CHAPTERONE
Colin
If I hear that laugh one more time, I’m going to head up there, kick her door in, and…
I don’t know. Something tough and mean. Something she’ll remember for a very long time.
The fact that I can’t come up with anything besides shoving her against the door and putting my mouth to hers is just a testament to how tired I am.
“Please shut up.” I mutter under my breath, turning over and shoving my pillow over my head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, you bloody…American.”
Another laugh, this one more of a throaty guffaw than a giggle. It hits low in my abdomen and makes me want to turn all of this aggression outward. My hands tighten on the pillow and twist until I’m afraid I’ll tear the sodding thing apart.
“All right!” she screeches, as loud as the pigeons in the bloody courtyard. “Talk soon, okay? Yeah, hun. I’ll call. Yep.”
Thank God. It’s almost over.
Except that it isn’t, of course.
Why do I always fall for the trap of thinking it’s over when she’s still got thirty minutes of nattering left? Every fucking weekend, she talks and talks and talks on the phone, at this ungodly hour. And every weekend, it takes an additional lifetime before she ends the call.
I’m sure she’s talking to a bloke, with all thesweetheartsandhoneysandpumpkins. Which is a ludicrous thing to call a human being, by the way.Pumpkin?As an endearment? Might as well call the poor bugger rutabaga or potato, for fuck’s sake. Sure are looking great today, my lovely little asparagus.
Even when she’s not on the phone, she hums and sings and whistles and she’salwaysoff-key.
I go still and listen.
Not a sound. Oh, thank God. Blessed quiet, finally.
I yawn and stretch, pull the pillow away and relax after a moment’s silence. Is today the day I’ll get enough sleep? The day I won’t walk into the pub feeling like a dried out turd. The day I’ll look out my window and see Paris, a city of beauty and light, instead of the stinking, flat, grey place it’s become.
Snuggling in, I relax and allow my mind to wander, images of the first time I saw the American easing into my conscious brain.
Perhaps three or four months back—an unseasonably hot day, I recall—I was checking my letterbox, my back to the building’s front door, when it buzzed and swung open, letting in the sounds and smells of the street. There was a bang and a hiss and possibly the scent of sulfur. I should have known right then not to engage, not even to make eye contact. I should have gone straight up and locked my door. Or packed up my things and left town forever.
Sadly, given that I own my flat, along with the pub downstairs, that wasn’t an option.
Instead of all the things I could have done to avoid coming into contact with the lush little blue-eyed monster, I made the mistake of turning.
She stood, humming under her breath, her pleasantly round silhouette framed in the doorway, like some sort of demonic, frilly fairy cake, looking innocent and lost and sweet, and releasing, like Beelzebub’s brimstone, her own signature scent into the air. Only, instead of the blazing fires of hell, she smelled like sugar and bloody spice.
“Oh, bonjour,” she said in what was, I’ll admit, an all right accent for a Yank. If a little loud and excitable and bouncy.
I nodded and waited for her to slowly pass, all the while humming under her breath and dragging an enormous, shiny turquoise suitcase behind her. The damn thing was covered in sparkly stickers.
But it was the skirt that got me into trouble—or the dress, rather. The perfect poofy, flouncy equivalent to the mouth-watering scent that preceded her. It was nipped in at the waist, strained at the chest, and short enough to give a hint of what I’ll admit is an unbelievably shapely pair of thighs, not to mention the arse above them. Round and wide and high enough to set a pint of lager on.
I was picturing just that when she turned and caught me looking.
The way she blinked—as if thoroughly shocked—seemed a bit absurd, given that the womanhadto know the effect she had in that dress. Honestly, you don’t wear something that bright or frilly or fitted with the expectation of being ignored, do you? No. No, I don’t think so. It’s illogical.
So, when she muttered, “Keep it in your pants, mister,” under her breath, clearly thinking I wouldn’t understand, I grinned and asked, “What pants, love?” to which she took issue.
Her mouth dropped open, those plump cheeks went from a pale rose to a dark pink and then her eyes—blimey, those eyes, two massive blueberry saucers—lowered to take in my crotch before rising to meet mine again.
“You are wearing pants,” she said.
“Am I?” I’ll admit, it was not my best moment. But she rubbed me the wrong way. Even then, before all the stomping and the early morning laughing and thePunkinsandHoneys, some part of me knew the woman was trouble with a capital L for Lucifer.
