Amanda's Guide to Love (9 page)

Jeanne’s jaw dropped. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord.” Jeanne shook her head.
“It’s endearing, actually.”

“What is?”

“I never thought of you as a
crusader.”

Jeanne’s remark gave Amanda pause. Her,
a crusader? No way. “I’m just smarter than him. I think long-term, like Nathan
Lannaux used to do. That’s how he built and grew the company. It’s the only
rational way.”

Jeanne smiled. “You miss him, don’t
you? He was more than a boss to you. He was your mentor.”

“It’s just . . . his
death was so sudden. He’d never had any health issues, and then bam—a massive
heart attack—and he was gone. He was only fifty-eight.”

Jeanne patted Amanda’s hand. “I’m
sorry, honey.”

Oh crap.
Amanda’s eyes welled up, but she
wouldn’t break down, not even in front of a friend. Jeanne was right; Nathan
had been more than a boss to her. Even more than a mentor. He’d been a father
figure—someone who cared about her like her dad used to do. Both men had died
abruptly and in the same way. She hadn’t had the chance to say good-bye to
either, and that was particularly hard to stomach.

After her dad passed, Vivienne had remarried
within a year, and Amanda had been stuck for the rest of her teenage years with
a conceited buffoon for a stepfather. She’d felt the absence of her dad keenly,
and the wound was fresh for years—until Nathan appeared in her life.

And now, yet another clown had
taken his place.

Jeanne drained her glass. “How’s your
job hunt?”

“Maddening. Dead end after dead
end. I suspect the bastard has blacklisted me with everyone in the industry.”

“You could apply for assistant
jobs. I’m sure they’ll fall over themselves to have you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’m vastly
overqualified for that kind of job. Besides, the thought of running into people
who used to be below me is unnerving. They’d have a field day.”

“Honey, why don’t you come and work
at La Bohème for a while? Just a few hours a day, until you find a ‘proper’
job?”

Amanda winced. “I’ve never
waitressed before, and I don’t intend to begin now.”

“What’s wrong with waitressing?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .
” Amanda pressed her lips together just in time to stop the words
too
low-class for me
from escaping them. “I’d suck at it.”

Jeanne didn’t
contradict that statement.

Back at her apartment, Amanda made
her favorite Greek salad and carried her plate to the living room for a cozy
dinner in front of the TV.

Her mission for the afternoon had
been accomplished. She could now in-line skate a little and was a lot less
clumsy than before. Granted, she was still far from her desired swanlike
elegance, but she was no longer a bull in a china shop.

Only her “straightforward”
initiative didn’t seem so straightforward anymore, in light of Jeanne’s
teasing. The thing was, Amanda couldn’t deny that had she planned to go skating
with any other male acquaintance, she wouldn’t have cared about her lack of
grace.

Was she slipping? It had been a
week since she and Kes concluded their pact. They had jogged in the André
Citroën Park every morning—not too early since Kes needed some sleep after his late-night
casino sessions. His furnished rental turned out to be only a ten-minute walk
from Amanda’s apartment, which was rather convenient. They’d been to the
swimming pool twice, and they’d seen
Women on the Verge of a Nervous
Breakdown—
the first movie on the Almodóvar retrospective program.

They’d also gone for drinks and
even had a couple of quick dinners. But she’d made sure to keep things light
and friendly, thwarting the slightest romantic overture Kes attempted. Extreme
vigilance was in order, and not only because Kes couldn’t be trusted not to try
to charm her. The main reason was her increasingly evident vulnerability to his
charm.

She’d lost count of the times lust
had stirred in the pit of her stomach merely from looking at him. It happened
in various places: once in the darkened movie theater when they’d shared a tub
of popcorn and their fingers had brushed accidentally, often in cafés when he’d
stared at her with blatant desire—an unabashed need tinting his beautiful eyes,
and always at the swimming pool when he’d sauntered out of the men’s changing
room wearing only a pair of jammers that hugged his muscled ass and athletic
thighs.

But whenever she wondered if she’d
made a huge mistake accepting his offer of companionship, she told herself she
could handle it.

The abyss between them was too big
and the potential complications too undesirable for her to slip. Besides, she
had her nightly fantasies to take the edge off. They were wild, infinitely
satisfying, and perfectly safe.

And that was as far as
she’d ever go with him.

* * *

Breaking
news: Amanda Roussel, the twenty-eight-year-old Parisienne with no training or
interest in astronomy, has discovered the existence of two miniature black
holes.

The imaginary TV anchor’s
announcement reverberated in Amanda’s head as if it had been real. Last night,
she had watched a documentary about black holes. The husky voiceover had
explained that a black hole possessed such enormous gravity it sucked in
everything around it. Any celestial body or a spaceship that had the misfortune
of getting too close would be swallowed up. The hole would haul the poor thing
inside and pulverize it.

Kes’s eyes were like that—black,
bottomless, and endowed with an irresistible pull. Even when she glanced into
them sideways during their daily jogs in the André Citroën Park, her brain
became muddled afterward.

Just like now.

“Want a sip?” He held out a
half-f bottle of water.

“What?” Amanda forced herself to
focus. “Ah. Yes, please.”

She drank most of the water and
handed the bottle back to Kes, who took a big gulp and emptied the rest over
his forehead.

“Getting hot, huh?” He pulled the
hem of his T-shirt up and wiped his face, revealing his toned abs for a few
seconds.

Amanda’s gaze lingered on them, and
suddenly, she was out of breath and a little lightheaded.

She stopped moving. “I need a break.”

“Sure.” He backtracked to her and
pointed to a spot under a big tree. “We could watch the Eutelsat Balloon from
there. Come.”

He headed to the corner of the vast
central lawn where some trees offered a spot of shade. Amanda followed.

They sat on the ground and leaned
back on the tree trunk. Amanda breathed in the incomparable smell of freshly
cut grass.
Yummy
. She stretched her legs. A few days ago, she’d started
wearing shorts for their morning jogs. The idea was that they would do double
duty by keeping her legs cool and allowing them to tan.

She glanced at the golden skin of
her thighs. The results were highly satisfactory. Suppressing a smug grin, she
leaned forward and peered at the loading area for the tethered helium balloon.
There was no sign of human activity around it. The thing wasn’t going up any
time soon.

Amanda fell back against the trunk
and pulled her white sports cap over her eyes. “I’m going to take a power nap.”

“Me too,” Kes echoed.

She heard him shift and then felt
the back of his head press onto her lap.

“Can’t sleep without a pillow,” he
said.

She tipped her visor up and gazed
down at him. His eyes were closed, his expression content. Her fingers ached to
delve into his lush hair, comb through his black locks, and then rest on his
cheek. The temptation was so strong she nearly gave in.

Something landed on her shin,
making a soft, slurpy sound.

“Merde!”

Kes lifted his head to see what was
going on. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it is, ma belle,” he said, his lips
twitching.

“I hate pigeons!” Amanda stared at
the mustard-colored stain on her leg, her eyes wide and her mouth contorted in
disgust.

He sat up and chuckled. “Pigeon is
a species—not a generic term for birds. Your assailant could be a number of
other Parisian bird species.”

“I don’t care if this poop was
dumped on me by a pigeon or a penguin—it’s revolting.”

“A penguin,” he echoed, bunching
his eyebrows. “Really?”

She wrinkled her face and gave him
a pleading look. “Got any tissues?”

He shook his head. “But I’ll do you
one better.”

“What, a tuft of grass?”

He gave her a sly smile, pulled off
his T-shirt, and wiped her leg with it.

She kept her gaze down.

“Voilà.” He surveyed his handiwork.
“As good as new. By the way, bird poop brings good luck.”

“Says who?”

“Gypsies.”

“Must be true, then.”

He bundled the T-shirt, folding the
clean edges over the dirty middle.

“I’ll wash it for you,” she
offered.

“Don’t bother—I’ll just throw it in
the trash. It was worn-out, anyway.”

She nodded absently, her eyes
darting to his bared torso. This was worse than at the pool. As if his
eight-pack wasn’t impressive enough, his chest was smooth and broad, and his
pectorals were well defined. To say nothing of his muscled arms and his
graceful shoulders.

He was too close, too appealing . . .

She turned away sharply. “There are
too many birds in this city.”

“Look at the positive side.”

“There isn’t any.”

“If an army of zombies besieged
Paris and the population ran out of food, we could start hunting them with
slingshots.”

Amanda considered the scenario. “I
guess we could. The pigeons are so fat and lazy and totally unafraid of people
it shouldn’t be too difficult to shoot a few down for dinner.”

“I’m sure they taste better than
that plastic supermarket chicken Parisians are used to.”

“And when Parisians are well fed,
they’re capable of great things.” She winked at him. “Including kicking some
zombie ass.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

“I need your advice,” she said,
surprising herself.

“Sure.”

“I’m having trouble finding a job
that wouldn’t be a huge step down from the previous one . . . And
my savings are drying up.”

“You should’ve told me earlier.
I’ll be happy to lend—”

“That’s not what I meant! I said
advice
,
not
help
.”

He cocked his head. “OK. Go on.”

“It’s my apartment. I bought it only
a year ago, and I love it. But it confines my job search to Paris. And there’s
the small matter of the mortgage.” She hesitated. “The bottom line is I won’t
be able to keep the apartment unless I find a job soon.”

“I’m not sure what kind of advice
you expect from me.”

“A friend of mine offered me a
waitressing job. It sounds wild, but I fear it’s that or a secretary position.”

“You could sell your apartment.”

“I could, even though I’d probably
lose money by selling so soon. And I’d have to move in with my mother.”

“There’s a fourth option.” He gave
her a crooked smile. “You could move in with me.”

And share your bed . . .
Yes, please.
“No
way.”

His smile slipped. “Take the
waitressing job.”

“Really?”

“Judging by the way your face
contorted when you said ‘secretary’ and ‘my mother,’ waitressing would be the
least evil for you.”

She stood up. “Thanks for your
advice. I’m not sure I’ll take it, but I’ll consider it.”

“Anytime.” He stood, too. “Ready to
jog back?”

She was—provided he
stayed outside of her peripheral vision.

* * *

That night, Amanda went to La
Bohème. She had warmed up to the idea of waitressing even though she hadn’t
made up her mind yet. Kes’s insight had helped, but she needed additional
arguments and a little more persuasion from Jeanne. And, most of all, she
needed it to look like she was the one doing her friend a favor, and not the
other way around.

Even if both knew what the real
state of affairs was.

“Have you hired anyone yet?” Amanda
asked as soon as Jeanne returned to her table with a glass of Amanda’s favorite
wine and a beer for herself.

“Nope. I’ve been too busy to
advertise.”

Amanda nodded.

“Come on, woman,” Jeanne said.
“Show some solidarity. My wedding is in a month and I don’t even have a dress.
I need your help.”

Amanda shrugged. “I can’t imagine
you in a white dress, anyway.”