overreacted
last night. Can we just forget it?”
I pretended to think
hard. “What happened last night?” I said, and smiled.
Leaning over me, he
kissed my nose. “I was so hot for you this morning, I almost woke
you up. If you didn’t look so beautiful sleeping, I would have.”
A deliciously slow
tingle ran down my side and settled between my legs. “You can’t
come back to bed?” I asked. “It’s only seven.”
“I have a partners
meeting in half an hour, but I’ll be back by six. Why don’t we
have dinner in? I don’t want to see anyone tonight but you.”
“I’d love that,”
I said.
He smiled. “What are
you doing today?”
“Lunch at another
restaurant. Tough life.”
“Pure torture.”
I shook his arm gently.
“Could you meet me around 12:30? I’m going to a place called
Bistro Midi. It just opened last month.”
He traced my ear with
his finger. “I’d love to, but I’ll be lucky to eat lunch at my
desk,” he said. “So much for la belle vie in France. We’re starting to take after you
workaholic Americans.”
I sat up and wrapped my
arms around his neck. The sheet dropped from my bare chest into my
lap. “We’re infectious, didn’t you know?”
“I do now,” he
said, sliding cool hands around my breasts and squeezing gently. “I
think I have a fatal case of you, actually. Completely terminal.”
“There is a cure, but it requires taking off your clothes and getting into bed
with me.”
“Interesting. We’ll
have to try it when I get home from the office.”
“Speaking of the
office,” I said, trying to sound stern, “if I enter your mind
today you have to banish me immediately. No thinking about anything
but business.”
He kissed me, teasing
his tongue along the edges of my lips. “Not much chance of that,”
he said.
After he left, I lay in
bed trying to hold onto my optimism. I tried to believe that last
night was just a blip, and this morning a sign that Marc had put his
fears behind him. Though I tried believing it until my alarm went off
and it was time to get up, I was no closer to convincing myself it
was true.
Hazily aware of a dark
impulse lurking at the back of my mind, I had fruit and coffee and
took a shower. But when I sat down with my laptop to work, I couldn’t
suppress it anymore.
“Don’t do it,
Sophie,” I whispered, but I was powerless to fight it. Fingers
trembling, I brought up Google and began to type.
Lydia
Forster, Paris, France.
So much for working. So
much for forgetting last night.
If I could just talk to
her. If she could just tell me what had happened with Marc, maybe I
could understand what haunted him and what it all meant. I had a week
to discover if I had a future with him. Figuring it out would mean
using everything at my disposal.
My intentions were
good. My methods – those were another story.
Two Lydia Forsters
lived in Paris. One was a sixty year-old expatriate from California
with a food blog, and the other owned a boutique in a Boho-chic part
of the city.
Just because I was
typing the store’s address into my phone, it didn’t mean I would
go there or try to find her. I could erase it and never look at it
again. I just wouldn’t do it yet.
I dressed in the outfit
Marc had left for me in two sleek silver boxes – sky-high patent
slingbacks, skimpy black lace panties with a frilled edge, and a
stretchy, knee-length dress with ruched sides. The sleeves easily
covered my bandage, making me wonder if he’d chosen the dress for
that reason.
Though I felt much too
sexy to go out in public, I followed Marc’s unspoken order and went
to lunch. I took notes on everything from the china pattern to the
fashionable clientele, but in my imagination I was five Metro stops
away, at the store that may or may not have been owned by Marc’s
ex-lover.
A second glass of wine
made a brief detour across town seem like a perfectly reasonable
idea. I’d go for a glimpse of her, to see if I had the right
person. And
last night. Can we just forget it?”
I pretended to think
hard. “What happened last night?” I said, and smiled.
Leaning over me, he
kissed my nose. “I was so hot for you this morning, I almost woke
you up. If you didn’t look so beautiful sleeping, I would have.”
A deliciously slow
tingle ran down my side and settled between my legs. “You can’t
come back to bed?” I asked. “It’s only seven.”
“I have a partners
meeting in half an hour, but I’ll be back by six. Why don’t we
have dinner in? I don’t want to see anyone tonight but you.”
“I’d love that,”
I said.
He smiled. “What are
you doing today?”
“Lunch at another
restaurant. Tough life.”
“Pure torture.”
I shook his arm gently.
“Could you meet me around 12:30? I’m going to a place called
Bistro Midi. It just opened last month.”
He traced my ear with
his finger. “I’d love to, but I’ll be lucky to eat lunch at my
desk,” he said. “So much for la belle vie in France. We’re starting to take after you
workaholic Americans.”
I sat up and wrapped my
arms around his neck. The sheet dropped from my bare chest into my
lap. “We’re infectious, didn’t you know?”
“I do now,” he
said, sliding cool hands around my breasts and squeezing gently. “I
think I have a fatal case of you, actually. Completely terminal.”
“There is a cure, but it requires taking off your clothes and getting into bed
with me.”
“Interesting. We’ll
have to try it when I get home from the office.”
“Speaking of the
office,” I said, trying to sound stern, “if I enter your mind
today you have to banish me immediately. No thinking about anything
but business.”
He kissed me, teasing
his tongue along the edges of my lips. “Not much chance of that,”
he said.
After he left, I lay in
bed trying to hold onto my optimism. I tried to believe that last
night was just a blip, and this morning a sign that Marc had put his
fears behind him. Though I tried believing it until my alarm went off
and it was time to get up, I was no closer to convincing myself it
was true.
Hazily aware of a dark
impulse lurking at the back of my mind, I had fruit and coffee and
took a shower. But when I sat down with my laptop to work, I couldn’t
suppress it anymore.
“Don’t do it,
Sophie,” I whispered, but I was powerless to fight it. Fingers
trembling, I brought up Google and began to type.
Lydia
Forster, Paris, France.
So much for working. So
much for forgetting last night.
If I could just talk to
her. If she could just tell me what had happened with Marc, maybe I
could understand what haunted him and what it all meant. I had a week
to discover if I had a future with him. Figuring it out would mean
using everything at my disposal.
My intentions were
good. My methods – those were another story.
Two Lydia Forsters
lived in Paris. One was a sixty year-old expatriate from California
with a food blog, and the other owned a boutique in a Boho-chic part
of the city.
Just because I was
typing the store’s address into my phone, it didn’t mean I would
go there or try to find her. I could erase it and never look at it
again. I just wouldn’t do it yet.
I dressed in the outfit
Marc had left for me in two sleek silver boxes – sky-high patent
slingbacks, skimpy black lace panties with a frilled edge, and a
stretchy, knee-length dress with ruched sides. The sleeves easily
covered my bandage, making me wonder if he’d chosen the dress for
that reason.
Though I felt much too
sexy to go out in public, I followed Marc’s unspoken order and went
to lunch. I took notes on everything from the china pattern to the
fashionable clientele, but in my imagination I was five Metro stops
away, at the store that may or may not have been owned by Marc’s
ex-lover.
A second glass of wine
made a brief detour across town seem like a perfectly reasonable
idea. I’d go for a glimpse of her, to see if I had the right
person. And
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