Amanda's Guide to Love Page 8

  “Of course not! That’s absurd.” He gave an indignant snort. “I’m a werewolf.”

  She burst out laughing.

  He kept his expression earnest for a brief moment until a spark of hilarity lit up his eyes, spread to the rest of his face, and stretched his mouth into a wide, sexy grin.

  She gasped at the beauty of him.

  God give me strength.

  * * *

  “Two things make or break a guest’s experience: the quality of the food—but that’s Claude’s worry, not ours—and the level of service.” Amar paused, giving Amanda time to internalize his statement.

  Her lips twitched slightly, but she kept a straight face as she held up her pen and notepad. “Should I write this down?”

  He shook his head.

  She lowered her notepad.

  “Right. Where was I?” Amar scratched his head. “Oh yes, I was going to kick off your apprenticeship with good news: smiling at customers is not mandatory in this establishment.”

  Amanda nodded, delighted, until Amar’s meaning hit her: he didn’t think her a friendly sort.

  She schooled her features into an annoyed frown. “I spent three hours last night practicing my perfect waitress smile. What a waste of time!”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t smile, just that you don’t have to”—he sighed—“if you don’t feel like it.”

  “Do I have to chat with them?”

  “No. Just say hello and answer their questions politely. No need to go beyond that.”

  “Hang on a sec.” Amanda began to scribble in her notebook, filling one tiny page after the next and pausing to think. She watched Amar from the corner of her eye. The poor guy looked unsure.

  Great.

  She was successfully destabilizing her mentor.

  When she’d filled four pages, she stopped and looked up. “You may continue.”

  Amar cleared his throat. “I have more good news. If a guest is too slow to choose her dish, you don’t have to stand there while she’s agonizing over the possibilities.”

  “No problem.”

  “A good waiter doesn’t hover by a table like a fly over a cake. Parisians don’t like it. You should keep your distance until you’re called.”

  Amanda’s lips twitched again. “It’ll be tough, but I think I can do that.”

  Amar plowed on. “Don’t bring the main courses out while people are still eating their starters, and don’t clear a course until everyone at the table has finished eating.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Constantly observe all your tables to make sure everyone has enough bread, napkins, and water.”

  “What happens if they don’t?”

  “You bring them more.”

  “Hmm.” She pinched her chin, trying to look perplexed. “Doesn’t this instruction contradict what you just said about not approaching guests unless called?”

  He sighed again. “Use your judgment, Amanda. Even you can do it, I’m sure.”

  Jeanne walked in holding a large, newspaper-wrapped frame against her chest. She approached them, grinning. Amanda smiled back. It looked like Amar would have to postpone the rest of his tutorial.

  “Will you guys give me a hand?” Jeanne said, carefully setting the frame on the floor.

  “Sure,” Amanda said, glancing at Amar. “Did you buy a painting?”

  “It’s a poster.” Jeanne began to remove the wrapping. “I spotted it in a shop window on my way to work, and I kept thinking about it all morning. I had to go back and buy it.”

  She removed the last bit of paper. “Ta-da!”

  The poster was a photo of a huge steaming mug. The caption below the mug said, All you need is LOVE. Oh, and coffee.

  “Ah. I see why you like it,” Amanda said.

  “It’s genius.” Jeanne stepped back to admire the masterpiece. “It should fit into the space between the wine rack and the dresser.”

  “I’ll get the hammer,” Amar said.

  “I’ll tell you if it’s even,” Amanda offered. “I have an accurate eye.”

  An hour later, the lunchtime crush descended on the bistro, and Amanda did her best to keep up. Thank God, she was in good shape; otherwise she would have collapsed from the exertion.

  The most exhausting part had been staying alert enough to get all the orders right and not drop, spill, or break anything. When she finally sat down to her well-deserved meal and coffee at the end of her shift at four, she felt rather satisfied with her second day at La Bohème.

  Truth be told, Amanda was finding she didn’t mind her new job as much as she’d expected. Amar certainly took his mentor role a little too seriously, but she didn’t mind that, either. Her being older by seven years—and the proprietor’s friend, to boot—gave his tutorials a slightly comical touch. She listened to him carefully and did her best to memorize every piece of advice he imparted, but she played her apprentice role with a tongue-in-cheek excess of zeal.

  How else was one to take lessons from someone so young?

  The first drops of rain hit the terrace awning at the same time as a tall, dark-haired male began to take shape in the distance. As he approached, Amanda’s last doubts vanished—it was Kes. The drops turned into a torrent, and by the time he stepped under the awning, he was soaked.

  And gorgeous.

  He smoothed back his damp curls, pulled a chair next to hers, and ensconced himself comfortably. “Hi.”

  “I told you not to come here.”

  “And I told you I would.” His expression became mutinous. “If you kick me out, I’ll complain to your boss.”

  She blew out her cheeks. “I finished my shift, so I’ll be leaving as soon as I drink my coffee.”

  “Braving the elements?”

  “It’s just rain. It’ll stop any minute now. Summer showers never last.”

  “Oh, trust me—this one will.” He winked. “We werewolves have the moon on speed dial.”

  “The moon has nothing to do with rain, you ignorant nomad.”

  “Says who? The scientists who fabricate their data or the ones who misinterpret it?”

  “Smartass,” she mumbled, and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Can I have a glass of red wine, please?” Kes asked Amar, who was clearing a table next to them.

  “A Bordeaux?”

  “You read my mind.”

  Amar nodded and disappeared inside.

  Kes sat back and stretched his legs. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad, I guess.”

  “Are your colleagues friendly?”

  “They’re OK. It doesn’t take much to be OK compared to some of my former colleagues, especially my former boss.”

  “The one who fired you?”

  She nodded. “I miss my job, though. My real job.”

  “What do you miss most about it?”

  She shrugged and began to play with the untouched sugar cube. “Where shall I begin? I miss the strategizing and decision making. The thrill of going on a business trip. The brainstorming sessions. I miss some of my colleagues. Even my desk.” She sighed. “It was a great desk. Large, trendy . . . neat.”

  He covered her hand with his, a smile crinkling his eyes. “I can see why you’d miss your desk.”

  She considered pulling her hand away. She truly did. But his palm was warm and incredibly comforting. Its touch against the back of her hand made her want to sway toward him, melt into his embrace, and let him do wild, passionate things to her. Things that stole the strength from her legs and made her cry out his name.

  Things that made her lose control.

  She pulled her hand away. “It’s not just my old job; I miss the company, too.”

  He stared at her. “Why?”

  Was he asking about the company or the hand?

  She went with the safer assumption. “I happen to believe in its mission. ENS is a green-energy pioneer in France, and it actually contributes to making the world a better place. And you know what?
I think it could do so much more if it were run by someone competent.”

  He didn’t comment—only nodded and picked up the Bordeaux that Amar had placed in front of him.

  They sat in silence for a while, him drinking his wine and her sipping what was left of her coffee. They didn’t touch or even look at each other. And yet Amanda felt his nearness on an almost mystical level. She could all but hear his thoughts.

  Had she been a less rational person, she would have concluded they’d established a telepathic connection. But as it were, she told herself her peripheral vision was catching his contours and her sense of smell, his pheromones.

  And, boy, those pheromones were scrumptious.

  Rain drummed a steady beat above their heads and around them. It splattered puddle water onto their feet, muddying his fine loafers and her stylish ballerinas. This annoyed Amanda’s inner shoe fanatic to no end . . . yet not enough to push her to break the magic of the moment and seek shelter inside the bistro.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  The Date Pact

  ~ ~ ~

  A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

  Guideline # 6

  The Perfect Woman knows how to manage her female boss.

  Rationale: There are three types of female bosses: Mother, Prima Donna, and Fury. Mother is the woman who, depending on her age and yours, could have been your mom or sister outside of the work context. Prima Donna is bad news. She may be superficially friendly and sweet, but she sees you—and everyone else with the tiniest trace of ambition—as a rival. Fury is mad, sad, and evil.

  A word of caution: Consider yourself lucky if you work with the Mother type because regardless of how demanding she is, she’s also fair, and you’ll be rewarded if you’ve been good. So be good.

  Remember that Prima Donna wants all the attention and spotlight to herself while those under her should be indefatigable and indistinguishable—her Dream Team. If your boss is a Prima Donna, keep as low a profile as you can manage and look for a transfer or another job.

  Permissible exception: If you enjoy being nobody, you may enjoy working under a Prima Donna. But then, you’ll never be a Perfect Woman.

  Damage control: If your boss is a Fury, there’s only one sensible thing you can do. Run!

  ~ ~ ~

  Ooh, the bliss.

  Amanda slid down the smooth enamel surface of her sitting bathtub and brought her knees to her chest, which was the only way to have both her chest and legs in the water at the same time. She did miss the proper baths she used to stretch out in and enjoy at her old place. But a sitting tub was the only way to soak in such a tiny bathroom, and it was still better than not having the option at all.

  Besides, this was her bathtub—the lawful property of Amanda Roussel—and not her interfering landlady’s tub. Just for that, it was worthy of Amanda’s love.

  The idea behind taking a hot bath in mid-June was to relax her body enough to fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. And the reason she needed to instantly drop off was to avoid fantasizing about Kes. Those fantasies were too wild, too dangerous.

  Too real.

  Having made love to the man, she couldn’t tell herself his avatar was just the fruit of her imagination. She couldn’t persuade herself Kes was a terrible lover or a pervert because he was neither of those things. He was the exact opposite.

  After Rob broke up with her, Amanda’s sex life had been a disaster. Her first post-Rob date—financial analyst Victor—told her over the main course in an upscale restaurant that the importance of sex to a good relationship was vastly overrated. She agreed, pleased to have met a man who didn’t objectify women. But then he informed her during dessert that he hadn’t had sex in four years and wasn’t planning on having any in the foreseeable future.

  Amanda didn’t bother seeing him again.

  Her second date—tech start-up founder Laurent—enjoyed sex, all right. He also loved food—carnally. She should have suspected his adoration went too far when, on their first date, he plunged his fingers into the topping of her strawberry cake and plucked a strawberry. Slowly, he licked it and then attempted to feed it to her.

  She politely declined.

  Four more chaste dates prescribed by her Guide to Perfection later, Amanda upgraded their relationship to Stage Two: Sleeping with the Candidate. She invited Laurent over to sample her wine collection and the delicious chocolate mousse she’d whipped up for the occasion. They finished the sampling in bed with said mousse smeared all over her body. She felt so sticky and upset about the quasi-certain ruin of her expensive sheets that she didn’t enjoy a moment of his elaborate foreplay.

  But she gave him another chance.

  And he blew it by turning up on her doorstep with three bananas and a pot of honey. With a lascivious smile, he told her he was going to put those items to a very good use.

  She kicked him out.

  Her third date, Fabrice, was a schoolteacher. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have considered a man with such a low income potential, but she was traumatized. And desperate.

  Fabrice showed good promise in the beginning. He had a reassuringly conservative relationship with food and didn’t commit a single gaffe in any of the five pre-sex dates. Better still, Fabrice wore unusually elegant shoes for someone on a teacher’s salary.

  A couple of weeks into Stage Two, he invited her to his parents’ house—where he still lived—and showed her his BDSM playroom in the attic.

  “Seriously?” Amanda did her best to hide her disappointment behind a sneer. “Did I ever say or do anything that made you think I was into this sort of stuff?”

  “But . . . I thought . . . I spotted a copy of Fifty Shades on your bookshelves, and I thought . . .”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “I also own a copy of Twilight. It doesn’t mean I want to be bitten by a vampire.”

  He looked down at his feet.

  “You should’ve done some market research first,” she admonished, “before you bought all this . . . equipment.”

  “I did!” His expression was both hurt and defiant. “I read several articles in men’s magazines. They all said the same thing: women can’t resist a man like Christian Grey.”

  “Poor fellow, you don’t get it, do you?” Amanda breathed as much pity as she could into her tone—she wasn’t going to let on how disappointed and betrayed she was feeling. “What women find irresistible about Christian Grey are his billions, not his whips and paddles. If he were a schoolteacher with a playroom in his parents’ attic, how do you think they’d react to him?”

  He jutted out his chin but didn’t answer.

  “Well, I think they’d call him a disgusting pervert and wouldn’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole.” She spun around and marched out the door, not bothering to say good-bye.

  What was wrong with men these days? Why couldn’t they just make love to a woman without using crutches and contraptions?

  She’d enjoyed 9½ Weeks as much as the next cultivated person. But even the most tasteful things Mickey Rourke did to Kim Basinger on-screen would be messy and off-putting in the real world. Especially in Amanda’s world, where discomfort extinguished desire and ridicule blew it to pieces.

  After Fabrice, she went out with a couple of high-profile businessmen whose lovemaking turned out to be every bit as self-centered as their conversation.

  And after that, it was just her and Faceless Man.

  Until that mind-blowing weekend in Deauville.

  Now, Kes was a different matter. She couldn’t think of anything he’d done in bed—or in the beach cabin they’d borrowed—that she hadn’t liked. In fact, with respect to most of the things he did, the word like was too mild to describe her reaction. Take pleasure would be a more adequate expression. Savor would be an even better fit. As for what he’d done to her with his clever tongue, relish might begin to convey how she’d felt.

  Amanda’s right hand went to rest on her tummy and then slid lower, settling
between her legs. Her treacherous mind blocked out the inconvenient fact that the very reason she was taking a bath was to avoid doing what she was about to do now. She threw her head back, closed her eyes . . . and felt someone—or something—staring at her.

  She sat up and tensed.

  It was a spider. A big, black, disgusting creature sat across from her on the edge of the tub. It was close enough for her to discern each of its eight legs.

  Had there been another human within earshot, she would’ve screamed. But seeing as there was none, she didn’t. She just froze.

  So did the spider.

  Right. OK. She could handle this. All she needed was an object that was sufficiently heavy and broad to squash the critter. Amanda pictured herself picking up one of her pumps and hitting the spider with it.

  Yuck. She’d have to clean its revolting remains from the sole of her shoe afterward, and that was more than she could handle.

  The alternative was to finish her bath, lock herself up in her bedroom, and hope that the spider would go away by dawn the same way it had come in. And if it was still there, well, she’d have to get over her squeamishness and sacrifice one of her least favorite shoes.

  She glowered at the mini-monster. “Stop staring, you perv, and turn around.”

  The spider shifted its position.

  Amanda rolled her eyes and scrambled to rinse the soap off her body. She stepped out of the bathtub, grabbed the towel, and rushed into her bedroom. As she dried herself in there, a memory began to take shape in the back of her mind.

  A happy memory.

  It was a book, or more precisely, a series of beautifully illustrated books called Christophe’s Adventures in the Enchanted Forest. She hadn’t given them a thought in two decades, but she still remembered most of the stories and the pictures that accompanied them.

  Amanda must have been five or six at the time of her Christophe mania, and she insisted that her dad read to her from those books every night. She just couldn’t get enough of Christophe . . . who happened to be a little spider. Christophe was funny and curious. He was, as a matter of fact, her best friend for at least a year until she finally acquired her first nonfictional buddy, Magalie.