The Right Fit

by Daphne Dubois

  His stomach rumbled. Oh, right, he smiled. They’d skipped out on dinner and went straight for dessert. He was sure Maxine would appreciate a midnight picnic in bed. With his head full of new ways to pleasure her, Antony went to the kitchen and began warming up the take-out.

  He put it all out for a feast; the Portobello mushrooms, extra olives, humus dip, pita slices, pepper steak with twice-baked potato.

  She showed up ten minutes later, leaning against the doorframe dressed in his white shirt with her red hair wild and curly, tumbling past her shoulders.

  “Bonjour, sexy,” he’d said, greeting her with a kiss.

  They fell into a comfortable choreography of him cooking on the stove, reaching for pots and spoons while she slunk behind him, reaching around his waist to steal a mushroom or leaning her hip on the counter, happy to watch the preparation.

  “Do you think they were upset when you asked for everything to be packaged for takeout?” She reached for a buttered shrimp, plucking it between her fingers.

  Antony was transfixed as she brought it to her mouth, licking the tips of her fingers. He groaned and swooped in, kissing her mouth. “Non,” he said, finally answering her question. “Easy money for good tip.”

  “Maybe we’ll go again and actually eat there.”

  “Sure.” He handed her a small plate of sliced pepper steak and a fork, then nodded to a glass of red wine on the counter.

  “Merci!” She stayed at the counter and began to eat. “I love night time picnics. Is this a French thing?”

  Antony broke off a piece of pita bread and dipped it in the pan drippings from the steak. “Non, my older brother texted me, woke me up.” He chewed and then reached for his glass of water.

  “The one who lives close by?” she asked over the rim of the wine glass.

  “Oui,” Antony motioned down the hallway. “His bedroom beside mine.” He almost choked with laughter at the look on her face. “Non, not tonight. He’s…uh…in rehab.”

  Lines etched her forehead. “It’s after midnight. Is everything okay?” She shook her head. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. You wouldn’t be making a meal if there was a problem.”

  Antony forced a smile. There was no way to answer her question truthfully. “He’s okay, just nagging me about home gym.”

  She frowned at him.

  “He needs physiotherapy,” Antony chewed his steak, it suddenly tasted like sawdust. They were heading in a direction he wasn’t ready to take. He felt like he was holding on to this moment by his fingertips, wanting to keep Maxine here in his apartment—in his arms, on their little planet of isolation, if only for a few more days.

  “Oh,”—her expression smoothed—“that kind of rehab. I thought you meant drugs. Well, er…not that being in rehab for drugs is a bad thing if he’s there for that, too.” She grimaced, then her voice became soft. “Sorry.”

  He put down his fork and nestled up close to her. “No drugs. He’s in wheelchair.” Then he waited, wondering how far he had to take this tonight.

  She stayed quiet for a moment then asked, “What happened to him?”

  Antony counted two blinks, working to keep his voice steady. “Car accident. Six years ago.” He sniffed, adding, “Drunk driver.”

  “That’s so horrible.” Maxine’s face crumbled, a hand went over her heart. “That’s how my dad died.”

  A knife sliced through Antony’s chest.

  “He was only going to the store for milk,” she said. “But the drunk driver didn’t stop at the red light. That’s all it took. One stupid moment of not stopping. The other driver didn’t even have a license. He’d already lost it from previous accidents.” Her eyes became glassy, but Antony could tell she was fighting the tears.

  She blinked a few times. “It was three years ago, but it still feels like yesterday sometimes. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.” She touched his elbow. “So, what about your brother, did they charge the driver?”

  A pile of stones started to push themselves down Antony’s throat. He made a feeble attempt to clear his voice before he said, “He has life sentence.”

  “Wow.” Then she hugged his arm. “You’re a good brother.”

  Antony concentrated on counting the grains of rice spilled on the counter beside the pot.

  “What does he do?” she asked.

  “Mon frère?” He forced himself to look at her. There was a shift in the gravity of her stare. “He played hockey before. He was supposed to be pro.”

  “That must be sad for him. Does he help with your towing business…I mean, with paperwork or bookkeeping? Does he have any other interests?”

  “Non,” Antony stared down at his crossed bare feet. “Just hockey.” His words sounded heavy coming out.

  “My brother likes hockey, too.” She nudged him. “But I guess nearly everyone in the city cheers for Toronto, or not, maybe…I don’t know.” She laughed. “Does your brother like the team?”

  “He follows them.”

  “Westley brags he knows a few of them from Henry Roman’s, but I think he’s trying to make his job sound more glamorous.”

  The shirt Maxine was wearing had come from one of those trips to Henry Roman’s. With a pang of regret, Antony didn’t remember any of the people who waited on him. Still, her brother could be the key to helping him.

  “How old is he?” she asked.

  “Mon frère? Twenty-six.”

  Antony felt her shift her weight beside him. “And you’re younger than him? How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.” He tried to read her expression. “Why?”

  A blush took over her cheeks. “Just curious.” She picked up a slice of Portobello mushroom.

  Antony was grateful for the change in subject. He drank down the last mouthful of water, watching her twirl a piece of hair around her finger. She was smiling at the floor now, coyly as if enjoying a secret joke, the blush still coloring her checks.

  Sensing an opportunity, he used the shift in mood to put the focus back on them. They’d barely dodged a bullet, but now he at least had a scheme to tell her about the hockey. With a sense of euphoria returning, the hint of an erection that had been lurking below the surface decided to become fully committed.

  Antony took her fork, put the last two pieces of steak on the end, and fed them to her. “If you’re done,” he said, “we should start dessert.” Then Antony began unbuttoning her shirt, one by one. His hand slipped inside, sliding across her soft breast. His thumb grazed the tip of her nipple, hardening under his touch.

  “You’re bad,” she whispered, the smile on her lips encouraging him.

  He leaned down and she took his kiss eagerly. Antony picked her up and placed her on the counter. Their hands roamed over each other; pulling, smoothing, tugging. Her mouth crushed against his.

  Antony’s erection was rock hard now. The desire to have her right then and there in the kitchen burned hotly through his veins. He could almost feel the anticipation of that first thrust.

  “I want you.” She breathed into his neck.

  “Mon Dieu.” His knees almost buckled. “Condom…bedroom.” He managed to utter.

  Maxine reached into the shirt pocket and pulled out a square wrapper, smiling triumphantly.

  There was a frenzy of opening the package and sliding the rubber on, and then finally Antony was inside, molding to her body.

  Her heels pushed against his lower back as he grasped her hips, pulling her close with each penetration. The urgency subsiding as they fell into a sensual rhythm. She hugged his neck, and started to kiss his face, whispering his name.

  Antony never expected to have someone this close in his life—someone who didn’t depend on him being a super star on the ice. For the first time in his life, Antony Laurent succeeded in something other than hockey, he’d fallen in love, and in turn had become someone worth loving.

  Maybe, he thought as she sighed his name, that he’d paid back his debt and the universe was giving him carte blanc
he, a second chance of sorts.

  A surge of energy exploded from Antony’s very core. The rocking of their bodies on the edge of the counter began to hasten. Her fingers gripped his shoulders like she was holding on to the edge of a cliff. She pressed her face into his chest. “Don’t let me go,” she said

  “Jamais,” he promised. “Never.”

  ****

  He drew her a bath the next morning, then waited at the side of the tub with a warmed towel, thick and pure white. Then he wrapped her up and carried her to his bed, where they rolled and tumbled in each other’s arms over the duvet as the sun streamed into the room. He ravished her breasts with his mouth while his fingers linked with hers above her head, making love to her as if the whole world outside had stopped and they were their own little orb of life.

  Later, he made Provençal chicken stew while she sipped wine he kept topping up for her. They talked as he cooked; crushing the garlic cloves, dipping each piece of chicken in the flour before adding it to the hot, sizzling oil. Maxine nibbled on olives and small bites of cheese and candied nuts. “What was it like growing up in Rimouski?” she asked.

  “Hockey is way of life”—he said, shaking his head—“even more than here. Marc and I were natural on ice.”

  Earlier she’d seen that one of the framed pictures in his room had been of Marc and Antony in their hockey uniforms, both playing for a major junior league. “Do you miss hockey, too?” she asked.

  “Non,” he simply said.

  Maxine asked again about Marc. “My sister Rose works for the crime division of the Globe and Mail. Well, she’s working for an editor who makes her pick up his dry cleaning sometimes, but the main thing is she has connections.” Then she smiled. “You said Marc knows all the stats for Toronto’s hockey team, maybe he might consider going into sports journalism?”

  Antony stopped stirring the stew. “You’re really something,” he said. Then he drew her into a hug and kissed her so long and so hard, they ended up stumbling into the living room where they started to have sex on the couch—until the sound of the stew boiling over sent Antony scrambling back to the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You got us tickets to tonight’s game and VIP passes?” Stuart’s eyes were the size of the cappuccino mug in his hand, now shaking and threatening to spill on the long table they’d managed to snag mid-Saturday morning at Jimmy’s Coffee. Westley sat beside him in his usual t-shirt and V-neck sweater combo, staring at her, unbelieving.

  Maxine nodded, her smile so wide it hurt her face. She handed over the tickets Antony had left on her bedside table that morning. Still sleepy, she only remembered the light kiss on the cheek before he had to leave for work.

  It had been over a week since their two-day sleepover love extravaganza at his apartment. Maxine couldn’t remember a time of such adoring devotedness.

  Even now, in Jimmy’s Coffee sitting at the long table with the cushioned benches on either side, Maxine was nothing but exuberant and bright-eyed. Antony had infused her with a tangible brilliance. She was certain stars would tumble from her hair if she shook it out.

  “How did you get these?” Westley brought the tickets to his nose as if looking for the flaw that would indicate a prank.

  “Antony,” Rose answered, her tone flat. She was still wearing her outdoor scarf.

  “Your new fella?” Stuart smiled at Maxine. “I love him. I don’t even know him and I love him.”

  “Wait until you see him.” Maxine sighed, wrapping her hands around her mint tea. She was wearing one of her more glamorous pieces, a leopard print sweater with a faux fur collar. A headband of vintage brooches completed the look. Lately, Maxine was happy to stand out.

  “How can someone get tickets this quickly?” Westley scratched the side of his head, a dark brown piece of hair stuck up behind his ear. “It’s against Boston! Do you know how many people would kill to get these?”

  Rose sneezed into her sleeve. She brought out a tissue and blew her nose.

  “You’re so fancy,” Stuart said. He broke off a piece of bacon cheddar scone and popped it in his mouth. “How’s the local crime scene these days?”

  “Sleazy.” She coughed. “Like always.” She eyed the tickets as Westley handed them to Stuart.

  Maxine’s mood deflated, she sensed what was coming. “Spare me the lecture, Rose,” she said. “You’ve already planted enough suggestions on the walk here to make your opinion clear.”

  Stuart quirked an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  Rose brought her hot chocolate up to her reddened nose. “I think it’s a little suspicious that someone so young is part owner of a business that has five main operations in the greater Toronto area.”

  “What business?” Westley asked.

  “Ace Towing,” Rose said. His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Exactly,” she said, tapping a finger on the table. “And how did he come by those VIP passes? I checked with the guys from the sports section and they say even scalpers can’t get those for less than a few thousand a seat.”

  “Hold on.” Stuart put the tickets on the table. “How young?”

  Maxine grinned madly. “Twenty-five!”

  “Holy shit,” Stuart said. “He’s younger than you! You’re such a cougar.” He gave her a high five over the table. “How’s the sex?”

  Westley shot him a look. “Really?”

  Maxine felt her cheeks warm.

  “Anyway,” Rose huffed. “Maxine needs to be careful; she’s still fragile from Johnny.”

  “And I’m sitting right beside you. Antony surprised me with those last night, saying a regular client couldn’t make the game.” She turned to Stuart. “Apparently this guy knows a guy who knows another guy…or something.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Rose blew into her steaming mug. “Somebody in the mafia.”

  “Who cares?” Stuart interjected. “We’re seeing Toronto play Boston tonight! I hope we beat those bastards.”

  A few heads turned in the direction of their table. They all nodded solemnly and raised their mugs, like a secret camaraderie, declaring vengeance.

  Maxine studied her younger brother across the table. His furrowed brow reminded her of the way her dad used to look when he was uncertain. “Hey,” she said, nudging him under the table with her boot. “Antony got those for you. He’s looking forward to meeting you tonight.”

  Westley’s expression relaxed and he looked younger again. “I know I’ll like him,” he said. “He makes you smile. That’s all that matters.”

  “Jesus, that was beautiful,” Stuart said, putting an arm around Westley’s shoulders.

  Maxine spent the rest of the morning in a pleasant daze, waltzing around her apartment, enchanted with every little task. Making her bed, brushing her teeth, laying out her outfit for the game tonight—black wool flared skirt, long red cardigan with the polka dot belt, oversized silk scarf and her favorite gold hoop earrings—and even cleaning the caked salt off her boots. She was a smitten kitten, as her mother would say.

  She was in love, deep.

  Then Antony sent her a text making sure she would be at the game tonight. He had his own ticket and would meet her there.

  Was this really happening? She smiled at the text.

  It scared her when she thought about it for too long. Her rebound experience wasn’t supposed to be like this. Antony was supposed to be a mindless romp in bed, someone to give her back her confidence, Crosby had promised.

  But the whirlwind romance of it all! His insistence was unparalleled, his appetite for her insatiable. Would it always be like this? She didn’t think she could live with such constant passion…well, maybe every second night.

  Then he texted her saying he might be late—work was extra busy today, he’d have to stay longer than expected.

  And then an hour later, while she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, half way through curling her hair into long waves, he texted saying he’d miss the beginning for certain, but he promised he would be
there. Make sure not to forget the VIP passes, he added with an exclamation mark.

  Maxine stared at the last text and a vague notion of doubt creeped through darkening the anticipation.

  She dialed his cell phone but it went straight to his messages. She drummed her nails on the bathroom sink, picked up the phone again, and looked up the various numbers for ACE Towing.

  This is stupid, she told herself as the other end of the line began to ring, but once the idea had surfaced from her subconscious, she realized it had been lurking there for some time, probably since the first time she saw him in that greasy ball cap.

  The person who answered was gruff and sounded bored. They had no one working at that garage with the name Antony Laurent. Unfazed, but sensitive to the fine hairs on the back of her neck that had started to lift, Maxine called the other four locations, asking the same question. “Is Antony working today? May I speak with him?”

  “No one by that name.” She heard the same sentence four times over. She paced the hallway between her bedroom and her kitchen, half her hair curled, the phone in one hand, the curling iron in the other, trying to reason with her imagination. The most logical explanation was that as an owner, no one thought of Antony as an employee.

  But he told you he was working late, a small voice in the back of her head kept answering.

  The afternoon light faded. Maxine turned on a lamp, she’d bitten the red polish off her right thumb nail. When Westley and Stuart arrived, they looked at her sweat pants and long sweater she’d been wearing while getting ready.

  Stuart had on a t-shirt with Toronto’s blue maple leaf logo and black leather jacket and jeans. “I can’t sit with you dressed like that. And please tell me you’re wearing a hat,” he said, pointing to her half-curled hair.

  “Let’s go,” Maxine said numbly, grabbing her long coat from the rack.

  With Westley and Stuart leading the way through the crowds entering the Air Canada Centre, Maxine stared at their backs as questions and suspicions tumbled in front of her vision like squiggly floaters.