Griffin

When someone you love dies, you hear more platitudes than you’ll ever want to hear in your entire life.

When one door closes, another opens.

It was his time.

Someday, this pain will make sense.

As for the last one, what the hell? How does that even make sense in a store selling pillows with stitched-on platitudes? In a shop peddling magnets with sayings? Who buys that, let alone believes it?

But someone must because it’s been served up to me. I’ve heard my fair share of clichés in the last year since my younger brother, Ethan, died in a mostly unexpected way.

And I grin and bear it, every time.

Because ultimately, people mean well when they utter hackneyed sayings in the wake of a loss. What they mean is I’m so sorry.

Yeah, me, too.

Still, I’m not a fan of banalities. I could do without hearing one, say, ever again.

But back at my flat later that afternoon, a particular one pops into my head when Jean-Paul calls, though it has nothing to do with life and death.

He tells me that because Annalise has been put on bed rest, he has an assignment to fill. An American chemist needs a translator who can handle on-site work, and someone familiar with scientific lingo. The job as this woman’s personal translator will last for at least three months as she transitions from the US to France. The company wants a translator for four hours a day, leaving the rest of the time free for me to work on written translations for other clients, spanning a variety of industries. Most gigs are short-term, lasting only a few days, resulting in occasional days off without pay. But this assignment is plum. Three-month jobs don’t come around often, and the regularity, coupled with the chance to keep up with afternoon work, means I can sock away the rest of the money I need for my trip.

When one door closes, another opens.

Plus, the pay is higher than average since it requires special knowledge. I’m not a scientist. Not even close. But I have a ridiculously handy degree in my pocket that helps immensely when it comes to scientific terminology—marine biology.

When I finished school, I didn’t have a sodding clue what I wanted to study at university, so I picked something that might transport me to interesting places. To all the spots around the globe that I’d earmarked to visit someday. The sapphire waters along the coast of Greece. The islands that make up Indonesia. Belize, a scuba diver’s paradise. Growing up outside London, we didn’t partake in scuba too often, but that sounded precisely like what a marine biologist ought to be doing all day long—exploring warm waters.

My choice of study might also have come from the weather. That winter was an unusually cold one in England when I selected my major subject, and marine biology sounded tropical.

So, yeah. My reasons were clearly thorough.

I never wound up exploring coral reefs off the coast of Australia or swimming with the sea turtles in the Cayman Islands. But after university I landed a gig at an aquarium, translating its descriptions of exhibits. The degree has helped me nab many sweet translation gigs since I’ve kept up my fluency in scientific names and terminology.

This new job sounds promising.

“The client knows only enough French to be dangerous,” Jean-Paul says.

“I know the kind.”

“Indeed. The kind who orders in French then thinks she can sustain an entire conversation about politics because she managed to correctly ask for salmon.”

I laugh. “Well, you know the saying. It’s a big upstream jump from salmon to politics.”

Her name is Joy, and my first order of business will be to help her sort out some confusion with the apartment rental company. That should be a breeze, and a chance to impress her so she’ll happily keep me around for the entirety of the contract.

The next morning, I head out early, and since I’m not due to meet the client for another twenty minutes, I grab a table at a café near the place she’s going to be renting. As I drink my tea, I work through a French crossword puzzle that requires some seriously intense linguistic gymnastics. But I like this kind of mental stretching—it keeps my mind limber and ready for whatever challenges a job might throw my way. As I fill in each clue, I make note of the words in other languages I know—Spanish, Italian, some Portuguese—so I don’t forget the ones I’m not actively working in.

When I finish, I close the app and drain the rest of the tea. As I do, two thoughts occur to me. The first is that tea has rapidly improved in this country and can finally hold a candle to what I grew up drinking. The second is that another door is reopening right now.

A sexy-as-hell door.

I rub my eyes.

It’s a mirage.

But it’s not a mirage. It’s real, and it’s brilliant luck.

Judy is strolling down the street, heading in my direction. She wears huge green sunglasses, with lenses the size of pizza pies. Her hair is twisted high on her head, with several loose strands escaping to curl over her shoulders. Dark jeans are lucky again to embrace those long legs of hers, and a ruby-red V-neck blouse completes the I-want-her-number-right-fucking-now look.

I set down my cup, raise a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and call out, “Good morning, Judy. Are you following me now?”

She startles, stops in her tracks, and looks around.

“Over here. I’m five feet in front of you.”

She spins, and her eyes land on me. She blinks, then a smile crosses her lips. “Perhaps you’re following me. You did look like a stalker, Archie.”

I stand and offer her the chair next to mine. I’m not letting her go this time. I have fifteen minutes before I meet the scientist lady, and I’m going to get Judy’s number and land a date with her. Nothing less. “Would you like to join me?”

She peers into the white ceramic cup in front of me. “Of course you drink tea.”

“As if there’s anything else to drink in the morning.”

“I only drink coffee.”

“Funny, they have that here, too,” I say, nodding at the red awning over Café Rousillon.

She checks her watch, and the furrow in her brow tells me she’s adding up the minutes.

Time to press onward.

“This place is fast. And it’s good coffee, I’m told,” I say, determined to convince her. I shoot her a grin, finishing with the real reason I want her to pull up a chair. “Besides, if you join me for coffee, there’s a good chance I can convince you to tell me your real name and give me your phone number.”

She laughs. “You’re a determined one.”

“When I want something, I can be.”

Her smile widens. “Since I’m early for my appointment, let’s see how convincing you, and the coffee, can be.”

She takes the seat and I sit, too, rubbing my palms. “All right, let’s do this. Any particular type of coffee suit your fancy? Café crème, café au lait, café noisette?”

She lowers her shades, peering at me over the tops of those frames. “By coffee, I thought you meant a big fat Frappuccino caramel mocha, since that’s quintessentially American, right?”

“Of course. And order it just like that.”

She laughs and takes her sunglasses off all the way. Her green eyes are intense, some of the darkest irises I’ve ever seen.

“Your eyes are stunning. Hard to look away from,” I tell her.

“Your baby blues aren’t so bad, either, Archie.”

“Thank you, and while I’m being blatantly honest, let me just say I had been hoping our conversation yesterday would have lasted longer.” A small part of me still finds it odd to opt for such directness with a woman, but then, life is short. No point playing games anymore. “I quite enjoyed chatting with you.”

She inches closer. “And while you’re being blatantly honest, I’ll do the same. I enjoyed chatting with you as well, so I’d say it’s a good thing we’ve bumped into each other today.”

The waiter weaves through the tables, and I catch his attention, quickly ordering another tea. I turn to my companion. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black, please, with a little cream,” she asks, hopefully.

I sigh heavily. “That’s a tough one to order,” I joke, then I tell the waiter what she wants.

When he leaves, Judy is staring at me.

“What is it?”

She shakes her head. “It’s just funny. You’re like my personal food translator.”

I laugh. “That’s my job.” I fix on a stern expression. “And I take it quite seriously.”

“I’ll keep you with me then. Even though I could have ordered a café au lait. I’m not that terrible at French, am I?”

“I don’t really know how terrible you are,” I say, teasing. “We can find out if we do this again. I’d love to take you out. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Her lips part, and I’m practically waiting to catch her yes in my hands. But it doesn’t come. Just a rush of air over her lips, then she presses them together, and stares down the street. She flicks her gaze back to me. “You don’t even know how long I’m in town.”

“You don’t know how long I’m in town, either,” I counter.

“True.”

“So, is that a no? Also, to answer you, I live here. For the moment.”

Her lips quirk up. “I live here, too. For the moment, as well.”

“Then we should go out again. After all, how can we be assured we’ll bump into each other again? You have to admit this was pretty damn good luck this morning.”

She smiles. “It does seem strangely promising.”

The waiter returns with our beverages, and Judy raises her little cup to clink with mine. “To chance encounters.”

“I’ll drink tea to that.”

After a swallow, I put down the cup and look her in the eyes again. “You haven’t said yes. Do you have something against devilishly clever men who are exceptionally good at ordering both hot beverages and delicious pastries?”

She laughs loudly this time, and the older couple at the table next to us scowl in unison. Judy brings her hand to her mouth, feigning embarrassment. She collects herself, and her expression shifts. There’s a twinkle in her green eyes. “I’m not opposed, but I still don’t know how well you could navigate a chocolate shop, for instance.”

A burst of possibility flares in me. She’s closing in on a yes. “All those confusing chocolate flavors. You’d want to make sure you chose the right one.”

“Absolutely. After all, who wants to take home a milk chocolate truffle when there are dark chocolate ones to be consumed?”

“No one does. Simply no one, Judy,” I say as she takes a sip of her coffee.

She points to the cup. “This is quite good.”

“So it’s a yes then to a date where I take you to a chocolate shop and personally ensure you don’t suffer with milk chocolate?”

She nibbles on the corner of her lip, then takes a deep breath. “Look, that sounds fantastic, but the truth is I just got out of a very bad relationship, and I’m not looking for anything.”

Her bluntness makes me want to thread a hand in her hair and kiss her lipstick off. Then again, everything I know about her makes me want to do that.

“How fortuitous. I’m not looking for anything, either.” I lower my voice, my words just for her as I lean a little closer, a feat made easier by the lovely proximity of these tiny chairs. “Except to get to know you more.”

She sighs. “I really need to focus on work and my new job. I honestly don’t think I can make time for anything else.”

“I need to focus on work, too. Which makes me think we’re on exactly the same page. Keep it casual. Keep it light.”

She inhales deeply. “Stop making this so difficult.”

I smirk. “Does that mean you’re having a hard time saying no?”

“You’re a terrible flirt.”

“And terribly convincing with my flirting, yeah?”

She swallows, and a strand of her hair blows gently in the breeze. I brush that strand off her shoulder. When my fingertips touch the fabric of her shirt, her breath hitches. She raises her face, and her eyes lock with mine. “You’re saying we could be not looking for anything together, Archie? Just exploring?”

I raise an eyebrow at her wordplay. “Yes. Let’s explore . . . together.”

She licks her lips and nods. “Give me your phone, and I’ll give you my number.”

I’m ready to punch the air.

In an instant, I whip out my mobile and hand it to her. She clicks open a text message, taps in her number, and then hands the device to me. “Send me a text, Archie. With your real name.”

As she sips her coffee, I type and hit send.

Her phone buzzes from inside her handbag. Grabbing it quickly, she slides her finger over the new message, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

As she reads, her smile erases itself.

“Nice to meet you, Griffin.” Her voice is heavy. “I’m Joy.”