.”

  “Adores me—yes. Respects me—not so sure.”

  He might have a point there. I would’ve used the exact same words to describe Lionel’s attitude toward Diane and me.

  Hugo spoke again, sadness tinting the humor in his voice as if he knew whom I was thinking about. “Using my privileged connection would be pointless in this case.”

  “I guess.”

  “If you want to know the whole truth, I’m worried Jeanne will ruin your good opinion of me.”

  I smirked. “So you believe I value you, huh?”

  “I believe you do.” He paused before adding with an exaggerated ire, “What’s even more annoying than Jeanne’s attitude is how quickly her husband Mat took his cue from her. He now treats me as if I’m his little brother. It’s disheartening.”

  Hugo sighed and I imagined him shaking his head.

  Even so, I’d bet money he actually likes Mat. Because in the fifteen years I’ve known him, Hugo Bonnet has never really disliked anyone.

  As I turn onto rue Cadet, I recall one by one all our classmates, teachers, and common acquaintances in Nîmes and in Paris. Just as I suspected, I can’t identify a single individual Hugo may have regarded with antipathy. Is he even capable of such a sentiment?

  When I get to the bistro called La Bohème, he’s already there. The place is cozy and unaffected, but undeniably passé despite the funky posters on the walls. Jeanne, whom I haven’t seen in years and whose blue hair and piercings seem to be a thing of the past, greets me warmly.

  She introduces me to the headwaiter—a woman in her early twenties named Manon—and a server of about the same age, Amar. The chef and other two waiters are absent, but Jeanne tells me I’ll meet them later today.

  I look around, and my mind goes into overdrive picturing the possibilities. This place would make a great neo-bistro or an artsy restaurant. Alternatively, I could redesign it as a hippy-chic coffee shop or even a snazzy juice bar, provided the structure cooperates. But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Let me see first what Jeanne wants and how far her budget will stretch. Unless she’s changed beyond abandoning her Gothic look, this woman won’t give me carte blanche like Madame Beauvais did.

  “Mat and I got twenty grand for this,” Jeanne says, opening a sketch pad. “And these are our ideas.”

  I knew there’d be no free reign.

  “We need more light in the front room,” she says as I study her sketches. “And I’d like to convert the basement into a gig venue with a small stage.”

  “We often host musicians and stand-up comedians here,” Manon chimes in. “And then the front room gets too crowded, and it’s a big mess. We need a dedicated space for the shows.”

  “Can you do it?” Jeanne asks.

  “I must see the basement first and assess how much work it requires.” I point to Hugo. “Has he mentioned we’ll take this on only if we can finish by late October?”

  Jeanne nods.

  “Is your electrical wiring up to code?” I ask.

  She grins. “The previous owner got it upgraded just before he sold the place to me, so that’s sorted.”

  “What about the plumbing? And the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen only needs new tiles and furniture,” Hugo jumps in. “And the three bathrooms will stay where they are now.”

  I walk over to the door marked with a wheelchair pictogram. If we sign on, I’ll have to make sure this space complies with all the latest accessibility requirements, but at least we won’t be moving any partitions. Next, I take a look at the men’s and women’s bathrooms, which are older and in a considerably shabbier state.

  “You want these black, huh?” I turn to Jeanne, who’s standing behind me. “Lavatory and all?”

  She spreads her arms, palms up. “What can I say? My residual inner Goth needs an outlet.”

  I return to the bar and run my hand over the copper countertop, taking in its feel and subtle changes in hue. The bar is one of the bistro’s original fixtures and fittings that Jeanne is keen on preserving.

  Amen to that.

  I stroke the smooth surface for another moment and then squat to admire the varnished mahogany panels on the front. They’re rich reddish brown, and I’m full of glee, anticipating the joy of touching them. As my fingertips absorb their texture and warmth and my eyes feast on their color, I tell myself life’s good. As long as I take the necessary precautions with people, I can derive my happiness from things as often and as much as I want.

  The gods don’t object to my touching this antique bar or savoring pistachio macarons. The universe doesn’t have a problem with me becoming a glutton for delights like music and books. And, most importantly, the Devil doesn’t punish an innocent on my account.

  When I’ve touched and looked to my heart’s content, I stand up and go through the rest of Jeanne’s illustrated notes.

  “OK,” I say, closing the pad. “We may be able to fit into your budget and our timeframe, depending on—”

  Jeanne throws her fist into the air. “Yes!”

  “Easy.” I smile. “I said we may. Let’s see that basement now, shall we?”r />
  Jeanne, Hugo, and I descend the wooden staircase. In the basement, the first thing I notice is that the ceiling is high enough to build a dais. The space is dark, which means I’ll need to be smart with the lighting. The good news is that there’s no mold or detectable moisture and the drain tile system seems to operate like the little engine that could. No structural problems, either. The walls look terrible, though, and they’re poorly insulated. But that’s easy to fix.

  All in all, the basement is in better shape than I’d feared.

  Back upstairs, Jeanne serves us drinks. She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her unspoken question loud and clear.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask Hugo.

  “I think it’s doable.” He winks. “And I’m not saying this as the client’s close relative.”

  “What about you, René?” I turn to my second teammate, who’s joined us in the meantime. “Do you agree with Hugo’s unbiased opinion?”

  “Sure.” René stifles a smile. “But don’t count on me working overtime. You know my wife’s rules—if I’m not home by seven to have dinner with the kids, I don’t get dessert.”

  I cock my head. “Is this your way of saying we won’t finish on time without all-nighters?”

  A late night or two when wrapping up a project is almost unavoidable, but I doubt this renovation will require more than that.

  René shrugs theatrically. “What I think doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? I’m just a simple carpenter from Lille up against the cutthroat Nîmes mafia with your ruthless ways and atrocious accent.”

  Jeanne bursts out laughing.

  “Look at the bright side, René,” Hugo says. “We could’ve been from farther south. Think Corsica. Or worse, Sicily.”

  “But we still have vendetta.” Jeanne puts her hands on her hips. “And omertà, too. So if I were you, I’d weigh every word.”

  Hugo arches an eyebrow at René, looking down at the poor man from his six foot three of hard muscle.

  OK, time for my verdict.

  “Your concerns are noted, René, and I promise you won’t go without dessert.”