Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(20)

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.

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 San German des Pres, 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.