“Over twenty times, I’m sure,” he replied. “Although I stop watching after the Christmas scene, I find it goes downhill from there.” Carmine took a drag off his cigarette, studying her.
Maxine had been helping at the shop for over three years. She’d drop in whenever she felt like it, and in return he gave her a special discount on anything she bought.
“So?” he nettled, leaning his elbows on the counter. The display light gave his wrinkled face a subtle radiance. “Are you going to take the green dress? I noticed you didn’t bring it back with you.”
“I wore it to a club the other night,” she said straight faced. “It was…okay.”
His eyes brightened, pleased with the surprise. “And did the dress have a good time?”
“It needs to go to the dry cleaners.”
Carmine raised his thin white eyebrows at her and grinned. “That sounds promising.”
Maxine busied herself, trying to push down the complex feelings of guilt and anger she’d been trying to decipher since her mystery lover escaped out the bathroom window. She decided to keep the phone unplugged, unsure what to say if thewife or even ursexslave called again.
How can one guy have a wife and a mistress and pull off a one night stand?
Then a dead weight hit Maxine. She’d had no idea Johnny was seeing someone else—even in her own bed. Her heart crumpled. She looked at her watch, five hours and thirty-two minutes since she last thought of Johnny.
A new record.
“Honey?” Carmine had come from around the glass counter and put a hand on the garment she’d been staring at for the last five minutes. “That black Ralph Lauren won’t fit,” he said. “Here.” He whipped through the hangers and pulled out a flared skirt with herringbone detail. He held the hanger up to her. “Perfect. Pair it with the wide leather wrap belt you got last week. You have a black sweater set, right? I know you do. You wore it a few weeks ago.”
Maxine snapped out of her trance. But instead of the skirt, she took the black dress to the fitting rooms. After she tugged and pulled, the zipper would only go halfway up. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what the hell she was doing? Why did she even care if she looked sexy?
Because he might show up again, said the small voice inside her.
Maxine hated to admit she’d also been thinking about that possibility. Even yesterday, when she’d woken up with the feel of his hands fresh in her memory. She went to work at the spa and he was there under every thought; his dark eyes, his sexy accent, the way his hair fell over that one eye when he looked down at her. And the tremble in her knees when his tongue first touched hers.
Everything led back to him. A client chose the nail polish called ‘French Kiss’, Beverly the receptionist, ordered Greek souvlaki for lunch, and this was the weirdest one—Maxine was handing a fashion magazine to one of her clients in the waiting area and a playing card slipped from the page it had bookmarked. It fluttered to the floor, landing between her shoes.
It was the ace of diamonds.
Maxine sighed in the fitting room. The guilt was killing her, but now that she’d let herself think about him that way, the heat had begun to grow between her legs again.
“You have to show me,” Carmine piped up.
When she stepped out with the dress on, he put a hand on a hip and took a long drag from his electric cigarette. “Your breasts are escaping.”
“What if I wore a sweater?” Then she added, “And my spandex girdle—the full body one.”
“That would be insulting to you, your breasts, and Ralph Lauren.”
“Not everything I try on the first time is going to fit!” Her unsettled emotions were beginning to surface.
Carmine swept away then returned with something cupped in his hand. “This will fit,” he said and slipped an antique comb with a white silk orchid into her hair above her right ear. He turned her around to look at the mirror. “There, you look like the Little Mermaid.”
“There’s nothing little about me.” She tilted her head to the side, imagining how the dress would look if the zipper made it all the way up. “I’ll take it. All I need is to lose twenty pounds…okay thirty, maybe thirty-five.”
Carmine gave out an exasperated sigh. He held up the herringbone skirt. “Why not take the thing that fits perfectly today?”
She pulled the dressing room curtain across. “Thirty pounds, Carmine,” she said. “It’s more than you think.” She wrestled with the zipper.
“Yes, honey. I’m well acquainted with your thirty pounds. You’ve been talking about them lovingly for the last six months.”
Six months and seven days. She started to pull on her leggings and long wool sweater.
Johnny was an accountant, a numbers man by nature, and he constantly told her thirty pounds was all she’d need to lose to fit into half of her clothes stored at the back of her closet. He even left little sticky notes in her bathroom over the scale. One day he started hiding them in the fridge, around the food—the food that wasn’t labeled with his name. He liked things spilt down the middle.
“I don’t expect you to feed me, Maxine,” he’d said, labeling the ice cream he’d brought over to her apartment. “I’ll only eat the things I buy.” Which of course meant that Maxine couldn’t eat anything he brought over.
After they broke up, she ate everything he’d labeled, everything except for the unopened container of Mayan Chocolate ice cream, it was symbolic for her. Once she lost that thirty pounds, she was going to eat Johnny’s ice cream. And she would eat it with a big spoon and add chocolate sauce and peanuts and whipped cream. Hell, she’d make one giant colossal sundae. Then she’d dip French fries in the sauce.
French fries.
French guys.
“Damn,” Maxine whispered. The fluttering in her stomach spiraled down. She could almost feel his hand there, rubbing where she ached to be touched. She shook her head to clear it then came out of the dressing room, the black dress over her arm.
“Take the flower too, honey.”
“Huh?”
“Are you all right? Your face is all blotchy?” He frowned at dress in her hands. “It was dry cleaned, but maybe there’s some kind of residue left over. You should only use Patricia’s Dry Cleaning, never those same day places. They steam the crap out of clothes and the fabric is ruined.”
“Okay.”
“Listen.” He pointed his electric cigarette at her. “Don’t you dare take the green vixon dress anywhere but Patricia’s.”
Maxine raised her glance at him. And then, because the weight of everything had become too much to keep in she blurted out. “A guy spilled a drink on my dress, then I took him back to my place, we had sex…sort of, then he left, but he forgot his cell phone. And then I found out he’s married, or at least I’m pretty sure he is. But I can’t stop thinking about him, and I feel guilty, and horny. And I just wish this stupid black dress would fit!”
Carmine took a long drag off his electric cigarette. “This calls for gin.”
Chapter Ten
After he’d gotten home from the game last night, Antony waited until the apartment was quiet, then snuck out to the kitchen and fired up his laptop. He leaned over the granite kitchen counter, tapping keys, feeling his stomach flip. He was surprised at how simple it was to find her apartment again. The program he used to locate his phone took less than a minute to pinpoint the address. Antony had stared at the red dot on the map, pulsating like a heartbeat.
He half expected her to have thrown his phone in the trash or tossed it on the subway tracks. Antony could only imagine what she must have thought when he disappeared out her bathroom window. He’d try and explain to her somehow, he had to—she was his good luck charm.
Chance and Luca were adamant. And even though he was a practical person by nature, Antony wasn’t taking any chances on ignoring the advice of two superstitious teammates. One thought kept piercing through his reasoning; he was only as good as his last game. And the next game
was tonight. It couldn’t hurt to test their theory. Plus, he wanted to see her again. Maybe it was because he’d abstained from sex for the last two months, but he couldn’t get her off his mind.
After an arduous session with the trainers, Antony made his way to her apartment. He knocked on the door, then balanced the flowers to hide his face, a last minute flash of wisdom in case she refused to let him in. His biceps screamed in protest, fifty dollars’ worth of flowers was heavier than he expected.
Earlier, the elderly florist had looked at Antony over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses, trying to size him up. “Special occasion?” he’d asked, with a slight sarcastic ring to his tone.
“No.” Antony was wearing his sunglasses and had turned up the collar of his jacket.
The florist filled the order wordlessly, but when he handed over the massive arrangement of flowers he said, “Whatever you did, she’ll forgive you when she sees these.”
Antony raised his hand to knock again when he heard footsteps coming closer to the other side of the door. His palms started to sweat. He’d thought all morning what he was going to say, but each time he said the lines out loud, the translation seemed off, insincere, ridiculously phony.
As the door opened, Antony hoisted the bouquet up higher, watching her through the jungle of flowers. A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. “I think you have the wrong apartment,” she said, sounding confused.
Antony smiled, hoping it would come through his voice. “Bonjour,” he started, still hiding behind the flowers. “I’m looking for the woman who is not Ms. Dior.”
There were a few seconds of silence, then she said, “Maybe you should take those flowers home to your wife instead.”
Antony lowered the bouquet. “Wife?”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her mouth was set in a hard line. “Or maybe your sex slave.”
He switched the bouquet to his hip and looked at her sideways. She was wearing a blue button up sweater decorated with tiny daisy flowers; there was a butterfly brooch on the collar. He was momentarily distracted by her curves. “I don’t understand.”
She rolled her eyes. “Stay here.”
Antony leaned into the apartment. He placed the vase on her kitchen counter, then quickly stepped back, taking his spot in the doorway again. She returned with flushed cheeks, marching toward him with his cell phone stretched out in front of her like it was something unsavory.
She handed him the phone and put one hand on the door. He wondered if she was getting ready to slam it in his face. When she explained about the caller id’s a pulse of relief washed through him.
“Not wife,” he said. “She’s my ag—” he had to stop himself from saying agent. “She’s my aging auntie. She likes to keep tab on me.”
“I don’t think so.” She started to shut the door.
“Wait! I can prove it,” he said, pressing his palm against the door. There were a few seconds when Antony saw all the luck of the previous game disappear. He pictured his career slipping away. A weight of urgency pushed him to take a chance.
With his heart hammering, he did the only thing he could think of to convince her he was single. Trying to keep his hand from shaking he called the contact for the number labeled thewife. He hit the speakerphone and held it out toward her.
She leaned closer, tucking a wave of hair behind her ear. There was a heady mix of shampoo and something lemony.
“Yeah?” Jax answered.
Antony’s pulsed thudded in his chest. “Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded normal.
“Yes. And don’t be late this time. What are you doing today? Have you been to the gym yet?” Her voice was flat, almost military. Typical Jax.
“Ah, oui. And now I’m going out with friend.” He stared at the woman. She finally looked up and met his gaze. A warmth spread from his stomach all the way to his toes.
“Fine. Hey, good luck tonight.” Then Jax hung up.
Antony didn’t say anything, too worried he’d spoil Jax’s perfectly ambiguous answers.
Still, the woman wasn’t ready to concede. “And your sex slave?” she said, pointing to the screen.
He should have been expecting that. After all, it was that call that made him leave in the first place. A heavy guilt swiped away any anticipation he’d been enjoying. “That is long story. But it is not sexy…it is stupid. Nickname, from long ago.” And a story she’d never hear, he thought to himself. He didn’t owe her the whole truth, after all.
“I see.” Her tone was quietly unsure, much different from the anger when she first opened the door.
Antony sensed victory, but he had to be careful.
She looked at the couch, prompting him to do the same. His jacket, hat, and watch were in a pile on the table beside the lamp. His skin grew warm remembering the last time he was in her apartment.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said. Then she picked up his items and handed them back. “Sorry you had to be out in the cold.”
He took the pile. “I have lots of jackets.”
She nodded but stayed quiet.
A knot of unease tightened between Antony’s shoulder blades. He imagined the game clock ticking away the seconds of opportunity. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Antony,” he said. Then he added before he chickened out. “Antony Laurent.”
There was a brief moment of the floor opening up under his feet, putting him into a free fall. He could imagine Jax’s voice, angry and unrelenting in his ear. “She’ll sell her story to the first gossip rag that finds out you play for Toronto!”
But the opportunity to let their brief encounter—and her—slip into history had passed. This relationship, whatever it was, had infiltrated his life, even his on ice life. The woman’s expression remained the same, no flutter of her eyelashes or widening of her smile, the way most women do when they recognized him.
“Nice to meet you, Antony,” she said. Then her hand slipped into his, and he gently squeezed back. “I’m Maxine.”
“Just one name? Like Drake?”
That got a smile out of her and he felt triumphant. “No.” She shook her head. “Nicholls. Maxine Nicholls.”
Maxine. Maxine. Maxine. He liked how it sounded inside his head. There were a few more seconds of silence. Then, because he had nowhere else to go in this conversation, he asked, “Are you thirsty?”
“Excuse me?”
“I owe you mojito.”
Her expression clouded over. “No thanks, I hate that club.”
“Me, too. I know better place. A nice lunch place.” Then he bowed at the waist and brought his face closer to hers. “Would you like to go?”
Her mouth opened then closed. Then she asked, “Now?”
“Oui.”
“For lunch?”
“Oui…yes. With me.”
She pursed her lips then moved them to the side of her mouth, clearly debating her answer.
Antony smiled at her expression, it seemed completely without conscious thought, a habit. He imagined her doing this same thing standing in the grocery store trying to decide which cereal to buy. Then he wondered what kind of cereal she liked. Then he pictured her leaning over the kitchen counter, a spoon full of cereal rising to those perfect lips, a small drop of milk caught on the corner of her mouth. He’d lean forward to kiss it away—
“Yes,” she finally said.
He snapped out of his daydream. “Oui?”
“Um…oui,” she smiled and even laughed a little. Her hand pulled at the bottom of her sweater. She took notice of his leather jacket and dress pants. “Should I…do you mind if I change?”
He actually loved the sweater that showed off her curves and then he let an impish impulse take over. “Oui,” he said. “There’s strict dress code.”
“Oh?”
“No girdle thingies allowed.”
Chapter Eleven
The dashboard of Antony’s car, with all the screens and buttons, looked more like the
Millennium Falcon to Maxine. It was a far cry from Rose’s extremely practical, and twelve-year-old sedan. Antony had the radio on a light rock station, the heated seat emitted waves of warmth even through the thick layer of her white coat.
They had been driving for twenty minutes, Maxine had asked him about his background, and now he was replicating the questions.
“And you?” he asked, watching the traffic ahead.
“I was born in Toronto,” she said. “So, no, I haven’t lived anywhere else.” She snuck a sideways glance, studying his profile.
Antony. The name suited him perfectly. Anything that resembled a Greek hero or mythological hunk would do; he could have easily been Perseus or Hercules. His hair was slightly curly today, not straight like it had been the last time she’d seen him, flattened out from his ball cap.
He turned to her and she glanced away, pretending not to be looking at him. “Ah, a city girl,” he said.
There was something in his voice that made her smile. When she peeked another glance, he was still staring at her. The blush grew under her scarf.
They came to a red light. Maxine spied a gourmet food truck, Hot N’ Spicy, Tacomania. “Have you ever eaten from there?” she asked. “It’s really good. One of my favorites, actually.”
She said it mostly because she couldn’t think of any else to ask him. She’d gone down her list of usual questions when she met someone new—although someone new who made you orgasm two nights ago, was a new kind of stranger for Maxine.
He’d told her he was from Rimouski, a small town about five hours east of Montreal, his family still lived there except for his brother who lived close by. He co-owned the ACE towing business—which of course explained the nice car and expensive watch. But most important, he was most definitely single.
Her imagination had started to wander while he spoke his broken, extremely sexy half-English, half-French sentences to her. She kept staring at his mouth, remembering how his lips felt. She wanted to feel those lips again…all over.
The Right Fit Page 6