Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(53)

She takes a drink of her wine. She hums as she sets it down, looking away, seemingly lost in thought. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if I’d found my way to The Jane?”

I take a swallow as I contemplate. “I’ve thought about that scenario many times. And I know the answer.”

She arches a brow. “Do tell.”

“We’d have had spectacular, wall-thumping sex that night, and I would’ve never seen you again.”

“Why?”

I lean forward. “Because you weren’t ready.”

She laughs, but it’s an awkward, uncomfortable sound. “I wasn’t ready?”

I shake my head. “Not for me to unleash my brilliant wit, effervescent charm, or full suite of bedroom services.”

“And how do you know I wasn’t ready for the full Christian?”

“Because I had to wear you down a whole year later. That’s how I know.”

She raises her glass. “Well then, I really ought to drink to your persistence.”

I wiggle an eyebrow and clink my bottle to her glass in a toast.

After a drink, she sets down her wine. “But I still think I might have given in sooner, rather than making you wait.”

I scoff. “Doubtful. You loved every second of making me wait.”

She grins. “Fine, let’s pretend we met, had spectacular sex, and you courted me for a whole year in Paris. And the entire time I was secretly delighted with your pursuits.”

“You were?” I like her story. I like it a lot.

“I was,” she says with a smile, and I catalog this slice of an evening as yet another moment when I want to tell her how she makes me feel. But I don’t. “And that will be our marriage cover story if anyone asks.”

“It’s a good story.”

“So’s the real one,” she says, and she’s making this harder by the second.

When we finish, she says she wants to head to a shopping street not far from where we are in Saint Vincent De Paul.

“Of course you want to shop.”

She taps my shoulder. “I want to get something for your mother. What does she like? What is she passionate about?”

“Besides the prospect of grandchildren?”

She rolls her eyes. “First, a marriage of convenience. Next, she’ll want grandchildren of convenience.”

“If she could get them, she would. But truth be told, she likes egg cups.”

Elise laughs. “That’s where your love of eggs comes from.”

I hold up my hands, shaking my head. “I have no need for egg cups. I just like the food.”

Like she has a radar in her, she zigs and zags through the streets till she finds a store that sells, among other things, quirky little egg cups. She picks one that’s blue with a chicken design, and later that evening back at her house, she wraps it up in sky-blue tissue paper with a silver bow. The finished product looks like something you would see in a department store, and my mother is going to love it.

I wish Elise wasn’t such a perfect temporary wife.

“You’re the perfect wife,” I tease.

“Because I don’t make demands?”

Make demands. Shower me in them. I’ll fulfill them all. “You could make an occasional one. I’d be okay with that,” I say with a wink.

“In that case, can I come see you play soccer?” she asks, using the American term for the sport I play.

“You want to watch me play?”

“I like you sweaty.”

“I’ll check the schedule and let you know when our next game is.” I loop an arm around her waist. “And then you can get sweaty with me after.”

“Obviously.”



*

My translation work has slowed, but that’s been deliberate. Once I stepped up to take over the transition of the firm, I couldn’t spend too much time cherry-picking Scandinavian businessmen and women to translate for. I’ve still nabbed the occasional plum gig—the kind I like best, where I’ll translate for a dignitary or a celebrity.

Mostly, my work is here in the Paris office with Erik.

As I finish off a spate of contracts, Erik slouches into my office. He looks like hell. His jaw hangs open. “She . . .”

It’s all he gets out.

“What is it? She what?”

“She found me where I was having lunch.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He sinks down into a chair, his head falling into his hands. I walk around the desk and sit next to him. “What happened?”

He sighs heavily. “I was eating. All I wanted was to have a sandwich in peace at the café I like.”

“The one she knows you like? The one she knows you go to?”

“Yes,” he says in a sad and angry hiss. “She showed up, took the seat across from me, and asked if I’d be willing to talk.”

“What did you say?” I ask nervously, because this hasn’t been easy in the least for him, and because I worry about the firm.

He looks up, his blue eyes full of melancholy. “I didn’t say anything, because I felt so fucking awful. I felt like I was still in love with her, and I hated feeling that way.”

I swallow roughly, hurting for my brother. “I hate that you feel that way.” I take a beat, then ask an important question. “What did she want?”