Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

“I understand,” she says.

  “What I can promise is which side I’ll be supporting. For my parents’ sake, for my club’s sake and, most of all, for you.”

  She gives me a sad smile.

  I open the door, step out onto the landing, and turn back to her. “I want to be worthy of you, Izz. More than anything, I aspire to be the man you’ll want to move in with and love up close.”

  Epilogue

  Isabelle

  True to my word, I didn’t move in with Lucas.

  For a whole month.

  He kept remembering new things, and telling me about them. I kept looking out for signs of badness, which never came.

  We talked a lot.

  We kissed a lot, too.

  Then I moved in some of my things, for practical reasons, what with me needing him in my arms too much. A few weeks later, I moved in the rest, seeing as I needed him in my arms every night.

  Tonight is no exception.

  He flips me onto my stomach and spreads my legs. I smile as he kisses and rubs me, his thick erection prodding against my leg.

  In six months, one gets used to being loved and desired. To the passion of the man I considered unattainable. To his insatiable appetite for me, to the warmth of his body, to the sight of him straining to hold off his release until I’ve had mine…

  I love watching Lucas when we make love.

  But I love this position, too, where I can’t see him. He enters me, and I almost come straight away, so heightened are all my senses. I can hear his labored breathing and our flesh slapping. His cock is deliciously hard and thick inside me. The feel of his chest against my back, the weight of him… And the smell! Lucas smells like the god of sex.

  I dig my hands and knees into the mattress and push back, urging him to give me more.

  He begins to thrust harder and harder, until I come.

  Slipping his hands under me to cup my breasts, he thrusts a few more times and groans his orgasm.

  “I have something important to tell you,” I say a few moments later when we cuddle.

  “Me, too.”

  I smile. “OK, you go first.”

  “No, you go first.”

  We fall silent before we speak at once.

  “I’m resigning from my job,” I say.

  “Marry me,” he says.

  We pause again, processing.

  “Why are you resigning?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable being my club’s publicist?”

  “A little, but it’s not—”

  “Do you feel you see too much of me?” he butts in. “Am I crowding you?”

  I shake my head and reach for my tote bag next to the bed. “I’ll continue counseling and helping you, but behind the scenes. I’ll no longer work for you.”

  “Did you get a better offer?” He stares at the large envelope in my hands. “Is that your new contract?”

  “That’s not how I envisioned it, but I guess you could call it that.” I smile and show him an ultrasound image.

  He stares at it, dumbfounded, and looks back at me. “Twins.”

  His expression is priceless.

  I nod, chuckling.

  “Twins,” he says again. “You thought… you feared you couldn’t—”

  “Turns out I could.” I shrug. “Perhaps I just didn’t get enough sex before moving in with you.”

  “How come I didn’t notice anything?” He touches my flat tummy.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not unusual not to show in the first trimester.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Three months,” I say. “I’d had no idea until two days ago when I realized I hadn’t had my period since early October.”

  He frowns, not convinced.

  “It’s been such a busy time, what with the Youth Aquatics Games, the new season, and signing with Cleona Bank… Besides, I didn’t have any nausea.”

  “So you did a pregnancy test and booked an appointment with a doctor.” He points at the image. “And you kept it from me.”

  “I did two tests. The first one was positive and the second, negative.” I touch his hand. “I wanted to be sure before I broke the news to you.”

  He pulls me to his chest. “Izz, you should’ve told me! I would’ve liked to accompany you to your first checkup.”

  “I promise I’ll take you along for the second,” I murmur against the hollow if his neck.

  He lifts my head up, looking concerned. “It’s OK for us to have sex, right?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “As often as before?”

  I nod.

  “Am I allowed to… go as deep as before?”

  My lips quirk. “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t want to hurt the babies.”

  “You won’t.”

  The line between his eyebrows disappears, and he takes my mouth in a long, thorough kiss.

  “Would you like to get married before or after the babies are born?” he asks when we break the kiss.

  Clearly, the possibility of me saying no hasn’t occurred to him.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  There is no possibility—not even the slightest chance, not in this universe or in any of the infinite parallel universes around us—that I’ll say no to his proposal.

  “Definitely before.” I nuzzle up against his chest. “While we have time and energy for such frivolous pursuits.”

  << <> >>

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  Read on for an excerpt from Zach and Uma’s story!

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  (The GAME TIME Series)

  He was supposed to look out for her, not kiss her senseless...

  Au pair Uma is all kinds of wrong for single dad Zach. She is his son's nanny, a twenty-three-year-old virgin, and a guileless ingenue to boot. Zach knows all of that.

  Then why can't he rein in his lust for her?

  If there is one man Uma should not be attracted to, it's the father of the adorable five-year-old in her charge. Once burned twice shy, Zach is the captain of a Paris water polo team and a wealthy entrepreneur who can have any woman he wants. No strings attached.

  Small wonder he goes all out to shun Uma!

  But when, with the help of a bottle of fine wine, Zach confesses all the dirty things he'd like to do to her, Uma astounds him by saying she wants that, too.

  What's a man to do but oblige?

  Besides, it's not like it's the end of the world. They're both sensible, level-headed adults. They'll just have a bit of fun and then go back to normal, as if nothing happened.

  Chapter One

  Zach

  I spot Uma haggling over cherries at the fruit stall.

  Her delicate frame is clad in her usual jeans and T-shirt, and her smooth black hair is pulled into a bun pierced by a pencil to hold it together. Clutching Sam’s little hand, she sports an expression that conveys, “Don’t mess with me—I’m tougher than I look.” She always uses it when she’s determined to have her way.

  Right now, I’d say she’s bent on negotiating a better price for those juicy cherries.

  I smile.

  I’ve told her I’m happy to pay the asking price for quality produce. I can afford it. I’ve also told her haggling isn’t common in French markets. The price announced by vendors is what they expect to fetch for their products, not what they expect to fetch, plus twenty percent.

  But old habits die hard.

  In Uma’s case, she’d overseen grocery shopping for her family in Nepal since she was ten, which means thirteen years of honing her bargaining skills. She isn’t ready to put them on ice just yet.

  By the time I reach the stall, the transaction
is over. Uma drops a paper bag of cherries into her shopping cart, and the vendor turns to the next person in line.

  “Papa!” Sam cries out, noticing me.

  I pick him up. “Hey, buddy.”

  My mom says I should stop doing that. Sam’s five and a half now—no longer a baby. He’s been riding his bike without training wheels ever since Uma moved in three weeks ago.

  She cocks her head. “What are you doing here?”

  “My meeting turned out to be shorter than expected. So, I thought I could head home and help you carry the groceries.”

  I refrain from mentioning that Uma isn’t supposed to do my grocery shopping in the first place.

  She’s an au pair in my house, and her responsibilities include taking care of Sam four hours a day. Considering his illness, it’s already more than expected from a regular au pair. Her contract states very clearly that household chores are not part of the package.

  But we’ve had this conversation several times over the past weeks, and Uma always comes up with some ridiculous reason to do more than her contract requires. Her excuse for grocery shopping, for example, is that it’s an educational activity. When I try to stand my ground, she just shrugs and says, “Sue me.”

  I’ve given up.

  The least I can do is make sure I intercept her in time to prevent her from pulling the cart all the way to the top of the steep hill where my house sits.

  Uma folds her hands over her chest. “Sam and I got this, Zach. You really didn’t need to rush back from Paris just so you could drive us up the hill.”

  “Paris is only a half-hour drive from here,” I say. “Besides, I truly had nothing better to do.”

  Uma’s expression softens. “OK, then. But we have one more stop to make before we head home.”

  Sam claps his hands. “Iced macarons!”

  I give Uma a questioning glance.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re almond meal and stevia, and I got the ingredients vetted by Sam’s doc.”

  I exhale a relieved breath, feeling a bit stupid for doubting Uma’s dependability. She’s the opposite of my ex. She’d never put Sam in harm’s way.

  As we stand in line at the baker’s, a flurry of polite bonjours erupts near the entrance, making Uma and me turn our heads. The town’s mayor, Jules Cantini, has entered the shop and is shaking hands with his constituency. As is his habit during his “casual” weekend outings, monsieur le maire is accompanied by one of his aides and by a photographer.

  Coach Lucas should take a page from Monsieur Cantini’s book.

  “Ah, Zachary,” the mayor says, spotting me. “Good to see you!”

  I shake his hand. “Jules.”

  Since I became the official patron of Inry’s new aquatics center and a regular guest coach at the kids’ swimming club, the mayor and I have been on a first-name basis.

  He greets Uma and Sam and waves his photographer over.

  “Monsieur Cantini would like to be photographed with you for the next issue of Inry News,” the aide informs me.

  “Sure.”

  “With your family, of course,” the mayor says, pointing to Sam and Uma.

  Uma nudges Sam toward me and draws aside.

  The mayor raises his eyebrows.

  “I’m not family, I’m the nanny,” she explains.

  “Oh, come on, Uma!” I pick Sam up. “Who cares?”

  She shakes her head.

  The mayor turns to her. “Mademoiselle…”

  “Darji,” she prompts.

  “Darji,” the mayor repeats before turning to the shopkeeper, “and Madame Brossard, please join us for this impromptu photo op.”

  Impromptu, my foot.

  The ladies oblige, and a dozen clicks of the camera later, we can stop smiling.

  The aide, who’s been scribbling in his notebook, snaps his fingers. “Just a moment of your attention, please. I want to make sure everyone’s OK with the caption. It’ll say, ‘Mayor of Inry, Jules Cantini, at Patisserie Brossard with owner Anne Brossard and patrons Uma Darji, little… er…”

  “Samuel,” I prompt.

  The aide nods a thank-you. “Samuel Monin and his father Zachary Monin, star of the French water polo team and founder of one of the fastest-growing startups in Inry.”

  I frown. “Will you please scratch the ‘star’ part?”

  “Why?” The aide arches an eyebrow. “You were last season’s top scorer to the best of my recollection.”

  “That doesn’t make me—” I begin.

  “Come now, Zachary.” The mayor tilts his head to the side and pats my arm as if to say, You should know better than that.

  I sigh and nod to the aide. “OK, sure. If it helps the town.”

  “Wonderful.” The mayor shakes everyone’s hands and heads out the door with his entourage in tow.

  After I buy the iced macarons, we shovel them in our mouths and go home. Once inside, Uma and I unpack the groceries while Sam crashes his remote-controlled helicopter into the ceiling and every single wall of the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you play in the garden?” I ask him. “A few more hits, and your brand-new gadget will break to pieces.”

  “No problem, I’ll fix it,” Sam says with the blissful confidence of a five-year-old.

  I scratch my head, wondering if it’s advisable to be honest in this situation.

  Uma rinses half of the cherries she bought at the market. “Sam wants to be an engineer when he grows up.”

  “Since when?” I turn to Sam. “Last I heard you wanted to be a hole-set like me and a spy.”

  Sam places his remote on the table, letting the helicopter hit the floor with a thud.

  I grimace. “Ouch.”

  “When I grow up, I’ll be”—he begins to count on his fingers—“a hole-set, engineer, spy, and dancer.”

  I crouch next to him. “All at the same time?”

  He nods.

  “Why not a singer, too, while you’re at it?”

  “No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “That would be too much. Even I need to sleep.”

  “I see.” I purse my lips to keep from cracking up. “So, why a dancer?”

  He gives me a duh look. “Because I’m really good at dancing. Uma says I’m the best dancer she’s ever seen.”

  I glance at Uma who’s setting a big bowl of cherries on the table.

  “What?” she says with a shrug. “He is.”

  For the next ten minutes, the three of us eat the cherries. “Savor” would be a better word, considering how good they are, each little fruit chock-full of color and flavor.

  Just like the woman who bought them.

  Shit.

  I peel my gaze off Uma and remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t let this kind of thought anywhere near my mind.

  This is Uma’s first ever stay away from her family, from her country, from everything she knows. She’s my teammate Noah’s best friend and almost fiancée. He hasn’t said as much, but from what I gather, there’s always been an unspoken understanding between them. The only reason he’s never declared his feelings or touched her is the respect he has both for her and for the Hindu customs, which demand self-restraint.

  Noah placed her in my house knowing she’d be safe here, and he trusts me fully.

  I’m disgusted with myself for having these thoughts about Uma. Thankfully, they’re just thoughts. It is fully within my power not to act on them. The ethics of seducing an employee aside, hell will freeze over before I betray a friend’s trust like that.

  Who I should be thinking about is Sophie, the American woman I met last week. She’s gorgeous, a pagan goddess doubling as a Victoria’s Secret model. On top of that, she’s smart, available, and—most importantly—slated to return stateside by Christmas. For a man looking to get back in the dating game without rushing into a long-term relationship, Sophie is an ideal choice.

  She really is.

  It beats me why I didn’t hit on her when I drove her home from
the double date at the Moose with Noah and Uma. Must be because I’m terribly out of practice or no longer sure what’s OK and what’s too much for a first date. Even less so when it’s a double date.

  Next week when work is less intense, I’ll ask her out on a proper one-on-one date.

  And I’ll do more than occasionally nodding and smiling.

  Chapter Two

  Uma

  “Whether you enrolled as a hobbyist or you want to be a professional embroiderer, you’ve come to the right place.”

  The speaker drinks from his glass and surveys the small crowd of new graduates and fresh recruits gathered in the auditorium of Ecole Lesage.

  Monsieur Bloom, a longtime teacher at the school, is so visibly proud of the establishment that his enthusiasm is infectious. I glance at the beaming women around me. When the school reopens in a few weeks after the August break, all of us will spend countless hours sewing beads and sequins onto framed scraps of silk, learning tambour embroidery and Lunéville hook, and all kinds of fancy stitches.

  I know I’ll love every moment of it.

  “You’re really looking forward to your course, huh?” Noah whispers, giving me a nudge. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m happy for myself,” I say.

  He smiles. “I talked to Maman on the phone yesterday. She sends her greetings and says she wishes she could be here today.”

  “I wish she were here, too. This is all thanks to her.” A rush of gratitude fills my heart. “I’ll never be able to pay her back for what she’s done for me—for what she’s still doing for me.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Maman loves you like the daughter she’s always dreamed of. Making you happy makes her happy.”

  “I know. And I love her, too.”

  “Dear students and guests,” Monsieur Bloom says. “Maison Lesage works with Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, and Chanel. Fashion designers give us a theme and a general idea, but it is our masters who trace the patterns and embroider them. What we do here is not just craft, it’s art.”