Amanda's Guide to Love (27 page)

“Young men have a high sex drive.
You’re young. And I’m attractive.”

“You think? Hmm.”

She ignored him. “As I said, I get
the sex part. What I don’t get is the love part.”

“Would it help if the next
installment of the guide was illustrated? I could draw some pictures, and even
color them.”

“Ha-ha,” she said without bothering
to smile. “I mean it, Kes. I’m not the type of woman men fall in love with.”

“Because there’s a special type for
that?” He bunched his eyebrows.

“Two types, actually.” She traced
the rim of her glass. “One is Cutie Pie. No man can resist a sweet, shy,
vulnerable damsel. Like Lena.”

“Rob’s wife?”

She nodded. “Why do you think he
chose her over me? Women like Lena appeal to men’s protective instinct. They
make them feel stronger and . . . maler.”

“If you say so.” He pulled his
chair back and beckoned her. “Come here.”

When she approached him, he set his
hands on her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “What’s the second type?”

She settled comfortably and wrapped
one arm around his neck. “Mommy. That’s Jeanne and all the kind, nurturing,
motherly women who make men feel safe and cared for.”

“I see.” He contorted his mouth
like someone suppressing a smile. “So which one are you?”

“Neither of them, of course. I’m
not shy. I’m certainly not sweet or even remotely motherly.”

She closed her eyes, enjoying the
feel of his large warm hand sliding under the hem of her skirt and caressing
her thighs.

“I’m assertive and competitive,”
she said.

“I concur.”

She opened her eyes and stared into
his. “I’m the bitch type.”

“Bullshit.” He met her gaze. His
hand was on the inside of her thigh now, inching up. “I disagree.”

“You can disagree for all eternity,
but that’s who I am, Kes. I’m sharp-tongued and tactless, and no amount of good
manners can obliterate it.”

“Thank God,” he said, brushing her
crotch.

She clutched his shoulder. “I’ve
been trying—and failing—to be a good girl for as long as I can remember.”

“You should stop trying.”

He pressed his thumb right where
she needed it and rubbed gently.

Ooh.

She arched her back and spread her
knees a little.

Stay focused, Amanda.

“With a few exceptions—” She let
out a soft moan. “Women tend to dislike me. And . . . oh God,
this is so good! . . . as I said before . . . men
tend not to fall in love with me.”

“And as I said before,” he echoed
her, “I disagree.”

“You think . . .” She
drew in a ragged breath, and her eyes glazed over. “You think you know me
better than I do?”

“No, but I think I know men better
than you do.”

He began to rub a little harder,
and her head fell back on a whimper. She knew she had only a few moments of
clarity left until she lost her capacity for coherent speech.

“And?” she rasped.

“We aren’t a monolithic mass. We’re
diverse, and we like different kinds of women, for different qualities and in
different ways . . . You—”

She opened her mouth to argue, but
he pressed his lips to hers.

“Shh,” he said against her mouth.
“Let me finish.”

She blinked.

“You have my heart,
Amanda. And whether you want it or not . . .” He smiled a
lopsided smile that stole the breath from her lungs. “You’d better get used to
carrying it around. Because, ma belle
,
I don’t have a return policy.”

* * *

Back to Normal

~ ~ ~

A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline # 13

The Perfect Woman avoids men who
are too young and too handsome.

Rationale
: Too young = not ready for a
serious relationship. Too handsome = coveted by too many other women, some of
whom might be more attractive (smarter, better in bed) than you.

A
word of caution
:
Here’s a rule of thumb: Only go out with men who are at least three years older
than you and score between 5.5 and 7 on a hotness scale of 1 to 10.

Permissible
exception
: Do give
a chance to a hunk who’s twenty years your senior and a proven monogamist. The
margin of tolerance for younger men is one year and not a day beyond.

Damage
control
: If,
despite our warning, you go out with a younger man, keep your heart uninvolved
and observe him for at least six months for any signs of immature behavior.
Similarly, if you end up seeing a man who scores above seven on the hotness
scale, quarantine your feelings for at least six months to gauge how
corruptible he is.

If
you get involved with a man who’s both too young and too handsome, start
stocking up on tissues, horror movies, and chocolate. Expect heartbreak before
the year is out.

~ ~ ~

In
contrast to the beginning of the week, this morning La Bohème was full to
overflowing. The Parisians had returned from their southern vacations, and the
tourists reappeared in droves. Manon asked the servers to cut their coffee
breaks back to the pre-slump ten minutes. Amanda didn’t mind. Being busy meant
getting more tips and not having time to think about Kes.

The first thing she
did during her break was text him.

Did
you find your folks at the campsite easily? Is your grandma OK?

A minute later, he
replied.

Yes
and yes.

She smiled.

Have
you told them yet?

I’m
gearing up for it.

Good
luck.

Thanks!

Thinking about Kes, Amanda
swallowed the rest of her coffee and went back to work. As she carried loaded
trays and bussed dirty dishes, she felt pleasantly lightheaded—just like yesterday
and the day before. It was her new normal.

Stupid, shortsighted hormones.

How did a girl keep her head on her
shoulders when a man like Kes was doing everything to prevent it? He made her
laugh. He plunged her into the present moment. Thanks to his clever prompts,
she looked at people and situations in a new light and discovered things she’d
never seen before.

The way he made love to her felt so
right she wondered if he’d used some Gypsy voodoo to find out what turned her
on. Because, God help her, he knew.

He’d discovered something important
about her, something that no other lover—not even Rob—had figured out. And how
could they? She was the ultimate type A, a true alpha: controlling and fiercely
independent in all aspects of her daily life. With the emphasis on
daily
.

The nights were a different story.
In bed she was pliable, yielding, and happy to be led. In fact, she enjoyed
being led. Just like when she danced her favorite salsa.

Kes knew it. He let her pick the
movies and the restaurants. She set the pace of their jogs. When she wanted to
watch a TV program or listen to music he didn’t care for, he just opened a book
and immersed himself in it.

The world’s most laid-back guy.

Except in bed, or wherever they
happened to have sex. At those times, he stopped accommodating and took charge.
A simple “come here” delivered with the easy confidence of a man who knew how
much his lover wanted him made her knees wobble. The feel of his hand on her
lower back, crushing her to him, was enough to turn her from a snarling tigress
into a purring kitten.

He led—she followed.

It lit her fire.

And in the morning, when she
morphed back into a tigress, he didn’t seem to resent or resist her
transformation. She suspected he even liked it that way.

Weird, baffling man.

* * *

When her shift ended, Amanda still
had a couple of hours to kill until her dinner with Patrick. He had booked a
table at a chic restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. This meant she could take
Line 7 down to Louvre-Rivoli and hop on Batobus—the shuttle boat she loved but
hadn’t used in years. She was always in a hurry, and the métro was so much
faster.

Well, if she wanted to treat
herself to a scenic ride on Batobus, now was the time.

Besides, she sorely needed
something to put her in a better mood. She didn’t regret accepting Patrick’s
invitation—after all, he was Friend #4 on her famously short list. Had he not
said those disturbing things the other day, she would’ve been looking forward
to the evening. But now she felt uncomfortable about it.

On the boat, she took in the sights
along the Seine and told herself it wasn’t a big deal. They’d have a chat, and
then she’d go home. She didn’t have to say anything in response to Patrick’s
idea that they’d make a perfect couple. He didn’t expect any immediate
decisions or commitments from her. She could postpone deciding until Kes was on
another continent and her body and mind had begun to shed his spell.

The boat slid along the peaceful
river, past the Orangerie Museum and Champs-Élysées. After that, with no
notable sights in view, Amanda watched the people on the quays: solo readers,
couples kissing gently, and groups of friends enjoying an improvised picnic.
They all seemed to be telling her,
It’s summer, it’s Paris; stop fretting
and go with the flow
.

It helped.

Soon the magnificent Pont Alexandre
III came into view. Amanda peered at its art nouveau lamps and baroque cherubs,
and felt almost serene.

When she walked into the restaurant
at seven o’clock sharp, Patrick had already arrived. Sleek and well groomed, he
was a pleasant sight, like the perfectly rounded laurel trees in Vivienne’s
garden.

As expected, he didn’t press her
for an answer but instead focused on exposing the many reasons why she should
give him a chance. They were good reasons, too. Excellent, even.

The problem was Patrick was . . .
bland.

He was so utterly and completely
within the norm—the very norm she’d once asked Kes to be. Turned out said norm
was vastly overrated. It was boring. It was monochromatic and fragrance-free.
If she could take a bite out of it, she figured it would taste like yesterday’s
gum.

When the waiter cleared their
appetizers, Patrick reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

She froze, unsure what to do.

“Just promise me you’ll think about
it,” he said with a smile.

“I will.”

“You can take as long as you need.”

“OK.”

“Within reasonable limits, of
course.”

“Of course.”

He kept staring into her eyes.

“So . . . it’s a
deal, then.” She placed her other hand on top of his and patted it before
withdrawing both hands.

When they finished the dessert,
Patrick suggested they check out the new piano bar in Saint-Germain that all of
Paris was talking about. Amanda invoked a migraine, and he accepted her “maybe
next time” with grace.

She was home at half past nine. In
the twenty minutes it took her to reach her apartment from the restaurant,
she’d made up her mind about Patrick.

He was wrong for her, and no amount
of “thinking about it” or “giving it a try” would ever make him right. Given
that insight, it would be cruel to leave him hanging.

Relieved, she called Patrick
and told him she hoped they could remain friends.

* * *

The caller ID was Karine’s.

As soon as Amanda’s brain
correlated that information with the late hour, her heart began to race. There
must have been a good reason for the friendly PA to call her at ten in the
evening. The possibility that the board had just given Julien Barre the sack
definitely counted as one.

She picked up her phone.

“They fired him,” Karine said.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t be calling you if I
weren’t.”

“Oh. My. God. Details, please!” She
sounded like a giddy teenager, but she didn’t care.

“Sure,” Karine said. “I wasn’t
given the unofficial title of ENS’s best-informed PA for nothing.”

Amanda began to pace to soothe her
nerves. “Come on, talk.”

Karine cleared her throat. “When
the extent of our losses became known, everyone expected Julien to resign. But
as you know, he didn’t. Then the board asked him to step down. He told them
they had to trust him and he could still fix everything. That’s when they fired
him.”