by Alix Nichols
Couple Number 1—Uma and Noah, childhood besties teetering between friendship and something more.
Couple Number 2—Zach and I testing the waters to see if we click.
Do we click? I guess so.
In addition to being gorgeous, Zach is also a wealthy go-getter interested in a relationship. Unlike Noah.
Besides, he fits Dad’s idea of a perfect catch to a T.
If I am to give the whole dating thing another shot and go out with someone while I’m in Paris, it should be him. In fact, I can’t find a single reason why we shouldn’t date.
My mind conjures up an image of Uma and Noah huddled together on his scooter.
It’s decided.
If Zach asks me out, I’ll say yes.
NINE
Noah
I’m headed to the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont with a blanket, a pillow, an ultralight bivvy tent, and a cold beer stuffed into my duffel when my phone beeps.
It’s a text from Sophie.
Are you asleep? I wanted to ask you a quick question, but it can certainly wait until tomorrow. Sophie
I tap a quick reply.
Awake. Shoot.
My curiosity piqued, I keep looking at the screen to read her reply as soon as it arrives. But, instead of beeping, my phone rings.
“Sorry for calling you this late,” Sophie says. “I’d expected you’d be in bed already.”
It hits me how much I like the sound of her voice. Feminine, velvety, sexy as hell. Even the most innocuous thing she says feels like a caress. I could listen to her say innocuous—and not so innocuous—things all day.
“Ten is a little early even for us larky athletes,” I say. “Not to mention it’s impossible to sleep in this heat.”
“Tell me about it!” She lets out a sigh. “Why is it that no one has AC in Paris?”
“Because we don’t believe global warming is real.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“Or maybe because we don’t get heat waves every year, and they don’t last long, so we hesitate to fork over several thousand euros on AC.”
“That sounds more like the French,” she says, a smile in her voice. “So what do you do to be able to sleep?”
“By ‘you’ are you referring to the French as a nation or me, Noah Masson, as a person?”
There’s a brief pause before she replies. “You as a person.”
“Tonight, I’m trying my luck outdoors. The town hall has opened several parks for overnight camping, so I’ll be bivouacking in Buttes-Chaumont. I’m heading there as we speak.”
“I’m not far from there myself,” she says. “My boss and I were showing an apartment nearby, and then had a couple of drinks, so I’m still in the hood.”
“Your boss takes you out for drinks,” I say pointedly before I can stop myself. “How kind of him.”
Shit.
That was totally uncalled for. The kind of relationship Sophie has with her boss is none of my business. She’s my landlady, not my girlfriend.
“It is very kind of her,” Sophie says. “I couldn’t dream of a better boss for my first paid internship.”
I wish I could bang my head against something right now, hard. “Of course. That comment was way too macho, even for me. I’m really sorry.”
“I forgive you,” she says, her voice returning to velvety.
My shoulders sag with relief. “You said you had a question.”
“I did.”
“I’m listening.”
“Err… Do you mind if I meet you in the park and I ask in person? I promise it won’t take long.”
Every nerve ending in my body perks up at “meet you” and dances a little jig at “in person.” My pulse kicks into high gear and my cock stirs in my pants.
“It’s about Zach,” she says.
Oh.
Of course. Now that she’s met him—and, no doubt, liked him—she wants to know more about him. What did I expect?
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound pleased. “Can you be at the main entrance on the corner of Botzaris and Simon-Bolivar in ten minutes?”
“Fifteen.”
“Great. See you there.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting next to each other—me cross-legged and Sophie hugging her knees—on the blanket I’ve spread under a tree. She’s wearing a flowy summer dress with a hem that bares her lithe calves and part of her thighs. My gaze travels down to her feet. They’re clad in sandals with sexy straps that crisscross and snake around her slim ankles. Her toenails are painted dark red.
They are the most beautiful feet I’ve ever laid eyes on.
My chest clenches with longing.
Cut the crap, Noah.
That’s way too much appreciation for a woman you’re trying to set up with a friend.
Peeling my gaze off her, I look around. At least a hundred couples, groups, and individuals have set camp on the vast lawn, prepping for a night under the stars.
I pull the beer out of my bag and open it. “Want some? We better drink it while it’s still cold.”
“Thank you.” She takes a swig and gives the can back. “That felt good.”
Lifting the can to my mouth, I wonder if I’ll taste Sophie. I wonder what her lush, delicious-looking lips taste like. What her perfect skin tastes like. What her little—
“How well do you know Zach?” she asks.
Talk about cold showers.
On the other hand, I needed this.
“Pretty well. We’ve been on the same team almost two years now.”
“He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.” I nod. “Better than nice. He’s awesome.”
“How come he’s raising his kid alone?”
“Zach’s ex-girlfriend didn’t want the burden of a child with a chronic health condition.”
“Oh.”
“Sam’s epilepsy is manageable,” I add quickly. “He’ll go to school next year like other kids his age. When he grows up, he can live a normal life, provided he takes his meds.”
She nods.
“Look,” I say. “I totally get it if you hesitate because of that, but you shouldn’t.”
“That’s not why I—”
“Besides,” I add before she can finish. “You can date Zach without getting involved with his kid. Sam has two nannies and an adoring dad to take care of him.”
She frowns. “That’s not why I hesitate. It’s just… I’m not sure I should start a relationship or even date, when I know I’m going back home in December.”
“So what?” I shrug. “Why not have some fun while you’re in Paris?”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Try me.”
“You really want to hear it?”
I nod.
She snatches the beer from me, takes a good swig, and hands it back to me. “I’m frigid.”
You? No way.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve dated three different men, had sex with each of them, and never felt anything.”
I study her face.
“Worse,” she says. “I actually did feel something—pain and discomfort.”
My hand touches her cheek before my brain can step in. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t jerk away.
“Now that I’ve adjusted my expectations,” she says, running her hands down her shins, “I find lots of advantages to my condition.”
My gaze follows her fingers that are wrapped around her ankles now. “Like what?”
“No distractions, no heartbreaks, no ill-matched boyfriends to be ashamed of later.”
“I see.”
The hell I do.
What I really see right now in the soft yellowish light of the nearby streetlamp has nothing to do with ill-matched boyfriends. My world is focused on Sophie’s slim ankles, the breathtaking arch of her soles and her long, callus-free toes.
Did I suddenly become a foot fetishist?
“Besid
es,” she says. “I can be rational about picking my future life partner, and make Dad happy by choosing a man who meets his criteria.”
“Which are?”
“Successful, ambitious, and gallant.” She gives me a funny look. “Someone like Zach.”
I glance up at her face. “Your dad has a lot of common sense.”
“Gobs of it.”
“He wants what’s best for you.”
“Absolutely.”
“But… don’t you ever wonder if there’s a man out there who’d make you feel things that aren’t pain or discomfort?”
“I do, but then I remind myself this is the way I’m wired.” She sighs. “It would be foolish to wait for some fairy-tale prince whose kiss would wake me up from my sleep.”
“You tried to have sex three times, right?” I cock my head.
She nods.
“That’s not a lot.”
She says nothing.
“Three disappointments aren’t enough to conclude that’s the way you’re wired.”
Sophie studies a tiny bug traveling down her hand.
“Tell me about each of those times,” I say.
“I can’t.” She shifts her position. “Anyway, I should get going.”
I glance at my watch. “It’ll be midnight soon. I don’t like the idea of you alone on the deserted streets.”
“What’s the alternative?”
I should offer to call her a cab. “Stay here.”
“In the park?” She furrows her brow.
I point at my bivvy. “You’ll be safer with me here than on the métro.”
She peers at me.
I stare back, praying she’ll say yes.
Because if she says no, I’m going to pack up and take the métro to the 18th with her, then try to catch the last train or hoof it back here. There’s no way I’m saying good-bye now. I need a little more of Sophie tonight.
Please say yes.
She picks up the beer can and gulps down the rest of the liquid. “Are there any restrooms in this park?”
Fingers crossed this means yes.
“There’s a toilet right there.” I point toward a one-story building to our left.
She stands up. “I’ll be back.”
When she returns a few minutes later, I’m lying on my back with my knees bent and hands clasped under my head.
She lies down next to me, mirroring my position. “You’d expect to see more stars.”
“This is plenty for Paris.”
We stare at the night sky for a few minutes.
“My first time was with a classmate,” she says. “We were sixteen. We were both of us so inept it’s a small miracle we actually managed to get rid of our virginity.”
I turn to look at her face. She’s wincing.
“Not a happy memory, huh?”
She shakes her head. “I was so not ready.”
“Did you let him near you again?”
“Nope. I broke up with him immediately. He cried.”
“What about the second time?”
“The second boyfriend…” She’s silent for a long moment. “Sophomore year. I didn’t want to rush things, and he said he respected that. So we abstained for a while. And then…”
She expels her breath in a slow hiss.
“And then?”
“I agreed to have sex with him. I thought I liked him. He’d been perfectly likable before he stripped and started touching me.” Her words come out fast and angry. “And suddenly, he was repulsive. His smell, his touch, his kisses…”
She releases another long breath.
I turn my head toward her. Sophie’s jaw is set, her nostrils flaring, as she’s reliving that situation.
“Did—” I begin to form my question.
“The third one,” she says with an exaggerated nonchalance, “was the most pathetic experience of all. I was so not into it during foreplay that I went to the bathroom while he was looking for a condom, locked the door, and asked him to leave.”
“Ouch.” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be in that guy’s shoes.”
She shrugs. “So I figured sex was overrated.”
“Do you think you might be into women?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Good,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because that gorgeous body of yours was made to be touched by a man.”
She smirks. “Here comes the macho again!”
But she’s wrong. My comment had nothing to do with machismo. What I meant by “a man” wasn’t abstract. The man I had in mind was specific and concrete with a birth name he’d chosen to discard years ago, and a straining cock he’s choosing to ignore right now.
This man.
TEN
SOPHIE
For a moment Noah’s eyes burn into mine, intense. He shifts closer to me, ever so slightly, and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something.
And then he blinks and looks away.
When he turns back to me a few seconds later, his expression is unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Feel free to gag me before I make another highly inappropriate comment.”
I pull a face. “Gagging is so Fifty Shades. How about duct tape?”
“Really?” He frowns and shrugs. “If that’s what floats your boat…”
“Did you pack any, by chance?”
He shakes his head.
I sigh. “In that case, there’s only one thing left to do.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
“Sleep.”
“Good idea.” He jumps up. “I’m going to open the bivvy and move the blanket inside, if you don’t mind.”
I stand up, too. “Won’t we be too warm inside?”
“Don’t worry.” He unfolds the contraption which turns out to be a narrow one-person tent. “See the mesh on the sides? Keeps bugs out but lets air in.”
I tip my head back and close my eyes hoping for a night breeze, but the air is as still and sultry as it was at midday.
“Not sure we want this air in,” I say.
“The temperature will drop soon.”
Opening my eyes, I glance at the bivvy. “It’s going to be tight in there.”
“Are you an aggressive sleeper?”
I smile. “I don’t jump, kick, or snore in my sleep if that’s what you mean.”
“Me neither.” Noah throws a small pillow into the bivvy. “We’ll be fine.”
He steps out of his flip-flops and climbs inside.
I remove my sandals. This is crazy. As in, crazy exciting.
When I crawl in, Noah has moved as far to the left as the tent allows, leaving me half of the available space and the whole pillow.
I turn to him, propping myself up. “Can you sleep without a pillow?”
He glances at it and then at me as if considering his options. “You’re right. I’ll need something.”
Sitting up, he pulls off his T-shirt, folds it, and lies back down, tucking it under his head.
My lips part as I take in the glorious triangle of his torso.
Frigid or not, all that smooth, hard, chiseled manliness—this close—makes an impression.
Stop ogling his chest, Sophie!
I look at his hands instead. “They’re big.”
Shoot. Did I just say that out loud?
“You mean my hands?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.”
He lifts his right hand and splays his fingers. “Having big hands is an asset for a water polo goalie. As is a large body size, arm span, speed of reaction, and a firm grip.”
A firm grip. I swallow.
“Reaction speed is probably the most important feature,” Noah says. “A shorter goalie who’s explosive will get into the corners faster and block better than a big goalie who’s slow.”
“So, the ideal is a big explosive goalie, right?”
“Right.”
I give him a wink. “Which is where you come in.”
; He smiles, blushing a little.
Aww. Could this man get any sweeter? I need a joke before my heart melts into a sticky mess. Any dumb crack will do.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” I say, “but water polo players look a little funny.”
“Funny how?”
“You know, with those bonnets tied neatly under your chins. And your chests are shaved…”
“It’s to reduce drag and increase speed.”
“Of course. But still…” I give him a sly smile. “It does reinforce the look.”
“What look?”
My gaze flicking to his nipples, I mutter, “Baby look.”
“Really?”
“Come on,” I nudge him. “Can you deny that water polo players look like babies? Huge, muscular, testosterone-fueled babies.”
“Sophie.” He arches an eyebrow in fake admonishment. “That was sexist and highly inappropriate.”
I drop my head to my chest to show I regret my words. Which I don’t. Not for a second.
“What’s the word for a macho woman?” he asks.
“Hmm… Man-eater?”
He shakes his head.
“Femdom?” I try again.
“Warmer, but still off the mark.”
“Butch?”
He sighs. “I’ll have to write a letter to the Académie Française urging them to coin a word for women like you.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say.
“I’m going to propose femcho.”
I snort. “That sounds perfectly ridiculous. Makes me think of that fluffy poncho I bought a few years back and never dared to wear.”
“Hmm…” He rubs his chin, drawing my attention to the bulging muscles of his upper arm.
“Femcho accusations aside, how do you guys get so fit?” I ask.
He smiles. “We swim at least 2,000 meters during each workout, lift weights for body strength, and stretch for flexibility. Um… what else? We practice shooting and treading water until our arms and legs fall off. You know, the usual ‘testosterone-fueled baby’ stuff.”
If I look at his mouth or his torso a second longer, I might squeal. Or make another inane comment. Or reach over and touch him.