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Redirecting the conversation to my freshly acquired butterfly tattoo before she notices that my resistance is a sign of dishonesty. I ask how my Airbnb guests are doing. She reassures me.
Who would have thought I’d end up moving into her brother’s bachelor pad when Caleb Carter eventually decided to go back to college in Massachusetts rather than pursuing his lucrative modeling career? Mixing business and pleasure has never been my thing, and I make a point to steer clear of the models from the magazines and agencies that employ me. A handful of horror stories from fellow photographers reinforced my stance, especially since I don’t want to lead anybody on. I’m not commitment-phobic but prize my freedom too much to pursue anything beyond a good time.
As it happened, I resisted the hot American for months… until he persuaded me that, even if he were barely legal, we were two consenting adults. I found it ironic that I’d been wary of leading him on when he was the one to call it quits a few weeks later, announcing that he was leaving the country. I figured that losing his virginity scared him off. My assumption amused him, and he reassured me that his decision had nothing to do with me.
I’m not complaining. I gained a best friend in his sister and a new place that is currently occupied and earning me money.
Work had connected me with Garcia months prior to my affair with her brother, but his sudden departure is what jumpstarted our unlikely friendship. And now, we live one floor apart! I must admit that Le Marais is a better fit than my former place near Le Luxembourg… and I’m not saying that because Le Marais is the gayest area in Paris or because I’m a Harry Potter fan and we live on Rue Nicolas Flamel!
Eventually, after several drinks to celebrate her divorce from a French asshole, she learned another one of my odd habits: finding famous doppelgängers for common people. If I weren’t drunk, I might never have disclosed my nickname for her. No matter how vehemently she protested at first, her red cheeks matched her hair color and betrayed her approval at my comparison with the outspoken, smart, and fun Penelope Garcia fromCriminal Minds. Aside from the obvious physical similarities, her vital role at the modeling agency paralleled how the fictional character interacted with the rest of the team.
We get a kick out of teasing each other, and I can’t wait to see her.
In person.
CHAPTER5
HUMBLE AND KIND
Ash
The evening following my unfortunate surfing incident, a dapper Nino pours some red wine into our glasses. Dark green khakis. White dress shirt… His potent presence is so different from Alex’s. My initial apprehension at seeing him again dissolved quickly; and to think that I almost canceled because I felt guilty about Alex!
My boyfriend’s given me the cold shoulder since I detailed how Nino saved my life. I’m not sure if he’s mad at himself for not being there, jealous of another man’s mouth, or pissed because my nightmares are back with a vengeance.
Confessing how Silas invited himself into our bed lately was out of the question. Alex recovered the ability to speak to me, but he barely looked up from his book as I departed for my thank-you dinner with Nino.
I’ll deal with Alex in due time; our communication still needs some fine-tuning, which proves me right as far as moving in with him goes. For now, I plan to enjoy myself and focus on recovering from my traumatic experience with the one person who is able to relate.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I watch Nino unroll the silverware from his napkin and place the cloth on his lap. “Thanks for picking such a convenient place.” Sipping on the wine, I moan at his statement, still annoyed at Alex, who adamantly refused to provide potential dinner venues. “This is more high-end than I’m used to. The little joint across the street would’ve been fine too.”
Granted, the glowing reviews made this selection a no-brainer. “Nah, repaying you—”
“Stop it! We’ve been through this.” His voice is soft, but I wince nonetheless. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off. I appreciate the invitation. So… table for two? I guess your boyfriend won’t be joining us?”
I squirm in my plush seat and smile at the waiter, thankful for the interruption. The waiter places a variety of appetizing dishes on the table. We opted for the combo platter for two, one of the house specialties that came highly recommended. I was stunned that Nino went for it. After all, we barely know each other.
It smells amazing. Nino thanks the waiter in what I assume is Balinese. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious that I can’t pronounce the names of our dishes. When we’re alone again, I raise my eyebrow quizzically.
He gestures with his hand. “Not that impressive, trust me. It’s my way of being respectful to the locals wherever my job sends me. I’ve mastered a few basic words like hello and thank you in several languages, but I only speak five.”
“Onlycinq?”
Polite Nino compliments my pathetic attempt at French that I barely remember despite the tutoring I gladly provided to my next-door neighbor, who also happened to be the high school quarterback. Naturally, I hoped for more. First and foremost, I hoped that Benjamin Williamson would notice me; mission accomplished. Then, I hoped that our relationship would evolve into more; his support of my nerdy self and stolen kisses were good omens. I’d embraced my sexual orientation and hoped that he would eventually develop genuine feelings for me; closeted Benjamin was damn tempting, curious, and interested in experimenting further… Boiling teenage hormones sure increased my resourcefulness and moxie! Needless to say, my hopes were crushed when my parents’ plane crashed, assuring that I’d never see or hear from Benjamin again.
My savior doesn’t miss my sarcastic tone, to which he chuckles, then explains that he lived in Martinique for most of his life but moved to Paris in his early twenties to study photography. He grew up speaking French and Martinican Creole, and he’s fluent in English, Spanish, and German. He refills our empty glasses. “Believe it or not, I have Norwegian relatives, so that will be my next challenge!” I’m baffled by his language skills and willpower. “I’ve been to Indonesia several times. I memorized the words. My accent probably sucks.”
Between bites, I ask about the nickname he gave me:timal. He explains that it’s the Creole equivalent of “man.” “The first syllable is pronounced like the T in T-shirt.”
Ohhh!
Why am I repeating the word after him? He doesn’t comment on it and changes the topic from his childhood in Martinique to his current occupation as a fashion photographer. He may be pushing thirty, yet he’s already worked for some of the most prestigious magazines.
“I also work in fashion,” I eventually say. “I’m a personal stylist.” As the words leave my mouth, I grasp how not-so-glamorous my job in New York is in comparison. He admits that he’s mostly clueless about brands but asks tons of questions, and the conversation flows effortlessly. In turn, I’m able to relax for the first time since yesterday’s NDE, as Nino called it. This stranger’s company is fun and a drastic change from Alex’s gloomy mood.
What’s gotten into him anyway?
I fight the escalating migraine, blood pressure, and troubling thoughts. All three could be due to my NDE… or to whiplash from Alex’s behavior.
