Amanda's Guide to Love (17 page)

He blinked, clearly taken by
surprise.

“Why would he do that?” Manon
asked. “To look like Casper?”

“The little ghost boy? God, no!”
Amanda smirked. “I was thinking
Lawrence of Arabia
.”

Manon put her hands on her hips.
“Why would he want to look like Lawrence of Arabia?”

“May
I
offer an opinion?”
Amar asked. “Or have I been assigned a nonspeaking part?”

Amanda grimaced, still looking at
the headwaiter. “Eww. I just pictured Casper with black stubble. Thank you,
Manon, for giving me such a disturbing image. It’s like seeing Tinker Bell
pregnant. Or Minions having sex.”

“I’ve had enough of this
conversation.” Amar folded the paper and stood. “You have a sick mind, Amanda.”

She waved him off. “Oh, don’t be
such a hypocrite. Everyone has thoughts like this sometimes. Even a prude like
you.”

“I do, and so do other people, I
suppose. But we don’t voice them.”

The remark gave Amanda pause. Amar
was right. People generally didn’t say the kind of things she said. Everyone
she knew was smoother and a lot more socially competent than she could ever
hope to be.

And she hated how naturally that
competence came to them.

The kind of competence that came
naturally to her was when she set out to learn a new skill or solve a
work-related problem. But she seemed incapable of learning the art of being
pleasant.
Getting others to like her was a Herculean task that she accomplished only by
accident or despite her best efforts, such as with Kes.

Amanda sighed. Maybe it wasn’t her
fault. Maybe she was born missing some crucial neurological barrier that
allowed normal people to filter the informational flow between their brain and
their vocal cords. A barrier that told them when to keep their mouths shut.

Yes, that had to be it. She was
born with an invisible but consequential flaw. And that’s why she needed her
Guide
.
Vivienne had given it to her on her fifteenth birthday with a pretty card
inside it that read, “To my beloved daughter. This is who I’d like you to be.”

Amanda read the little book from
cover to cover in one sitting, then reread it the next day, and then read it again
two or three hundred times since then. She’d memorized its every piece of
advice on what a woman should do to succeed professionally and make a good
match. In short, have a perfect life—or at least a life as close to perfect as
her social status, IQ, and looks allowed.

Ruthless and superficial as it was,
the book reassured her. It helped her stay focused on her life goals and
navigate some tricky social situations. It doubled as a teddy bear and a
shrink.

It was her best
friend.

* * *

“This is my wife, Nana.” Pepe
pointed to the tall natural blonde by his side. “She’s Danish, but she can
speak French.
”

Nana smiled at her considerably
shorter husband and extended her hand.

Amanda shook it. “Here in France we
tend to do the cheek kiss—except in a business setting. Actually, we do it even
in a business setting.”

“I’ll have to get used to it.” Nana
held her hand out to Kes, who shook it.

“You should if you want to blend
in.” Amanda furrowed her brow, thinking. “Forget what I said. The way you look,
I doubt you’ll ever blend in anywhere south of the Belgian border.”

“Oh.” Nana’s face fell.

They stood in awkward silence for a
moment, watching the photographer direct the newlyweds between two magnificent
rosebushes for yet another series of mandatory pics.

This one was with the parents.

“Say
ouistiti
, everyone,” he
ordered, and everyone smiled for the camera.

After he clicked his camera a dozen
times, he asked his models to move a couple of meters to the left so the
rosebush could serve as a backdrop for the next series of shots.

Amanda searched Jeanne’s and Mat’s
faces for signs of irritation or fatigue, but found none. Knowing how bad
Jeanne was at hiding her feelings, the only logical explanation was that she
actually wasn’t irritated. Or fatigued. Her smile seemed genuinely happy, and
even Mat looked as though he didn’t mind the interminable photo shoot among the
rosebushes and various other shrubs that populated the municipal park of
Balleville.

Weird. Was the wedding day so
special it put the newlyweds in a beatific mood that nothing could ruin?

“Hasn’t he already photographed
them with both sets of parents?” Pepe asked, frowning.

“He has,” Kes confirmed. “But I
think I figured out what his plan is.”

Amanda smiled. “Please enlighten
us.”

“He’s sampling the different tree
species of this park. If we’re lucky, he’ll stop after the magnolias.”

“I hope he does,” Pepe said. “I’m
parched.”

“Pe-pe and Na-na.” Amanda looked from
one to the other. “Did you guys meet through a website that matches people
based on their names?”

Pepe widened his eyes in mock
surprise. “How did you know?”

“These days,” Nana said with a
tight smile, “Pepe prefers to be called by his full name—Jose-Antonio.”

“I bet it has something to do with
him being a
manager
,” Amanda said, “in charge of
managing
an
agency.”

“What do you think of Paris, Nana?”
Kes asked, looking unusually earnest. “How does it compare to Copenhagen?”

“I like Paris.” Nana’s smile was
genuine this time. “It’s not as cozy as Copenhagen, and there are too many
places where you can’t enter with a stroller. But it’s beautiful and fun. I’m
taking courses to improve my French so I can start applying for jobs when Freja
is a bit older.”

Pepe turned to Kes. “And what about
you? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a stockbroker,” Kes said,
thankfully sticking to the script.

He stuck to it for the rest of the
day, never goofing up and playing his role with confidence and aplomb. He
chatted with everyone and charmed everyone. But he always stayed near Amanda
and danced only with her.

And, boy, he did it well.

Salsa, rock,
zouk
—you name
it, they danced it. When Maximilien Philippe launched into his spellbinding
cover of “C’est si bon,” Kes pulled her into his arms. Amanda shivered and
thought that this was very, very
bon
. But when the song ended, she
changed her mind. Rocking in Kes’s embrace to Philippe’s sensual crooning
hadn’t been just
bon
. It had been glorious.

What was more, she didn’t give a
hoot about how blissfully in love Rob and Lena were. The purpose of bringing
Kes to Jeanne’s wedding had been to protect her ego. He’d done her one better
and shielded her heart. Whether it was his hungry gaze or simply his presence,
it soothed the pain she usually experienced around her ex and his wife.

She hardly even glanced at them. No
unhealthy fascination, no envy, no poisonous regret. Tonight, Amanda stayed in
the here and now, wholeheartedly celebrating Jeanne and Mat’s union.

And having an
exceptionally good time.

When Kes led Amanda to their room—
dragged
would have been a better term had he acknowledged the degree of Amanda’s
tipsiness—he knew one thing was certain. If he kissed her now, she’d let him do
more.

Much more.

All of it.

During the last few dances, she’d
clung to him, murmuring something about him being smoking hot and her being
soaking wet. She gave him heavy-lidded gazes and bit her lower lip repeatedly.

Meaningfully.

Once in the room, she climbed on
the bed without bothering to remove her pumps and beckoned him over.

He kicked off his shoes and socks
and lay down next to her.

“Oh look,” Amanda said, pointing to
the ceiling, “the room is spinning!”

“You’ve had too much to drink, ma
belle
.
”

“So what?” She tore her gaze from
the light fixture on the ceiling and gave him a seductive smile. “Hold me.”

He set his hand on her slim waist
and began to caress her through the silky fabric of her gown.

Should he move higher and cup her
breast? Why was he even asking himself this question? Perhaps because it felt
wrong, that was why.

“Mmm.” Amanda closed her eyes and
nuzzled his neck.

She sounded dopey.

He kept his hand on her waist,
slowing his movements and then just holding her until she fell asleep.

As he listened to her drunken yet
endearing snoring, he wondered how much longer he could play this game.

Not much.

Something had to give.

The question was what
was going to give first—her resistance or his resolve.

* * *

Kes woke up to Amanda fumbling for
something.

She still had her gown on but no
shoes—he had removed them before falling asleep.

“Have you seen my watch?” she asked
in a sleepy voice.

He stretched out. “You weren’t
wearing it last night.”

“Right. Must be in my purse.” She
rubbed her eyes. “Do you have yours? We shouldn’t be late for the wedding
breakfast.”

“Time slayers,” he mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Someone—can’t remember who—said it
about clocks. Time dies when you look at them and comes alive when you turn
away.”

“Rubbish.”

“I wouldn’t be so smug.” He turned on
his side, facing her. “Haven’t you noticed how you feel fully alive only when
you forget to look at your watch and forget about time?”

“I never forget about time. In my
world, planning and anticipating is vital.”

“I can appreciate that,” he said.
“But in my world, thinking about the future all the time prevents you from
enjoying the present.”

She turned to face him. “So what
are you saying? That instead of rushing to the breakfast we should just stay in
bed and . . . enjoy the present moment?”

“That’s an option.” His lips
twitched. “Another option is to shower and then come back to bed and enjoy the
present moment.”

“God, I must reek!” She jumped to
her feet and darted to the bathroom.

While she washed, he lay on his
back and waited with a happy grin on his face. So far things were going
according to the plan he’d hatched last night after Amanda fell asleep and he
took a cold shower to kill his arousal.

It was happening today. This
morning. In this room. They both wanted it, and he’d had enough of her warped
reasons as to why it was wrong.

When she emerged from the bathroom—swathed
in a terry cloth towel with her hair damp and her skin flushed—his breath
caught in his throat.

Please, come to me.

She padded to the bed, sat on it
for a brief moment, and then stretched out to face him.

He placed his hand on her bare
shoulder.

She didn’t move.

Taking it as a permission to
continue, he stroked her arm, adding pressure with each pass.

She stared into his eyes, her blue
gaze enthralling him like the waters of the Mediterranean Sea. He spread his
fingers, pressing his thumb into the underside of her slender arm and caressing
the silky skin there.

“Mmm . . . nice.”
She let out a languorous sigh. “But you’ve got to stop.”

“Why?”

“If we have sex now, we’ll do it
again when we’re back in Paris, and it’ll become an affair. I don’t want an
affair with you, Kes.”

He stared at her, poker-faced.

“We’re too—” she began.

“Different to be a couple,” he
finished for her. “You’ve said it before. And you may be right . . .
but you won’t disagree we’re great as lovers.”

She didn’t disagree.

“Why can’t we just have a good time
together?” He searched her eyes. “We’re both single, and we’re already friends.
Why not friends with benefits?”

She reflected for a long moment
before giving him a smile. A big, toothy,
sincere
smile.

“Truth is,” she said, “I could use
a benefit or two at this point in my life . . .”

Is that a yes?

“I want you so much, Amanda,” he
said, inching closer to her.

She stared at him, her gaze
traveling from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes.

And soon he could think of nothing other
than her lips. He propped himself up on his elbow, cupped her face, and leaned
in for a gentle kiss. Her mouth was soft and deliciously responsive.

He took his time, raining light
kisses on her lips, chin, and cheekbones.