She (2 page)

“Most men aren’t,” he says, almost sternly. “But when a man is with a woman like you, he dances. It’s the only logical thing to do, Gemima.”

He renders me speechless. It’s the first time my name has passed across his lips. I like hearing it; he likes saying it.

“I was going to ask you…but I thought it might be inappropriate, so I just watched, and wondered,” Logan tells me.

“Wondered what?”

“What on earth you were doing with him,” he laughs, and I join in. I see his point. With the gift of hindsight I have wondered that several times myself. The answer is habit. Jerry and I got together the summer after high school. We were young and reckless when we decided to move to Paris, and when we got here we only had each other. We stayed together because it was all we knew, even though it was no longer satisfying to either of us.

Our laughter breaks up the intensity of the conversation. Although still on topic, when Logan speaks next it is somehow lighter.

“I always thought he was an arrogant dick, even though he had nothing to be arrogant about. Except maybe you.”

“That is very apt,” I agree. “Not the bit about me, though,” I hasten to add.

“I am sorry if you got hurt in the breakup. I would’ve called you and asked you out much sooner, but I only just heard.”

I can easily recall that phone call two days ago, it’s one that took me quite by surprise: Logan Leary asking me out to lunch.

“I’m glad you didn’t call sooner. I’ve been in a shitty mood, and I probably wouldn’t have come. I’m glad I’m here.”

“Me too,” Logan smiles.

A strange tension builds between us. I blink, breaking it. “So, you fired Jerry?” I press.

“Yes, about two minutes after I spoke to you on the phone.”

“Good,” I say again, then I add, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t see why you couldn’t fire him years ago when you wanted to…”

“Because of you,” he says, believing his meaning to be clear.

“I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head.

“It occurred to me that if I fired him, I might never see you again.”

I have to let that sink in for a moment… This man has been thinking about me for two years! I don’t know whether to be afraid or to swoon.
Swoon
, the voice in my head tells me, and obediently I do. I can’t believe it! He’s been patiently putting up with my arrogant dick-of-an-ex for years, all in the hope of seeing
me
! This successful, gorgeous, perfect man wanted to see
me
!

My mouth drops involuntarily open. “You endured two years with
him
just so you could see me again?” I exclaim. “I must owe you a
huge
apology for that!” I say sarcastically.

He laughs, enjoying my humour, which, incidentally, is something that Jerry never did.

“From that AABD party until two days ago, I’ve been waiting for you to breakup, so that I could ask you out,” he courageously confesses. Then he sighs with a slight smile on his lips, and it’s as though telling me this allows him to get it off his chest. Like it’s a burdensome goal he’s finally achieved; a target he’s been aiming for, for two years, which he can finally let down. Well done, Logan, you finally got me.

Another part of me blanches. It didn’t occur to me that this might be a date! I would’ve worn heels for starters…and a tighter dress.

I finally find my voice. “That’s flattering, Logan. Thank you,” I say.

He smiles, evidently relieved by my response. I can see why he would be nervous to tell me that. Between two other people his words might have come across as over-keen, stalkery even, but not between Logan and I. The charge that lies potent between us excuses his over-sharing, turning it into something else, something romantic, something I needed to hear without even knowing it.

In my shocked state of flattery I don’t know what else to say. I wouldn’t mind sitting here staring at him for the rest of our time together, but I know that my face, which I’m sure is already flaming, couldn’t withstand the redness that that would ensue.

Logan saves my blushes. He asks me where I lived in the US, and we’re off. I tell him all about my life in Florida and then about how and why my move to Paris happened. I tell him also that after my mother’s marriage to my stepfather broke down she joined me here, setting up a boutique hair salon for expats.

“She’s brilliant at it,” I say affectionately. “I suppose it helps that she can talk for days.”

“That’s always a good sign for a hairdresser,” Logan agrees and I smile, nodding.

“I’m very proud of her,” I tell him.

“And what about your father?” he asks.

“Dead. Died when I was very young. I don’t remember him much,” I tell the story quickly.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, his eyes observing me softly.

I shrug and am saved any further discussion of the subject when the waitress delivers us our food and wine.

“Merci,” Logan says and she blushes. Clearly it’s not just me who is enthralled by him. He takes a whiff of his wine, then examines his food, instinctively reaching for his cutlery. I watch him and wonder how he manages to be so graceful and poised, at the same time as being so damn sexy and enticing. It’s a beautiful, somewhat contradictory mixture. It’s a gift, I think. Heat rises within me as Logan licks his lips. I feel like steam might soon start issuing from me. I need to cool way down, so ignoring the most expensive glass of wine I’ve ever bought, I reach for my freezing glass of cola.

“What do you do to let off stream?” I blurt out, as Logan indicates to me that I should tuck into my food.

“Oh, uh, I exercise,” he says. “Swimming, mostly. And slack line.”

My mouth betrays me again. “That sounds kinky.” I am sucking on the end of my straw, looking at him like a pervert, and unabashedly thinking about how hot he is. My mind is still reeling — he thinks
I’m
beautiful! He’s been waiting for two years! I hear these words, but I’m unable to accept them…why is that? Once again I flush scarlet, and I hope he doesn’t notice, though I suspect he does.

He gives a little laugh and my insides melt. “It’s not,” he tells me. “It’s like a tightrope, but wider and closer to the ground. It’s brilliant for focus.”

Mastering my own focus better, I am more casual when I say, “A new fad?” There’s always something new sweeping through Paris.
“Sort of,” Logan smiles. He adds, “All the cool kids are doing it.”

I laugh, and then tell him, “My friend took me somewhere the other day, it’s called air yoga. It’s kind of Cirque-Du-Solei for beginners. You do a bunch of stretches and upside down moves—”

“I don’t go upside down,” he says immediately.

“You don’t—”

He shakes his head. I can’t help my look of curiosity.

“Childhood trauma,” he explains

“Oh…” I think of Logan as a child, and assume he was adorable. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he grins. “Do you?” He’s already come to grips with my invasive curiosity. Fast learner, Logan. I like that.

“Kind of,” I say. Again, I can’t stop myself. “What happened?” My insides hum at the prospect of talking about him. I want to know everything. Please, Logan, I plead, tell me everything!

“I got stuck upside down on a roller-coaster.”

I gasp in shock, and nearly choke on my first bite of pasta, which is delicious. Stuck on a roller-coaster; I’ve seen those horror stories on the news, and they are literally my worst nightmare! “That’s terrible!” I wail.

“It was,” he assures me. He pauses, studying me for a moment, deciding whether to lapse further into the story. It seems I am worthy of hearing his tale, because he continues, “My parents took me to a theme park, this was in the States,” he interjects, and I nod, “and neither of them wanted to come on the ride with me, so they sent me on by myself. We were stuck up there for four hours.”

I gasp again, and he grins a little at my dramatic response.

“I passed out twice from all the blood going to my head.”

I let out a low whistle. My food lies momentarily forgotten as I long to hear more. More, Logan,
more
.

He obliges. “The other children on the ride all had parents with them to keep them calm and comfort them, but I was all alone.” He shrugs, “And that aloneness did something to me. It made me angry at my parents. Furious, really. Why hadn’t they come with me? Why couldn’t they be bothered? I felt I’d been abandoned.” He shakes his head, and laughs a little. “It all seems nonsense to me now, but at the time that’s how I honestly felt,” he opens up. “It’s strange what things will do to you.”

“Are you still angry at them?” I ask.

“No. I adore them more than anything. They saved my life.”

“How? Did they get you down?”

We slowly begin to reengage with our food, so as we continue talking we’re eating too.

“No,” he says, “The engineers got us down. But after that incident, in my rage at them and feelings of being abandoned,” he rolls his eyes as he remembers his former reactions, “I went a little off the rails. A lot off the rails, really. I stopped going to school, I consumed something’s I shouldn’t have—”

“How old were you?”

He thinks back. “This was between the ages of thirteen and eighteen.”

“Shit,” I breathed.

“Yeah, I was a shit,” he chuckles. “It’s a long time to live with a destructive teen. But they were just so cool about it. They bailed me out of jail about seven times.”

My mouth drops open in shock. This perfectly presented man has been arrested seven times? I have a sudden, overwhelming desire to see him in orange.

“My dad’s best friend was the police commissioner in Charleston, where we lived. My father was in the Senate, representing the state. My parents were older when they had me, and so dealt with me pretty calmly. Until arrest number seven came along, and my dad’s best friend told him that my criminal ways had to end, or the next time I got arrested he wouldn’t be able to bail me out again, even with his connections. I’d go to jail, for sure, for a minimum of five years.”

Inappropriate as ever, I say, “The inmates would have had a field day with the likes of you.” Then a sudden fear grips me. “Oh, god, please tell me they didn’t…”

“They didn’t,” he assures me quickly with a smile. Proudly he announces, “I never went back to jail. I’ve never been arrested again.”

“What changed?” We keep talking and eating.

“Well, finally having had enough of me, and no doubt scared for my future, my parents sat me down — actually they tied me down...”

My mind races with that comment! Logan tied down! Restrained and at my mercy…oui, s'il vous plaît! Come back to reality, Gemima!

“…it was the only way to keep me still long enough to hear what they had to say,” he continues, mercifully unaware of my internal monologue. “And then my dad gave my a cheque for five hundred thousand dollars…”

I splutter into my wine glass, which Logan finds amusing. Then my mouth drops wide again as I stare at him.

“Oh, they’re quite rich,” he adds as an afterthought.

“They’d have to be!” I stammer.

“They said that this was the last time they wanted to see me in this state; that I should take the money and turn myself around. They kicked me out, but drilled into me that I was being given an opportunity to start anew. I took the money and ran. Of course I felt like I’d been abandoned all over again, despite that gross cheque in my pocket. I wallowed for a while, for about a year, actually, and then, I changed. I flew here, and I did what my parents told me: I started again.”

“Wow,” I breathe. “You as a bad boy, that must’ve been…”
Hot
, I think.

“Troublesome,” he corrects my thoughts, and I grin at him.

“How did you make such a drastic change?” I ask, incredulous. From a bad boy to an eminent businessman must have been quite a journey!

“Day by day, I suppose,” he tells me. Then he shrugs and adds, “It was a long transition. A story for another time, perhaps.” He seems suddenly shy. Adorable, Logan! He cocks his head to one side, and studies me. I feel myself flush. “I don’t think anyone in this city knows that story…how did you get it out of me?”

“Um…I asked?” I say, shrugging, too.

He laughs. “Yes, that’ll do it.”

“Why here, why Paris?” I ask.

He looks considerately at me for a moment, before saying, “I guess Paris…gives me hope.”

I smile, liking his answer; one which resonates with me also. “So, you speak to your parents now?”

“Yes, frequently,” he tells me. “They’ll be visiting in a few weeks.”

“How did you patch things up?”

“Well, after three years of living here, working very hard and applying myself to the best of my ability, I was beginning to make a name for myself and make some money. I wired them back their generous donation. About an hour later they called. We hadn’t spoken for four years.”

Our eyes lock onto one another’s once more, and we’re back in our intense bubble. It’s hotter in the bubble this time, something’s building between us. I want to cross my legs even tighter, but it’s not doing any good. The chemistry keeps building regardless…and I’m glad it does. Jeez! This is so new to me. New, but welcome. New, and arousing in ways that my mind and body doesn’t understand, but just wants more of. Overwhelmed by the intensity I open my mouth slightly and gasp for some cold, clear air, and the bubble is broken. But Logan’s eyes keep burning, and I know he feels the connection too. I start to suspect that everyone in a five metre radius can feel it, it’s so powerful. He takes a deep breath and I wonder if, like mine, his heart is racing.

Slowly I dig back into my food. “And all because of a damn roller-coaster!”

He laughs heartily. The sound is refreshing after the steaminess of our bubble; and it’s cathartic, healing things in me that I didn’t even know were broken.

“Yes,” he agrees. “What a nuisance.”

I nod. “I’m glad your story has a happy ending.”

“Thank you. So am I,” he smiles and takes a sophisticated sip of wine. “And your story, Gemima, you left your boyfriend
and
your job?”

“I did. I was with the same company for seven years. They’re not very good,” I shake my head, remembering that they were, in fact, shit. “It was the first job I got here, and I just…stayed. I spent all that time just doing—”