I point at Max. “Tata, Tonton, this is Max. He’s an antiques dealer and a friend of mine.”

  They exchange warm greetings and usher Max and me in.

  “I’ve made your favorites for dinner,” Aunt Violette announces.

  I try to say we weren’t planning to stay for dinner, but there’s no arguing with her. She points out that it’s already five and that we’ll end up reading Gran’s ledgers in electric light, anyway, so we can as well do it on a full stomach.

  Uncle Dominique serves the aperitif.

  Over wine and olives, we talk about village life, my cousins, Mom’s shop, my new job, and Paris.

  I turn to Max. “Consider yourself lucky. My aunt’s cooking is second to none.”

  “Do you cook?” Aunt Violette asks Max.

  “A chef does it for me,” he replies, before adding quickly, “I mean, erm, I don’t mean, not my personal chef, of course.” He clears his throat. “I get takeaways or deliveries.”

  “It’s hard to find time to cook when one has a business to run,” Aunt Violette offers helpfully as she stands up. “If you excuse me, I’ll go check on the dinner.”

  Uncle Dom turns to Max. “What kind of antique objects do you specialize in?”

  The question seems to take Max by surprise, but then he plasters a bright smile over his momentary torpor. “I don’t cherry-pick.”

  “Yes, yes, but I’m sure there are objects you’re passionate about,” Uncle Dom insists. “So, tell us what tickles your croissant?”

  “Classic cars, Monsieur,” Max says.

  Ah, boys and their toys!

  “He loves driving,” I chime in, hoping to suggest that I know Max well, and we really are friends.

  “I do,” he confirms. “But it’s more than that. I enjoy nothing better than a chance to restore a classic car back to its former glory.”

  “What a cool hobby!” Uncle Dom lifts an impressed eyebrow. “Have you actually repaired an old auto?”

  “Not alone, but yes. Classic cars are a joy to repair and to care for. When I wake up to a morning that I can spend at the garage fixing up a vintage Bu— erm, Beetle, the anticipation alone puts me in a terrific mood.”

  “I feel that way on Sunday mornings when I have a fishing expedition planned with my buddies,” Uncle Dom comments.

  Max nods. “I look forward to mending the scrapes and rips, swapping broken parts, putting on rust patches, painting, polishing… What can I say? Those are the best days. I wish there were more of them in my life.”

  I find myself drinking in his words. His love of fixing old cars is infectious, but I detect something more. Something that reveals a depth, a gravitas I didn’t think he had. It unsettles me. For my safety and well-being, I need this friendly, tasty, studly man to remain shallow. By the time we get back to MINDFUCH, I need to like him less than I did before this trip—not more.

  Then do something about it, Lucie!

  “I pity you,” I say to Max. “You could’ve been an honorable mechanic in grimy coveralls, but instead you’re a white-collar bourgeois in a tax bracket that disqualifies you from admission into heaven.”

  His expression switches from earnest to mischievous. “That sums up my tragedy rather neatly.”

  “And diligently,” I add.

  “Dinner’s served!” Aunt Violette hollers. “Please proceed to the dining room, everyone!”

  As we sit down around the oval table, raindrops begin to ping off the windows. They’re too loud to be liquid. I think it’s hail.

  Aunt Violette serves all my favorites as promised! She’s prepared artichoke hearts, grilled vegetables, steamed potatoes, crostini, and a Lyon specialty dip called, rather charmingly, “canut’s brains.”

  In response to Max’s inquiry, Aunt Violette and I explain that canuts were the nineteenth-century Lyonnais silk weavers. There are two schools of thought—one optimistic and the other pessimistic—on why the dish is named after their brains.

  The upbeat theory is that the dip was a delicacy that the working class canuts could afford. A mixture of fromage blanc, shallots, olive oil, garlic, thyme, parsley and walnut oil, it’s both delish and inexpensive to prepare. The more negative hypothesis holds that the city’s bourgeoisie came up with the name to show their contempt for the uncouth silk workers.

  “You can eat it as a dip or a spread,” I say to Max, reaching for a steamed potato to top with some brains.

  The main course is Aunt Violette’s incomparable hit, coq au vin. Even Mom doesn’t know the supersecret ingredient that she adds to the Burgundy wine sauce in which she cooks the coq.

  As we dig in, there’s a sharp crack of lightning outside the windows.

  We hear a roll of thunder.

  BAM!

  The power goes out.

  Aunt Violette lights a candle. “It’s just a fuse. Dominique will take care of it.”

  Uncle Dom turns on the flashlight on his phone and rushes out the door. Three minutes later, the lights are back on. Uncle Dom returns carrying a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. It’ll be our third tonight. I nudge Max, who’s reaching for his glass.

  “It’s almost ten,” I say aloud. “We should get started on those ledgers.”

  Uncle Dom flaps a hand. “You’ll go through them in the morning.”

  Max and I exchange panicked looks.

  “Lucie, when is the last time you drove out here?” Aunt Violette asks.

  “Um…”

  “Last summer. Last summer!” She shakes her head ruefully. “I saw you in Lyon at Christmastime and that was it. You skipped Easter. That boyfriend of yours, Jerome, is it because of him? Is he keeping you from seeing your family?”

  “He isn’t my boyfriend anymore, Tata.”

  “Good,” Uncle Dom says. “Never liked him.”

  Aunt Violette nods.

  I’m relieved they aren’t going to grill me on the subject, but the justice warrior in me cannot let an unfair accusation remain unchallenged, even when I benefit from it and I’m holding a grudge against the accused.

  “To be fair,” I say, “Jerome never kept me from visiting you. Skipping Easter is on me.”

  “It’s decided then,” Aunt Violette says in a bizarre leap of reasoning. “You’ll sleep over. You can take Annie’s old room, and Max will sleep in Claire’s. In the morning when you’re fresh and sober, you can go through Gran’s stuff.”

  “Is it rude to refuse?” Max whispers to me.

  I let out a sigh. “Just go with it. Resisting her will is futile.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Uncle Dom certifies before refilling our glasses.

  9

  Lucie

  It’s almost midnight when I settle into my cousin’s old room and change into one of her skimpy little nighties that Aunt Violette considerately laid out on the bed. The bathroom is at the end of a lit corridor, halfway between Max’s room and mine. A white towel and a new red toothbrush will be waiting there for me, I am told. The lemon-colored towel and the green toothbrush are for Max.

  My tata and tonton have thought of everything.

  Should I go to the bathroom first or play the host and let Max use it first? We should’ve coordinated before we wished each other good night and headed to our designated rooms!

  Opting for the latter, I stretch out on the bed and check my email. There’s one from Jerome’s office manager, Natasha. She lets me know that she received the dreaded “we’re sorry to let you go” letter, and she doesn’t have the energy to fight back. It makes her sad that taking her defense cost me my job and broke up my relationship. She writes that it was a very selfless thing to do, and she’ll never forget it.

  While her note does stroke my ego, it also revives the anger I’d felt when Jerome told me he was giving her the boot.

  How dare he!

  Natasha had been with Perez Parties, Father & Son from the start, same as me. She’s competent and affable, a top-notch office manager, always happy to help. Monsieur Perez—Jerome’s dad—trusted her blindly. But Jerome suspected her of some wrongdoing bad enough to fire her. He wouldn’t tell me what, since he had no proof. And that was what sent me into a rage there was no coming back from. I’m not proud of some of the epithets I lobbed at him. But I don’t regret taking a stand.

  I reply to Natasha’s email urging her to challenge Jerome’s decision, or at the very least, to seek legal advice. Setting my phone on the nightstand, I spring to my feet and head to the bathroom. Outside, the thunder booms hard enough to rattle the glass in the hallway’s window. A streak of lightning paints everything a garish white followed by another deafening crash of thunder.

  The house goes dark.

  “Merde! Not again!” Uncle Dom swears in a room on the first floor.

  A door creaks open. I hear him trudging downstairs, muttering profanities.

  Suddenly cold, I rub my arms to work some heat back into them. It was a poor choice to wander out here without that fluffy pink robe that Aunt Violette left for me in the closet. I take another step toward the bathroom and bump into a hard chest.

  “Lucie?” a familiar male voice exclaims.

  “Max?”

  His face is barely visible in the dark. I step backward reflexively as my mind catches up on the details. Is he naked? Or is he just bare chested? That said, given how much skin my nightie reveals, one could argue that I am, too. At least, I can take solace in the fact that he doesn’t seem to have adjusted to the darkness yet.

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

  “No, it’s me, I didn’t hear you—”

  “Here, let me just—”

  We both move at the same time, trying to get out of one another’s way, and colliding again in a press of flesh. Despite myself, I revel in the intoxicating combination of mint, perfume, and musk that comes off his warm skin. I am practically enfolded in his embrace, encased in his gorgeous arms that nearly touch me.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

  He’s so close I can feel the heat rising from his body and the puffs of his breath on my cheek.

  “It’s good,” I mumble, praying there is no sudden flash of lightning to illuminate exactly how red my cheeks must be.

  I mentally slap myself. Dear God, did I just say it was good? Why did I do that?

  How about because it is?

  Moved by an irrational compulsion, I look up, searching the shadowy outlines of his face. The moonlight that creeps in from the window is playing against the stubble on his cheeks, begging me to run my finger along that bristly growth.

  Not that I’ll ever yield to that feverish impulse.

  Trouble is, he seems to be having the same sort of urge. His hand inches up and his fingertips graze against my cheek.

  “Erm…”

  That’s what I meant to say. To my utter embarrassment, I realize that what came out sounded a lot more like “mmm,” as in “Mmm, I like it.”

  No, no, that won’t do! I must try again.

  I open my mouth but before I get a chance to produce an intelligible sound, he moves closer and inclines his head, angling it. He’s deliberately slow, leaving me plenty of time to say no or to push him away.

  But I find that I can’t. With Jerome—who isn’t the fittest pea in the pod—things had been lackluster in the sex department for almost a year. I feel like a survivor of a shipwreck who, after months of rationing canned beans, is served a mouthwatering dinner concocted by the country’s top chef.

  This tall, handsome, nearly naked man, holding me in the dark, is too much of a treat to pass up.

  Before I can think to stop, I’m standing on tiptoe, tilting my face upward, and brushing his lips with my own. It’s a tentative kiss at first. We dare little to nothing. There’s a heat lurking just underneath the surface, but I don’t go after it. I don’t have the nerve. A part of me knows that if I do, it will be my downfall.

  Max seems to harbor no such reservations. He twists us around in a single fluid motion and pushes me up against the wall. With an ardor I’d forgotten men could possess, he holds me between the chill of the wallpaper and the heat of his lips.

  I hear Uncle Dom call from downstairs, “Violette, you’ll need to call an electrician! I can’t fix this one.”

  Max’s tongue slips into my mouth, meeting mine and momentarily distracting me from the bulge pressing against my belly. The wall behind me makes it impossible to draw away—something I must do and pronto—but I’m grateful I can’t. Because the man pressing me into it smells too good, tastes too good, feels too good against my body.

  My heart ratchets up. My hands roam his broad back, reveling in the feel of his muscles and his skin. Our breaths mingle together, heavy and hot. Something builds deep within me, urgent, smoldering, dizzying.

  Max’s grip tightens. He crushes his body to mine, his lips to mine. Slanting his head a little more, he deepens the kiss. His hands slide along my arms, lifting them up until he’s pinning them against the wall. A moan escapes me. Locked together, our mouths are greedy, insatiable. His tongue pushes deeper, harder. I suck on it, and the act brings a sudden weakness to my legs. It takes me into uncharted territory where I could lose control. Where I could give up control.

  “Does anyone need a flashlight or a candle up there?” Aunt Violette’s voice interrupts my free fall.

  I freeze, as does Max.

  We break the kiss.

  I breathe in and out. “I’m good, Tata!”

  “Me, too!” Max calls. “Thank you, Violette!”

  His eyes never leave mine.

  “Power may not be back for another hour!” she cries out. “But there’s a flashlight in each of your rooms, if you need it. Closet, bottom shelf.”

  “Got it!” we respond in unison, staring each other in the eyes.

  When her steps grow inaudible, I hug myself. “This is wrong. Us, kissing… We can’t do this.”

  A gush of wind slams against the window. A distant glare washes the corridor in white just long enough to make out the warring emotions on Max’s face.

  “You’re right,” he says at last, stepping away from me. “I’m sorry for what I did. I truly am.”

  “I’m sorry for my actions, too,” I say.

  “What was I thinking?” Pursing his lips, he shakes his head. “It will never happen again.”

  I mumble an acknowledgment of his promise, my heart sinking at “never again.” But I’m pleased I was able to say stop before we went too far.

  Thunder rumbles, weak and distant now, and then silence stretches out between us.

  “Good night, Lucie.” He turns around and retreats to his room.

  I stumble back to mine, put on the bathrobe, grab the flashlight and head back to the bathroom.

  I’m a mess. Confusion, regret, desire, and frustration fill my head as I brush my teeth.

  What have we done?

  How can I ever face him again? How will this affect our work relationship, the office dynamics? Will we be able to act natural, like nothing happened? And most damning of all, why do I get a distinct feeling that I won’t forget this mind-blowing kiss so easily? I know I’ll keep thinking about it even when my Parisian stint is over and I’m back in Lyon. It will haunt my nightly fantasies for many months—oh, what the hell, I can be honest inside my own head—for years.

  On that sad realization, I trudge back to my room and climb between the sheets for what is promising to be a long, sleepless night.

  10

  Max

  Violette climbs the telescoping ladder and opens the attic hatch. Once she’s in, we make our way upstairs.

  Lucie looks around. “Wow, it’s bigger and lighter than I remember as a kid playing hide and seek with my cousins.”

  “We had a skylight installed.” Violette points out the rectangular insert of spotless azure. “I also decluttered a few years back.”

  Ducking my head so I don’t bump my forehead into the low beams, I tread the painted floorboards that creak underfoot. The attic smells of dust and damp cardboard.

  Lucie stops by a dressmaker’s dummy. “I remember this one! It was in your bedroom at one point, wasn’t it, Tata?”

  “Yes,” her aunt confirms, chuckling. “I kept it there throughout my midlife crisis when I tried, and failed, to become an haute couture designer.”

  Lucie runs her fingertips over the dummy’s shoulders. “Mom still wears the dresses you made. They’re the best.”

  “Oh, it isn’t the talent or skill that I lacked,” Violette says. “It’s the business acumen.”

  I glance at Lucie. She looks fresh and full of energy, despite the hint of dark circles under her eyes. Mine are a lot more pronounced. Both Violette and Dominique pointed it out at breakfast with feigned concern, barely hiding their amusement.

  Ha, I wish it’d been like they think! Unfortunately, my sleepless night wasn’t caused by having sex with Lucie. It was caused by consciously forgoing that treat.

  Now, I did mean what I said to her in the corridor. I am sorry I kissed her. We work together. I’m her boss. Even though I’ll take a sabbatical from MINDFUCH as soon as we’ve found the key, and our paths will never cross again, that doesn’t make kissing my current subordinate less inappropriate.

  Have I been spoiled beyond redemption by the fact that no woman between Tokyo and Lisbon has ever rejected me? Has my being the most eligible bachelor in Mount Evor gone to my head? At every charity fundraiser when a dinner with me is the lottery prize, every female present buys a ticket, no matter how overpriced. Many fork out their life savings to purchase the maximum authorized number of tickets. Some try to cheat.

  Last year, a skirmish broke out after the winner announcement. Eyes got blackened. Gowns got ripped. Nipples got flashed. Local tabloids had a field day. The organizers were mortified. Mother was furious. The head of Royal Protocol handed in his resignation letter, which the prime minister refused. “Something about those magnetic eyes of his,” the implicated ladies all claimed later to justify their inexplicable loss of self-restraint.

 

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