In His Secret Life

Chapter 1-1

Part 1

Chapter 1

Sunday morning, I sat in my living room, watching Montreal’s local news on mute. An hour ago, I’d woken up with a parched mouth and crept to the kitchen for a tall glass of water. Since then, I hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. After two years of being single, sharing my bed with another warm body made me self-conscious. I never knew how to position my limbs. I’d end up on my back, with my hands tucked under my armpits, listening to the unfamiliar sounds the stranger at my side made in his sleep.

I heard a thump and looked over at my bedroom door, but Maxime, the guy I’d taken home last night, was still asleep in my bed.

Last night, on the dance floor, he’d caught my wandering eye. In his terrible, but trendy Jean-Paul Gaultier navy striped shirt, he looked a little pathetic yet cute as a lamb in a room full of wolves. The night had been wearing thin by then, and I’d been in a rut in the last weeks, so I’d gulped down the rest of my drink for courage and pulled him close. By some miracle, he hadn’t refused me. Just smiled and held me tight. He was much cuter than I was. Younger, too. I was turning thirty soon, so anyone under the age of twenty-five was much younger.

“Bonjour.”

I turned to see him standing in my bedroom doorway. “Hello,” I said, moving to get up. He barely looked eighteen. I needed to start asking for these guys’ ID pretty soon or I’d get myself into some trouble. “How do you feel?”

He was dressed already, clearly uncomfortable. “Ça va?” he asked, not looking at me, but at the front door. His blond hair stood up and his face bore an imprint of the sheets. I remembered our secret touches in the cab’s backseat last night, the way we’d stumbled through my apartment, both of us too drunk for good s*x, and now wanted to give it another try. Last night, we’d rolled around in my sheets, trying to make something out of nothing. Trying to chase the loneliness away.

“I have to go,” Maxime said in a thick French accent. I’d forgotten how sexy he sounded. “My grandmother likes to brunch me.”

“You mean you’re having brunch with your grandmother.”

“Oui.” He made a move for the door.

So this was it, then. Goodbye.

I rose. “Would you like some coffee before I call you a—”

“Non, non.” He waved away my offer, springing for his running shoes. “Merci.”

Thank you? Had I been that bad a lover last night?

“I will message you in the phone,” he said, his cheeks darkening through his wispy blond stubble. He was taller than I remembered. Bonier, too—but more handsome than I’d been able to tell. He had an intelligent face. Beautiful blue eyes.

Yes, and sadly, he was leaving…unless I turned this thing around. It was Sunday, and God, I hated being alone on Sundays. Gave me the jitters. “Hello,” I said, holding out my hand to him. “I’m Allan Waterhouse, and I think we’ve met before.” I winked playfully.

His handshake was limp, but he did smile a little. “Hello, yes,” he muttered, sticking his hand under his arm, dodging every one of my looks. “I have a memory.”

“I think you mean that you remember. Stay a little while.” I touched his arm, but he turned around, shaking his head. “But it’s so early for brunch.” I was steadily going from charming to needy. “Have a cup of coffee at least.”

He finally met my eyes. His were phenomenal. What was it about blue eyes? “I have an apology.” He raised his eyebrows and opened his hands, offering me only emptiness.

I still had a few crumbs of my pride left. “Okay then, bye.” I opened the door for him and we both looked outside. It was a crisp, clean blue morning. A perfect May day beckoning us. So many things to do, and why should we have to do any of them alone? “Can I have your number?” I spotted my phone next to my keys on the entrance table. “Maybe later, when you’re done with—”

“My grandmother, no.” Maxime shook his head, looking at me with a mixture of pity and remorse. “I eat my boyfriend.”

Ah, of course. The infamous boyfriend excuse.

“You’re having brunch with your boyfriend,” I corrected him, looking down at my cell phone. How many numbers had I punched into this thing in the last two years, since Anthony and I had split up? So many. Too many.

“You’re good and nice,” Maxime whispered into my ear. “Very nice.”

I decided he meant nice as in crazy sexy. “I’ll see you soon, then,” I said, knowing that was a lie as well.