Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  He tilts his head, the corner of his lips curving up. “Are you becoming my Friday-night affair?”

  I raise an eyebrow and run a finger down the first two buttons on his crisp shirt. “Maybe I am.”

  He hums a note of approval, brushing a barely-there kiss against one cheek, then the other, before he whispers, “I’ll see you in a week, Friday-night lover.”

  I laugh lightly. “We’ll see about that last part.” I slide my hand into his hair one last time. It’s so lush against my fingers. Any trace of laughter fades away as I tell him, with complete seriousness, “For what it’s worth, it’s not easy resisting you.”

  But I manage the feat and head down the steps.

  10

  Christian

  Griffin is quiet as we run along the river. I chat briefly about football—my favorite team, and the club league I play in—but mostly keep my mouth shut, since he has a lot on his mind.

  We’re nearly finished with the run. I joined him, as I sometimes do, for the tail end of his run, logging in three miles to his fifty.

  Okay fine, it’s more like ten or twelve that he peels off. Whatever the number is, it’s a fuck lot more than I want to run. But he’s the one training for a marathon. I’m merely trying to stay in tip-top shape. I’d rather be skiing, but alas, it is June, so running it is.

  When we’re finished, Griffin checks his watch. “I’m going to go meet Joy around the corner then shower at her flat.”

  “Or you could skip the shower. Go straight to the good stuff.”

  “Thank you. That thought hadn’t occurred to me at all.”

  I clap him on the back, my breath still coming hard as we cross the busy avenue and turn toward a side street not far from Notre Dame. “That’s what I’m here for. To make sure you never forget the good stuff.”

  “Shockingly, I can remember on my own.”

  We head in the same direction, since I don’t live too far from here either. Griffin’s fallen into silence again, and I know that means he’s deep in thought about the decisions he needs to make. Figuring now is as good a time as any to give him a piece of advice, I say, “You know what my grandfather used to say about hard choices?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We usually know what we’re supposed to do. It’s all a matter of accepting the choice.”

  He arches an eyebrow and gives me a quizzical look. “You’re being contemplative?”

  I shrug. “I have it in me from time to time. But don’t ever let the ladies know.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Right. I’m sure they’d have zero interest in your soft, sensitive side.”

  I shudder. “I will deny you ever said that, and I will deny anything sensitive I’ve ever said. And on that note, I should go.” As we turn the corner, a red awning comes into view, with Café Rousillon painted in gold script. Chairs and tiny tables spill out from the open café doors onto the sidewalk, wedged close together. Griffin smiles widely when he spots Joy, and as I follow his gaze, I see his lovely redhead isn’t alone.

  And I suddenly have no interest in going anywhere. Joy is with my Friday-night lover. At least, I want Elise to become my Friday-night lover, in every sense of the word. “I’ll revise that last statement about my whereabouts.”

  “Oh, but you have to go,” Griffin says, with an over-the-top insistence. “Don’t you have so many things to do?”

  “Nothing on the schedule. Nothing at all.”

  We head over to their table as they settle the bill and rise. Griffin and Joy say hello and goodbye as quickly as new lovers can, and then it’s my little mermaid and me.

  I smile at her, enjoying how pretty she looks in her white blouse and black skirt. Work attire suits her incredibly well. She’s powerful, but feminine. “Clearly, this is fate, seeing you again.”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “It’s chance, Christian.”

  “If it’s chance, you never know what chance has in store for us when it comes to bedroom activities.”

  She shoulders her bag and steps away from the table, leaving some bills behind. “It’s a good thing I’m not offended by your crude remarks.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not offended that you mauled me at the design show the other night,” I say as we leave the café.

  “That was not a mauling. That was me finally giving you what you wanted all along.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I want so much more than a kiss.”

  Her heels click as we walk briskly, passing a boulangerie that’s closing up its doors for the evening, the faint scent of raspberry tarts drifting out from the shop. “How do you know it’ll be worth it? What if it’s awful?”

  I scoff. “Sex? Between you and me? It won’t be awful. It’ll be magnificent.”

  “Will it?” she counters as we reach the corner, stopping at the light.

  “It will.”

  “How do you know?”

  I turn to her and brush a lock of her hair off her shoulder. A slight gasp escapes her lips, then I run my fingers down her bare forearm, watching as the soft hairs rise in its wake.

  I look up to meet her deep brown eyes. “That’s how I know.”

  I drop my hand, and she shudders.

  “Where are you headed?” I ask.

  “I’m off to the metro.” She gestures to the end of the street.

  “I’ll walk you, and don’t even think this counts as a Friday-night date. One, it’s Tuesday. Two, it’s a bonus chance encounter orchestrated by fate.”

  She laughs. “It’s a bonus bump-into-each-other.”

  “It’s the hand of fate, trying to get us naked.”

  “You think fate has a lot at stake in the prospect of our mutual nudity?”

  “It should.”

  “You’re relentless. Also, you’re quite sweaty tonight.” She eyes my T-shirt then the slight sheen of sweat on my forehead and arms.

  “Does it turn you on, Elise?”

  She shrugs coyly. “I don’t know. I’d have to smell you to find out.”

  I stop outside an antique shop, where an orange cat lounges in the window, sleeping underneath a cranberry armchair. “You’re welcome to smell me anytime.” I hold my arms out wide, inviting her to sniff.

  “I’m not going to sniff you right this second.”

  “Why not? Are you worried my sheer manliness would be too much?”

  She laughs and sets one hand on my shoulder. “Christian, I assure you that your level of manliness doesn’t deter me whatsoever.” She lowers her voice. “Whatever you’re bringing, I can handle.”

  I let out a groan. “Scratch the Friday-night arrangement. We need a date tonight. Right now.”

  “Do we?”

  I answer by reaching for her hand and threading my fingers through hers. She meets my gaze, and her eyes seem to say yes as we resume our pace, passing a florist shop that teems with orange, yellow, and pink summer flowers. Her attention strays to the blooms, and she sweeps her gaze over the lot of them. She lifts her nose, inhaling them.

  She likes flowers. A lot.

  “Yes, we certainly do need a date night. Don’t you think?” I say, returning to the topic.

  She glances at me, a sly smile on her face. “You may be onto something. But I can’t tonight. I have to work.”

  “This late?”

  “It’s only seven. Since I run my own business, I have to work many evenings.”

  “I’ll just go cry by the river and drown my tears.”

  She squeezes my hand. “You do that. The river is a fine companion for sorrow.”

  I sigh, then square my shoulders as if shrugging it off. “On second thought, I’ll grab a bite with my brother.”

  “You have a brother in town?” Her voice is tinged with curiosity.

  “Yes, he moved here a year ago. Around the same time I started spending most of my time here.”

  “I trust that means you’re close with him?”

  “Very much so. He’s my rock, my best friend, the pe
rson I trust the most, and all that. I help him with his business, and he’s basically responsible for who I am today.”

  “Why do you say that?” Even though we’re walking, she keeps glancing at me, making eye contact, staying engaged. She’s more interested than I’d have expected, given the walls she erects, and I like that she wants to know these sorts of details about me.

  “He set me on the straight-and-narrow. I was a right fuck-up in school, pissing away my days with parties and skiing, with late nights and later mornings, until Erik kicked my arse and made me focus.”

  “That’s great that he helped you when you needed him. What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘You’re not going to win a spot on the Danish National Team for the Olympics. Or the United Kingdom one either. Time to get your shit together and focus on school.’ Only he said it a little better, and more frequently, and with enough tough love that I finally listened. Besides, he was right. My marks were crap, my attitude was worse, and my future was headed down the toilet. I needed focus, and he gave that to me. I wasn’t going to be a skiing superstar. I was only dicking around on the slopes.”

  “You like to ski?”

  “Love it. But it wasn’t going to pay the bills. He knew that, but he also knew there was a better path for me in finance and investing. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have majored in poetry or geology or whatnot. I had no clue, and he was the one who helped me figure it out. Some days I wonder if I really ever will be able to pay him back for all he’s done. But then, he’s never asked for anything in return.”

  “But that’s how it goes with people you love, right? It shouldn’t be about what you get. It’s what you give. We don’t always give enough. But that’s what we should want to do with family, with friends, with the people who matter.”

  The way she says the last part—people who matter—makes me wonder if she might have given all to someone who didn’t give back in the same way. If that’s why she seems so adamant in her view now.

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “He helped you because he loves you, not because he expected something. And I imagine seeing you succeed is probably his reward.” She smiles warmly at me, and I want to kiss her smile, run my finger along her lips.

  I smile too. “Maybe.”

  “Also, can I say that I can’t picture you like that, as a fuck-up.”

  That makes me happy, that she can’t see me that way. “Is that so?”

  “You do seem to enjoy fun, but I get the impression you’re incredibly driven too. I can’t imagine you’re focused only when it comes to getting me into bed.”

  “Don’t ever underestimate my determination when it comes to getting you in bed. But, you’re right. I worked in finance for most of my twenties. I was, admittedly, quite driven and quite successful,” I say, a little sheepishly because I don’t want to come across as bragging.

  She arches a brow. “Quite?”

  I place a finger on my lips. “I retired at age twenty-eight.”

  “So young. That’s amazing. What are you now, twenty-nine?”

  “Ha. I’m the ripe old age of thirty. I had a good run.” I give a little shrug, though I’m glad she seems impressed. I shift back to her. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

  “One brother. He’s six years older than I am. Forty. He lives in New York City with his family, his wife and two children.”

  “Do you see them often?”

  “I try to go back to the States a couple times a year to see him, and my parents too. And my brother usually comes here in late summer.”

  “Are you close with him?”

  “In some ways. He’s always sort of looked out for me in a ‘big brother’ way, even though we don’t live in the same country.” Absently, she fingers a charm necklace with an Empire State Building on it.

  I tip my forehead to the necklace. “Did he give that to you?”

  She laughs and looks down at the silver building. “He did. He actually bought this last time he was here.”

  “He bought you a New York icon in Paris?”

  She smiles. “He’s been doing it since we were kids. He finds it amusing to come here and track down trinkets that represent where I grew up.”

  “That’s sweet. A nice way for you two to connect.”

  “I think so too. I have quite a collection of New York charm necklaces he’s tracked down in France. Though I’m missing the first one he ever gave me: a taxicab.”

  “Maybe someday fate will send it back to your doorstep.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Fate doesn’t care about my taxicab necklace.”

  “So, your brother is six years older, which makes you thirty-four,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my chin.

  She cocks her head and gives me a sharp look. “Why are you saying that?”

  I hold up a hand. “What? You don’t seem like the type of woman who gives a flying fuck if I mention her age.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. I was just curious if you were trying to impress me with your arithmetic skills or mentioning it for a reason. That’s why I asked.”

  I lean in close. “The reason is rather simple. I like older women.”

  A look of skepticism crosses her eyes. “Is this a kink of yours?”

  I shake my head. “No. I like when a woman knows what she wants. When she’s experienced some of the world. And when she isn’t afraid to call me on my shit.”

  “Because you do get called on that a lot.”

  I laugh. “I do.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “I do deserve it. And this is why I like someone to challenge me.”

  “You would like me to continue being a challenge for you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I’ll stick with challenging. Also, unlike you, your age isn’t a kink for me. I don’t have a thing for younger men.”

  “But you do have a thing for me, don’t you?” I wink.

  We stop at the metro station, and our hands slip apart. She stops and stares at me, her eyes eating me up. I fucking love the way she looks at me. She parts her pretty lips and answers, “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  “We will.”

  She steps closer. She doesn’t give me a kiss though. Instead, she lowers her nose to my chest where my T-shirt is a little bit sweaty. She raises her face, and her eyes have that hazy, sexy look. “You have nice sweat.”

  I loop an arm around her waist. “We could get sweaty together.”

  “Are you always so relentless?”

  Dropping my other hand to her hip, I yank her against me, her body flush with mine. “Would you like me to stop being so relentless, Elise?”

  She looks to the sky as if considering it. But she wriggles the slightest bit closer, lining up against me. She shakes her head. “No. Don’t stop at all.” She takes a beat then slides a hand between us, resting it on my chest. She runs her fingers from my pecs down over my abs and stops at the waistband of my running shorts.

  Her touch is electric. I grab her hand, press it harder against my flat belly. “Don’t you stop either.”

  She meets my gaze, letting her fingertips dance a little lower, then lower still. “Like this?”

  A groan rumbles up my chest. “Like that,” I rasp out.

  Then, vixen that she is, she slinks a hand under my T-shirt and lays her palm flat against my stomach. Her fingers trace my skin. It feels too fucking good in public.

  “See you soon, Christian.” Lightly, she grazes her nails down my abs, turning me on everywhere. “Can’t wait.”

  “You’re killing me,” I murmur as my brain charges full-speed ahead, picturing getting her under me.

  “I know, and you like this kind of slow, exquisite torture.” She dusts her lips against my neck then nips my earlobe.

  I grab her harder, yank her closer. “You like it too.”

  When she pulls back, she wiggles her eyebrows. “Of course I do. I love it.”

  She wave
s then heads underground and off to the other side of the city. On this side, I’ll be thinking in great and lurid detail about her wandering hands, and how long I have to wait until they torture me once more.

  11

  Elise

  The next night I receive a text, asking me if I want to go to a tea salon on Friday night.

  I laugh out loud, writing back as I take a break from tending to the garden in my small front yard.

  Elise: You’re actually inviting me to tea?

  * * *

  Christian: Yes, since you’re avoiding date-like things.

  * * *

  Elise: And a tea salon is unromantic?

  * * *

  Christian: I think it’s about as unromantic as we can get. Otherwise, I could take you to the grocery store. But as much as I like you, I don’t really want to go to the grocery store.

  * * *

  Elise: Why do you like me so much? Is it because you haven’t had me?

  * * *

  Christian: Do you expect me to like you less after I have you?

  * * *

  Elise: Of course not.

  * * *

  Christian: I like you for many reasons, but you’ve made it clear you have no interest in romance, and I want to give you what you want.

  As I sit cross-legged in the soft emerald grass at my home on a curvy street in Montmartre, I trace my finger over the message, letting those last few words linger. What do I want from a man? What do I want from this man?

  I’ve told him I don’t want romance. I’ve made it clear I don’t believe in fate. I can’t let myself go to those places. They are cities where I’m no longer welcome, towns where I can’t find my way. If I went there, I might get lost and never be found again.

  But what do I want from him?

  I sigh, turning to the sunshine-yellow tulips that frame my home. They’re bursting with color, making peacocks of their golden hues, their bright orange tones, their summer shades.