The Right Fit

by Daphne Dubois

  “No,” he replied. “Are you hungry for something”—he squinted at the lettering on the truck—“hot n’ spicy?”

  Maxine managed to keep a straight face.

  While she stayed in the car, he picked up two specials for them and then drove closer to the downtown core, parking off Yonge Street. With the paper bag containing their lunch tucked under his arm, he led her to the wrought iron gates of the Alexander Muir public gardens. They walked down the windy pathway lined with snow-laden trees until they reached the stone castle like structure at the heart of the park. She’d been to this park before, but never had it seemed so fairy tale like to her.

  They climbed the stone staircase and entered an intimate walled in area, open to the sky, but close in enough to shield them from the wind. He set the bag down on a bench in the middle of the area. “Ah,” he said, the French accent making every syllable sexy. “Perfect picnic spot.”

  Maxine joined him, marveling at how her day had turned around. Only this morning she was sitting on the antique settee with Carmine sipping a gin fizz thinking she was the female equivalent of Eeyore.

  Carmine had a way of smoothing everything out, making sense of the disasters in the world, plus he was non-judgmental. Maxine couldn’t imagine telling her brother or even her sisters for that matter about her one night stand who appeared to be sleeping with several women.

  Crosby would talk dreamily about destiny and true love, while Rose would lecture her, spouting off the latest stats from the sex crimes division. Westley would simply die of embarrassment.

  “I feel so horrible,” Maxine had told Carmine. “I should have kept the phone on and confronted him right away. I’m such a coward.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, honey. You were only following your instincts. Go home, charge his cell phone, and answer the first person who calls.”

  “And then what?”

  “Spill the beans.”

  “And what if he’s innocent?” she’d asked hopefully.

  He gave her his signature smirk. “Then take full advantage of his amazing erection.”

  By the time Maxine reached her apartment it was close to noon. She went directly to her bedroom and plugged in his cell phone with her charger. It was only five minutes later that there was a knock on the door. She looked through the peephole and saw someone with flowers.

  Fast forward and she’s watching while Antony unwrapped the large paper bag, smelling of melted cheese and peppers.

  Maxine took smallish bites of her burrito, trying desperately not to get any on her coat. The kick of the hot peppers sent a buzz over her skin. Still, she managed to finish first.

  Antony had two bites in before he started sweating. “That’s spicy!” He took a few breaths then let out a low whistle. “Maxine,” he said, getting ready to take another bite. “You will be death of me.”

  Even though he was clearly minding the jalapenos, he’d managed to finish. He used his napkin and smiled at her. “The flower,” he said, motioning to the silk comb in her hair that Carmine had given her. “It’s very much beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Maxine loved how his words sounded mixed up, shortened, it made him seem less intimidating, more like a regular guy, not this chiseled stud who for some reason liked her enough to bring her flowers and take her out.

  Her hands were folded over her white coat. Underneath she was wearing the herringbone skirt. Carmine had been right. It was a good fit; she was able to leave her spandex girdle at home. The thought made her pulse speed up.

  “Different color today,” he said, motioning to her dark pink fingernails.

  She laughed, shocked he noticed the small detail. “I love doing my nails.” His smile faltered, and she imagined her neck going blotchy under her scarf. She must sound like an idiot. “I mean it’s kind of therapeutic.”

  Yup, definitely stupid.

  “I pick a color and I think it can sometimes change my mood.” She groaned inside. Why was she talking about nail polish? “And the names are unique, sort of like a horoscope. Almost a premonition, I suppose.”

  A few soft snowflakes began to fall around them, lazily spiraling to the stone floor. It was so quiet, but the stillness of the moment made things more uncomfortable. Maxine wished there was something distracting to look at, something she could comment on instead of blabbing about nail polish like a moron.

  Why couldn’t she tell him about her cosmetic boutique idea? A hopeful entrepreneur was better than someone who used nail polish names to determine her choices for the day.

  Maxine was murdering this date. Instead of Dynasty, she was the awkward guest star on Facts of Life. In today’s episode, Maxine learns about rejection.

  Then he said, “So nail polish is like fortune cookie?”

  The lightness of his tone made her smile. “Exactly,” she said, turning back to him. He was leaning closer now, his eyes an impossible rich brown, hypnotizing her. A swell of heat bloomed inside Maxine.

  Antony’s mouth quirked into a grin. “And what’s the name of this color?” he asked.

  When she’d picked the pink color this morning, she was still thinking about Antony and his cell phone contacts, never imagining they’d be sharing burritos in the park. “It’s called, Second Chance.”

  A snowflake landed on her eyelash, making everything hazy. She blinked it away.

  “Second chance?” He balled up his napkin, then leaned across and took her garbage as well. “I like it. Sounds hopeful, oui?”

  Yes, she thought, but the word was trapped in her throat. Maxine’s chest tightened as his arm brushed across her. The closeness of him was intoxicating. She waited for him to say it was time to go back to the car, and he’d drop her off at her apartment with a, so long, good buddy. The scene would end with her and Mrs. Garrett sharing hot chocolate in the kitchen talking about how there were more fish in the ocean…or maybe the one that got away might still come back.

  There was a crinkle of paper bag and then he said, “We both have spicy breath now.”

  She didn’t imagine the flirtatious tone in his voice. The pulse of warmth that had been building up inside of Maxine quickened.

  “You have bit of sauce,” he said, pointing to the corner of her mouth. Then, before she could die of embarrassment, he leaned in, kissing the spot.

  Maxine sighed and nearly fainted in his arms as his mouth molded with hers, nudging her to open wider. There was a sensual tease to the way his tongue slipped leisurely along hers. Even with the memory of their first encounter still fresh in her mind, this kiss was different. He’d sought her out, offering flowers and now instead of a dark club or the shadows of her apartment, he was kissing her in the daylight.

  Now that her earlier hesitation had been resolved, any lingering doubt was eroded by the feeling of his hands in her hair as he whispered her name between kisses.

  Second chance. The nail polish never lies. Antony Laurent, the amazing sexy French/Greek lumberjack, tow truck operator, and rescuer of stranded motorists was her rebound.

  It was like turning a page, or wiping a slate clean, with nothing but opportunity ahead of her. Maxine wanted to crawl inside his mouth, taste all of him. She couldn’t get close enough, the ache deep inside her couldn’t be satisfied with just a kiss. What was she waiting for? Certainly not those last thirty pounds!

  He moaned from the back of his throat as she unbuttoned his jacket, letting her palm flatten against the warmth of his shirt. His tongue was hard now, thrusting, dominating. He kissed her back with a fervor that rivaled her own near panicking desire, and it felt so amazingly good.

  He stood and pulled her up with him. “Not here,” he said, his tone was urgent. “Your place?”

  But Maxine felt invincible, like she could have anything she wanted. Ignoring his confused expression, she stepped backward. The heel of her boot nudged the cold stone wall, she leaned against it, then unbuttoned her coat and looked him dead in the eye. “How do you say, come here, in French?” she asked.


  “Viens ici,” he said, staring at the hem of her herringbone skirt.

  Maxine widened her stance then crooked her finger at him. She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sexy purr. “Viens ici,” she beckoned.

  He tucked into her, leaving a trail of kisses in a perfect line from her jaw to her ear.

  “Je suis à votre merci,” he said. The vibration against her earlobe sent tingles all the way to the pulse between her legs. “I am at your mercy.” His hands were under her black sweater set now, reaching around to unfasten her bra. Maxine arched her back, letting his hands work the clasps. Still under the cover of the sweater, his hands moved to the front, cupping each breast. “Mmmaxine.” His voice was heavy, teasing, as his thumbs rubbed over her hard nipples.

  With an eagerness that made her dizzy, she took one of his hands and guided it downward; her skirt had ridden up, bunched at the front.

  “Mon Dieu.” He sighed. “You’re sexy as hell.”

  His French accent somehow made this the most gallant sounding comment. And in that moment, Maxine felt as sexy as hell. She crushed her lips against his, an intensity rushed through her veins.

  And that’s when she heard the laughter.

  Moving apart like they’d been shot with electricity, Maxine managed to clasp her coat closed just as the first of a group of the elementary school aged children, loaded down with backpacks and snow gear, ran through the area.

  Antony took her by the hand, the paper bag already tucked under his arm. With their heads down and into the wind, they returned to his car.

  Maxine’s pulse thumped in her throat as she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, ice pellets started to hit the windows. She’d never been so mortified in her life. Even though no one saw anything, she was almost caught having sex by a bunch of little kids…outside…with someone she only met a few days ago.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have taken you someplace more private.” A dimple appeared. “I thought we would only have burrito. Not…”

  “It’s okay. I started it. It’s my fault.”

  “Your hair,” he said. “It’s wet.”

  Maxine was hardly worried about her hair. She was more concerned about the risks she was taking. What was it about Antony that had this affect over her?

  “There’s napkins,” he said, pointing to the glove compartment.

  “Just take me home, please,” she said.

  Antony started the car. They wordlessly traveled down Yonge Street. He hadn’t bothered to put on the radio this time. Maxine stared at the toes of her boots. A small trail of melted snow ran from her hair down the front of her coat.

  The car stopped at a red light. “Can I get your number?” he asked, his voice was cautious.

  In a daze, she reached inside the glove compartment, found some paper napkins, and blotted the ends of her hair. Then she saw a paperback, stiff and wrinkled. “I just bought this same book.”

  A car horn honked behind them. Antony watched her carefully with lines etched in his forehead. “I found it,” he answered. Then he faced forward, driving with the traffic again.

  She smiled, despite feeling overwhelmed. “That’s so peculiar. I lost one just like this—” Her words stopped short. Maxine pulled out the receipt. Her hands started to shake. “This is my book.”

  The car stopped again. Another red light. She eyed the door handle, wondering if she should jump out now. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Depends on who you ask,” he said, half-chuckling. Then he grew solemn. “I went for jog last week in the park, I saw you on the bench. When I came around next time you were gone.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You’re the runner! I remember you!”

  He smiled then put his attention back on driving. Maxine kept the book in her lap the rest of the way home.

  She finally asked, “Did you follow me to the bar that night?”

  “Non.”

  “Did you bump into me on purpose?”

  “Non.”

  Maxine smoothed her hand over the book. “So this is all just coincidence?”

  “It is what it is.” He pulled over and parked outside her apartment building.

  The next time she spoke her voice was soft, regretful. “I’m wondering if you have an unclear image of who I really am. Taking guys home from bars and making out in public…well, that’s not really me. I’ve never acted like that in my life so if you think—”

  “Me neither,” he interrupted. Then he gave her an open grin that bordered on mischievousness. “But maybe nail polish knows?”

  Maxine worked hard at not returning the smile. “What is this then, this thing that’s happening between us?”

  He pointed to her pink nails. “A second chance.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Antony grinned the whole drive back from the Air Canada Centre. He only lived a few blocks away, but it was so damn cold tonight. Plus, walking outside with a head full of wet hair from his post game shower was just plain stupid.

  He turned up the volume on the stereo, listening to the sports radio call in show. The host was especially keen on praising him tonight.

  “And speaking of guys picking it up a notch, Antony Laurent was on fire against the Red Wings with three assists and was voted player of the game. Why does this happen? How can a guy who has been on the fringe all season, suddenly start taking control of the ice? No one could touch him tonight.”

  Banter started between the two other announcers.

  “This is what happens when the usual leaders fall away, someone has to step up, lead the team…”

  Lead the team? The thought secretly thrilled and terrified Antony.

  “I think he’s finally found his place in this line up. The shuffle of the third defense line is why this guy is always close to the puck.”

  His phone buzzed with a call from ursexslave.

  Antony’s smiled faltered. He checked the rearview mirror and then pulled off to the side, double parking. He tapped the screen.

  “Allo?”

  “You looked fat on TV.”

  Antony snorted at the insult. “Mama would disagree.”

  There was a hitch then a groan on the other line. “First interview on Hockey Night. How did it feel?”

  “Scary,” he answered truthfully. “My English is…you know.”

  “Broken. You sweat like pig, too.” Then a light chuckle. “Good thing you are stud.”

  Antony heard his name on the radio. “Almost home,” he said, then ended the call.

  He pulled back into traffic and was soon activating the garage door of the underground parking to his condo. With only the ticking of the engine while it cooled down in the background, Antony listened to the rest of the broadcast, leaning his elbow on the armrest with his knuckle tucked under his chin.

  It was a rare broadcast when almost every caller was praising the team. Still, there was a sense of cautious optimism. The host ended the show with this final question. “The guy has almost dug himself a hole. If he doesn’t keep up the same caliber we’ve seen the last few games, even a good game will seem like a disaster by comparison. If the team starts to rely on his newly found superior skills, you have to wonder, where can Antony Laurent go from here?”

  He clicked off the volume. A napkin from Hot n’ Spicy lay on the car mat by his shoes. He glanced at the passenger seat, wishing Maxine would appear.

  Where can Antony Laurent go from here?

  The phone rang again. Antony let it go to voice mail.

  When he opened the door to his condo, he felt like he was back in the arena. He rolled his eyes, wishing he’d never installed the surround sound with five speakers. He dropped his duffle bag in the entrance way then walked past the kitchen and into the large living room. The large screen TV was showing the game he’d just played. He took a small conciliation that it was the third period and his interview had already happened.

  The frame froze. Antony steeled himself as the silence fell over the
room. His brother put down the remote and pointed to the screen. “See that?” he asked. “Luca was out of position. Could have cost goal.”

  Antony counted four empty beer bottles on the table.

  Marc wheeled back and turned his chair toward Antony. With his rumpled black hair and olive complexion, he could have been Antony’s identical twin if it weren’t for his pale blue eyes. “Good job.” He smiled up at Antony.

  “Merci.” He loosened his tie. Marc was in a rare mood to talk mostly in English. He was always the smarter between the two of them—he would have aced that interview. But all Antony wanted to do now was take off his suit and collapse into bed. However, the ritual had to be played out. It was a game between Antony and his older brother, an unspoken pledge that Antony never remembered making but couldn’t break. He stepped around the wheelchair and sank onto the cushy leather couch.

  Marc picked up the remote and took the replay to the very start of the game. As always, Marc did commentary and made sure to point out the areas where Antony could have done something different.

  “Ah, again…you see?” Marc paused the frame. “If you shoot from too far, no rebound. You have to get rebound.”

  “You’re right,” Antony answered automatically. He couldn’t totally tune him out as Marc was usually right. Grueling as they were, Antony always learned something from Marc during these sessions. More than once, he brought up the notion of coaching.

  Each time Marc would laugh then his expression would start to crumble a bit, showing the pain he kept buried under years of pretending. “As soon as I get snow tires,” he’d say, slapping the side of his wheelchair.

  “I fired Lucy,” Marc announced, almost sounding bored. He brought a bottle to his lips. Then he frowned and shook it. “Empty.”

  Antony was too tired to argue. “What was wrong with Lucy?”

  “She’s not Sasha.”

  “Sasha is in Philippines visiting family. We can’t expect her to be here all the time.”

  Marc put the bottle down hard.

  The list of care workers that had either quit or been fired had already reached the double digits. The excuses varied; bad breath, incompetent, stealing…it didn’t matter because the excuses rotated on a monthly basis. The only one who had stayed with them the longest was Sasha. Antony figured she must have been doing penance for some long ago sin—just like him.