Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  These flowers seem certain. They’re so deliberate in their colors, so spectacular in their showiness. But I don’t know how to capture that kind of certainty anymore. I do want something from him. But is it merely physical? Is it simply that I feel a delicious spark every time I’m near him? Lord knows the man drives me wild. Being near him is a complete and absolute turn-on, and his flirtiness melts me from head to toe.

  Is that what I want? A naughty, wild fling? Is that enough? Is it ever enough?

  I trim the garden more, but as I ensure no petal is out of place, I’m not sure I have any answers to my questions.

  Or rather, the only answer I have is a simple one.

  I want him. He entertains me. He makes me laugh. He keeps me on my toes. But he also hasn’t asked more of me than I’m willing to give.

  I won’t scoop out a portion of my heart or mind that can be stolen again. As a woman who slid into the full-blown madness of a wild, dangerous love not so long ago, I don’t know that a fling could be enough. But I also know it’s all I’ll allow.

  I want borders, and I bet he’s a man who respects the boundaries on a map.

  I grab my phone and write back.

  * * *

  Elise: I like everything you’ve given so far.

  * * *

  Christian: Fantastic. Then, would you rather I take you to the bank? I suppose I could see if the post office is open on a Friday night. Maybe we could pick up toiletries at the pharmacy as another option.

  I crack up as I sit in the grass, tapping a reply.

  * * *

  Elise: You forgot laundry. We could do laundry.

  * * *

  Christian: Ah, but that sounds dirty.

  * * *

  Elise: Dirty, but not romantic.

  * * *

  Christian: I’m trying to behave. And look at you, being naughty.

  * * *

  Elise: I suppose I shouldn’t wear that short red skirt I had in mind, then.

  * * *

  Christian: How short?

  * * *

  Elise: So short it should be illegal.

  * * *

  Christian: Can you hear me groaning all the way across the city?

  * * *

  Elise: No, but I suspect I’d like that sound. Where do you live? I want to picture you groaning.

  * * *

  Christian: So you can imagine me in my flat tonight? You dirty woman. I live in the sixth, just off rue de l’Ancienne Comédie.

  * * *

  Elise: That’s a fitting place for you.

  * * *

  Christian: Why?

  * * *

  Elise: That arrondissement is quite fun. And I believe fun was how you introduced yourself to me.

  * * *

  Christian: There’s so much more I want to introduce to you.

  * * *

  Elise: I suppose the same is true for me when it comes to you.

  And on that note, I head inside, set down the gardening shears, and curl up on my couch. There’s something I need to see.

  No, something I want to see.

  I click on the photo album on my phone, searching the archives for a certain series of shots I captured a little more than a year ago. When I snapped the images from the boat, the naked handstander was merely an amusing—no, outrageous—sight on a tourist attraction. Like a photobomber, but for the canal tour. Now, I know a little of the man behind the nude acrobatics.

  I like what I know.

  Perhaps that’s why a tinge of heat splashes across my cheeks as I click open the first shot. I know who that upside-down flasher is. I know him, and I like him. And I suppose as I hold my phone at an angle, then as I slide my thumbs across the image to widen it, I feel a little like I’m perving on Christian.

  Okay, a lot.

  But that feeling doesn’t stop me.

  No, it drives me on.

  I trace my finger along his naked frame, wondering how everything looks when he’s right side up.

  When he’s stripping for me.

  When he’s stalking over to the bed, aroused and hard, his eyes blazing with desire.

  When he’s pinning me, climbing over me, giving me what I imagined I’d have that night in Copenhagen.

  And now, I truly am imagining him groaning.

  Because I’m doing the same.

  12

  Elise

  Two and a half years ago . . .

  * * *

  Stop and Smell the Days blog

  * * *

  March 27: The search for a wild and rare thing indeed

  * * *

  My lovelies . . .

  * * *

  Just call me an explorer.

  I’ve been hunting far and wide for a rare scent. It’s from a lesser-known perfumer, and it’s been dubbed Tangerine Wild. I’ve placed calls to my regular collectors, and slung emails around the globe in search of even a tester bottle. To my great surprise, I discovered it in a little village in the south of France.

  I might have been there on a vacation with a certain man.

  You know the kind of trip. Beaches, and waves, and sun that drenches you in its warm embrace. Afternoons spent in a bikini, sipping drinks, making the kind of eyes at each other that only new lovers can make.

  Then, one fine afternoon, we ventured into a quiet corner of the town, where I at last found the bottle.

  I’ll confess—I squealed when I saw it.

  Was it everything I hoped it would be?

  It was everything and more.

  It smells like honey and citrus, and even now, a few weeks later, I can still inhale the fine spray of salty waves and I can see a peach-mauve sunset on a beach where I lie on a hammock, peeling a tangerine, having no cares in the world.

  But, I said it’s everything and more for a particular reason.

  It became more for me.

  Tangerine Wild became the scent of something I’ll always remember, when we wandered across the soft, sugary sand as the sun dipped in the sky, and he dropped to one knee.

  It’s the scent of saying yes.

  * * *

  Yours in noses,

  A Scentsual Woman

  13

  Elise

  Present day

  * * *

  Sometimes, I miss New York City. The relentless pace fueled me. I learned how to jostle my way onto a subway, how to position myself on the platform to catch the right car at the right time. I could hail a cab and have it sliding to the curb, door opened for me, in five seconds flat. Hell, I could hail a taxi in the rain and barely get splashed on by the sky.

  Sometimes, I miss the forty-yard-dash pace of the city where I was raised. The rat-a-tat-tat, go-go-go rhythm of the fastest place in the world, where we did everything in double time, especially lunch.

  In Manhattan, we order, eat, and sign a deal before dessert arrives.

  Not so in Paris with Dominic. He orders dessert, and we have yet to touch on the reason for this meeting as we close in on the two-hour mark for a meal.

  It’s a typical lunch in the City of Lights, where the world slows to a meandering pace at most eateries, including at this restaurant a block off the famed rue de Rivoli. White linen tablecloths hang crisply from tables, and antique gilded mirrors line the walls. Dominic chose it when I invited him out to lunch to discuss a business proposal. Since I’m in need of his services, I agreed to his haute cuisine. He’s one of the most talented industry analysts I’ve ever worked with, and the highest paid too. I still lament letting him go last year when I had to tighten the belt.

  “Would you like dessert?” the waiter asks.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. Just a coffee.”

  After the waiter leaves, Dominic leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “Okay, I am ready to talk shop.”

  I smile. “So glad to hear.”

  When we arrived, he said, “Let’s eat, let’s catch up, and let’s discuss business only over dessert. I’m dyin
g to know how you are.”

  “Tell me all about your proposal.” He runs a hand over his mostly smooth skull. His bald patch has broadened in the last year, and his goatee has grown as well—his hairline is heading in opposite directions.

  “I’m quite excited about this one. I think it’ll be a great chance to make deeper inroads into a new sector, and I’m keen on the possibility of working with you again.”

  “You’re lucky I wanted to listen. After you let me go unceremoniously,” he says, huffing dramatically, as if it’s a joke, but I wonder if there’s a kernel of truth to it.

  I smile softly, placing my hands together as if in prayer. “I know. Have you forgiven me?”

  “We shall see.” He winks, and I know he’s hurt, but it seems he’s not going to nurse it forever.

  “Look, you know the reason I had to let you go is I lost some accounts to the Thompson Group. I felt terrible about it at the time, but it was the only thing I could do. The good news is I hope to rectify that now with a great new opportunity.”

  He stretches an arm across the table and pats my hand. “Yes, I know it was hard for you. I read your blog.”

  I jerk my hand away. I don’t use my real name on my blog. I never have. “What?”

  “Your perfume blog.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “I figured out A Scentsual Woman was you when you axed me. I put two and two together from the things you’d said in meetings about perfume, and then I googled blogs and pored over some, and it sounded like you. All that stuff about that man. It fit you to a T.”

  My skin crawls, a creepy sensation as if someone’s been watching me.

  Someone has.

  I suppose that’s my fault for wearing my heart on my online sleeve, even though it was an anonymous sleeve and I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Since I learned the truth about Eduardo, I’ve scoured my blog and removed any story that chronicled my romance with him, though he was never named either.

  But the fact that Dominic hunted around for me, maybe even hoped to find dirt on me, makes me uneasy. It sends a drumbeat of worry in my brain.

  Cancel. I should abort this plan before it gets any worse.

  But he’s talented. He’s saved me so many times over the years . . .

  I ignore the flush of heat on my cheeks, the stain of embarrassment, and soldier on. “Be that as it may, I’m getting ready to pitch some new business, and I need a great analyst. I would love for you to come back on a project-by-project basis. I can pay you well.”

  “Go on.”

  I tell Dominic about a resort I’m prepping to pitch, giving him basic details without revealing the potential client’s name.

  When his crème brûlée arrives, along with my coffee, Dominic dives into his sweet treat with gusto, humming as he eats. “This is magnificent. This is stupendous. This is incredible.”

  I sip my coffee as he murmurs odes to his dessert.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some?” He shoves another forkful into his mouth.

  “No, but I’m glad you like it.”

  We hold off on the business talk for another moment while he devours the remainder of his dessert. He plows through it, then sets down his fork. “I appreciate the offer, Elise. But I’m going to decline. I took a job with the Thompson Group. But thank you for lunch. I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”

  As the punchline to the joke that’s on me, he drops his napkin theatrically on the table and leaves.

  * * *

  I’m fuming. Curse words in French and English and even the touch of Spanish I learned in college blister my tongue as I swear silently and fish out my business Amex to pay for his meal, resentment raging in every pore.

  I fasten on a fake smile when the maître d’ says goodbye, then I march down the avenue, pissed at how Dominic set me up, pissed at myself for sensing he was going to pull this crap, but still giving him the chance.

  I growl in anger. This needs to end. I need all my mistakes behind me.

  Screw Dominic. Screw him and his free lunch. I don’t need him. I’ll be my own damn analyst. I’ll show him, and John Thompson too.

  I walk, and I walk, and I walk, my heels clicking like bullets, until I hear the familiar sound of water trickling musically, and I inhale the comforting smell of damp stone.

  I’ve done it again. I’ve wandered to the Fontaine des Mers at the Place de la Concorde. I square my shoulders and breathe deeply.

  This was where I was scheduled to meet Eduardo the last time I never saw him. I waited an hour, calling and texting. Annoyance at him being late turned into worry over his safety, and that soon morphed into anguish the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  The police called. His motorcycle had crashed. He was pronounced dead on arrival at a hospital an hour away. Devastation had flowed through every cell in my body, and I’d heaved with pain and tears for days and days.

  That’s where my story with him should’ve ended. The simple but terrible grief of losing a spouse. A widow at the ripe old age of thirty-two. A whirlwind six-month marriage that ended far too soon.

  But I didn’t even have the chance to grieve properly.

  At his funeral, I met another bereaved woman. Her name was Diana, and she was also a grieving widow. His other widow. He’d been married to her at the same time as me, and Diana didn’t know, either, that he’d left behind two wives. Two fools.

  I raise my gaze to the water, watching it patter from the small bowl to the big one in a ceaseless rhythm.

  I watch and wait for the clobbering.

  For the pain to slam into me, like a cruel wave.

  It doesn’t come.

  In its place, I feel something new. Resolve.

  I don’t have to play the fool. Not with men like Dominic, or men like Eduardo. I won’t let someone have the upper hand again.

  I grab my sunglasses and shield my eyes as I walk away from the fountain, stronger, so much stronger than I was that day more than two years ago.

  And I’m going to be smarter too from now on.

  I return to work, power through my projects during the rest of the afternoon, and head home. A shower washes away the remnants of the day, as I scrub off the lingering frustration from lunch.

  I slip on my red skirt, then peruse my bureau with all the little bottles of scents, trailing my fingers along the cool black wood. I stop at an empty crystal bottle that catches the fading light from the early evening sun, reflecting it like a prism. It’s Marchesa Parfum d’Extase, and it was a gift. A gift from many, and I cherished it.

  I love it for what it represents. I hate it for what it represents. It haunts me now, even though I’ve poured it out and bleached the bottle.

  Breathing deeply, I turn away, choosing none of the scents. Choosing a new path.

  A fresh start to embark on this tryst for what it is—a neat, organized affair with a delicious man. There’s nothing messy about Christian. Nothing risky. He’s built for sin, yet safe for my heart.

  As I head downstairs, I repeat my new watchword. Resolve.

  I hereby resolve to play it smart and to make sure I don’t ever get too close again.

  14

  Elise

  When I arrive at the tea salon on the left bank, with its extravagant gold script on the windows, I think of my grandmother. The last time my brother and his family visited, my grandmother caught the train from Provence, stayed the weekend at the Ritz, and spent her days taking my brother and his children to all the sweet shops in Paris, from my friend Veronica’s candy store to this salon, known for its fine selection of teas, hot chocolate, and madeleines. I can picture her clearly—her soft gray hair, her crow’s feet, and her regal but loving smile as she lifted her fine white teacup while my nieces nibbled on madeleines.

  The image makes me both smile and laugh, because it reminds me of how elegant this establishment is in all its fin de siècle glory, from the marble-topped counter display to the gilded mirrors. This is Paris of yesteryear, and i
t’s so discordant with the thoroughly modern man I find holding court at a corner table, a crisp white cloth laid over the surface. He’s so casual and cool, in a sky-blue button-down shirt, a hint of stubble on his chin, and that sweep of blond hair across his head.

  He’s dripping with sex appeal, and he’s the complete opposite of this belle epoque time warp.

  I make my way to my Friday-night man.

  He rises and drops kisses to each of my cheeks. These kisses linger—they whisper of what happens after midnight.

  “Pleasure to see you, little mermaid,” he says as we separate, and I sit next to him in a curved corner booth for two.

  I arch a brow. “Little mermaid. Is that my nickname?”

  “I didn’t inform you of that yet? It’s been your nickname since the day you checked out my cock on the dock.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat. “Are you the cat in the hat?”

  “Meow.”

  “And why on earth would that be my nickname? Are women of the sea known for being oglers of naked fishermen?”