Griffin

Friend is such a loaded word. It can mean all sorts of things. Cover all manner of relationships. It’s a blanket term that can suggest something deep and abiding, or something casual and relatively meaningless.

It can apply to the most important relationships. My brother was my best friend, no question. Since I’ve lived in Paris, I’ve made plenty of new friends. Christian is a good mate. Always up for a drink, a laugh, a night out. We share a common background—both of us have English dads and mums from other countries. Mine’s French, his Danish. I have plenty of other friends here, too—some French, some English, some from many other places.

Most—wait, make that all—I didn’t want to shag first.

I’m not saying men and women can’t be friends.

It’s just harder to be friendly when you start wanting one thing, and then you need to press the brakes. Actually, slam on the brakes is more like it with this woman.

But I can no longer think of Joy as the stunningly hot American with the quick tongue and fantastic tits. Instead, I have to reroute all brain circuitry to consider her as not only a client, but also the direct route to getting the very thing I want most—money for a ticket out of town. I suppose a friend is precisely what she should be.

What she should only be.

It’s a good thing she wants that. It’s a great thing we’re setting clear boundaries now. They’ll help us as we work together over the next few months.

“Friends,” I say, rocking back and forth on my toes. “Like a good mate.”

She blinks, then smiles. “Sure, I’ll be your mate.”

Even though it’ll be hard to think of her that way, I’ll soldier on. “Before we go in, tell me more about why you think they’re trying to screw you over.”

She fills me in, telling me she placed a deposit for a one-bedroom flat on the third floor on a road near the river, but the rental agent now insists her place is a studio on the second floor. Her eyes narrow as she tosses out possibilities. “Did he rent mine to someone else? Is he trying to swindle me? Does the third-floor flat have a better view, and now he’s thinking because I’m a foreigner that he can pull the bait and switch and give me the crappier one?” She raises her index finger. “Most of all, what would Blaze Dalton do?”

“Hmm,” I say, stroking my chin, sliding into my role as the model turned PI. “Do you think it’s possible something was lost in translation?”

She rolls her eyes then pokes my chest. “What’s lost in translation is my money for my flat. I don’t want him to take me because I don’t know the language.”

“Got it. Basically, you want me to go in guns blazing, full-on male-model investigation style?”

Her eyes crinkle as she laughs. “Yes. But wait, I can’t just be the helpless gal.”

I arch a brow. “I thought you wanted me to do the talking?”

“Of course. But I don’t want to roll over like a doormat.” She shudders, like that thought is abhorrent. She stops outside a small yellow boutique peddling little pencil cases and makeup bags with French sayings that draw Joy’s attention. Tapping her finger across one, she translates the words out loud. “Life is a dream.”

“Well done. You hardly need me.”

“Ha ha.” She swivels and faces me, her eyes fierce. “Here’s the plan. I go in first, and you wait, say, across the street.”

I narrow my eyes. “Explain the part where that’s helpful.”

She waves her hands animatedly as we resume our hunt for twenty-eight, the number of her building. “Because I’ll get the lay of the land. Assess the situation. Determine if he’s still trying to pull a fast one. If I get the apartment I want, great. Then I’ll pat myself on the back for not being a damsel in distress. If I don’t, then I give you a signal, and you strut in and do that thing you do.”

“And what’s that thing I do?” I ask curiously.

“You know. That vous veux pépé le peu je ne sais quoi voilà oh là là,” she says, sliding into a nonsensical imitation of the French language. “And boom, done. Problem solved.”

I stop her, setting a hand on her arm. “Since we’re friends, I feel I must tell you this, but that plan makes absolutely no sense.”

She squares her shoulders. “It makes perfect sense.”

“How so?”

“Because it’s fun.” Her big green eyes sparkle. “Do you have something against fun?”

When her eyes glitter like that, it’s almost as if fun is something she hasn’t quite experienced in a while. I weave my index and middle fingers together. “Fun and I are like that. But you’re aware that the whole secret code thing won’t necessarily help you score the flat you want, yeah?”

She sighs, on the path to relenting. Then, she stops in her tracks like a dog digging in.

“What? Are we here? You said twenty-eight. It’s the next one,” I say.

She clasps her hand to her mouth and points a few feet ahead. I follow her gesture to a tall pink door. It’s wood, carved ornately at the handle, and is the brightest shade of neon pink I’ve ever seen in this city. “Yes, Joy. It’s a hot-pink door. Paris can be a colorful city.”

Her eyes drift up to the blue square number atop the stone doorway.

Twenty-eight.

A sound slips from her mouth, like a high-pitched whistle.

“Okay, so that’s your building. Are you offended by pink? Did you have a bad experience with a Barbie Dream House? Or does it remind you of Pepto-Bismol, perhaps?”

She shakes her head, drops her hand, and grabs my arm, tugging me into the doorway right before the apartment. Her voice turns to a whisper. “It’s like seeing a pair of Christian Louboutins.”

“Okay. So that’s good then? You like Louboutins, I presume?”

“I don’t just like them. I’m in love with them. I can’t control myself around Louboutins. I don’t care about whether he’s tricking me. I want nothing more right now than to live in that building with the hot-pink door.”

This woman is a hoot. She’s a wild, over-the-top whirlwind. “You can’t be serious.”

In an instant, her expression turns deadly serious. “It’s pink, Griffin. Pink.”

“Yes, I know.”

She points at it. “It’s literally the cutest, coolest, most unnecessary door in the entire city, and therefore I must live there.”

“How does one thought follow the other?”

“Have you ever bought a purse because it’s irresistible? A necklace you didn’t need? Perfume because it’s decadent?”

“Oddly enough, no,” I deadpan.

“Well, I have. And the door is the same. I want to live there because it’s everything that makes Paris different and special. Because I would never find this door back home. Because it has no purpose except to beguile me with its absolute, utter cuteness. And that means you’re going to have to handle this whole mess for me because if I go in there, I’ll say yes to anything.”

I drop a hand to her shoulder, my tone deadly serious. “I understand your predicament. The door is like a good game of rugby. You’re powerless when it comes on the telly.”

She arches a brow. “Rugby? Ha. More like football. The real kind. But if that helps you understand it, let’s go.”

As Joy emerges from the doorway and closes the distance to number twenty-eight, a thin, goateed man with glasses strides up the street, chattering away on his mobile. His voice is soft, but I pick up a few words, something about not that place and you know why, and then sorting it all out.

I furrow my brow, not liking the sound of those words.

When he ends the call, he spots my companion. “Hello! You are Joy!” He takes her hand and shakes. “I am Stephen. Good to meet you.”

“Yes, nice to meet you. This is my friend, Griffin.”

I take his hand and shake, speaking in English since that’s how the conversation began. “Good to meet you.”

He looks at Joy. “You want to see the flat now and take the key?”

“Yes, the flat on the third floor,” I say, quickly switching to French.

“Oh, you speak French?” he says, segueing instantly as he unlocks the pink door that has, evidently, rendered Joy incapable of anything but ogling. It’s a door, for fuck’s sake. Sometimes I think I will never understand women.

“I’m familiar with the language,” I say as we stride into the foyer.

He laughs. “Familiar. Good one. Then I need to tell you something. I feel absolutely terrible, but we can’t rent her the place she wants.”

“She gathered that, but what’s the story, man? She’s not going to pay more for some crappy place.”

He brings a hand to his heart. “I would never ask her to do that. Never. Do I look like a slimy salesman?”

“Of course not. But when you tell her you have something on the third floor, and she gives you a deposit, and then you tell her it’s the second floor, you have to know that sounds exactly like you’re trying to pull the wool over her eyes.”

“No. I would never do that. I want her to be happy. You have to let me explain what happened and show you the other one I have in mind for her.” Stephen gestures to the marble floor as Joy’s eyes drift down and widen. I think she might be falling in love with the floor, too. She mouths so adorable.

All the more reason to stay strong for her.

Stephen stops at the winding staircase, then drops his voice to a whisper, his nose crinkling in disgust. “Cigarettes.”

Joy’s eyes widen, and she recoils. She understood that word for sure. “The previous occupant smoked?”

Stephen nods, switching to English as he speaks to her. “Yes. It will take at least one week to clean it.”

Joy cringes. “I can’t wait a week.”

He holds up a finger in excitement. “Okay. That’s why I have another one for you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell her that?” I ask in French.

“Because my English isn’t perfect. And I have a beautiful place for her that I want her to see.”

“I hate smoking,” Joy says in French, and I smile at her, even though that’s a relatively easy phrase to translate. Still, it’s good she knows a little bit. She returns to English. “I won’t go anywhere near a place that smells like cigarettes.”

The man laughs and smacks my shoulder. “See? Your lady cannot stand cigarettes. You know that about her, right?”

“Of course,” I say, quickly, before it occurs to me what he truly means by your lady.

“We only found out yesterday when the previous occupant moved out. It is against our rules, but what can you do? Now we have to clean it out, and it’s awful. She won’t like it. She sent me a long list of likes and dislikes. I’m sure you know them all.”

“Yes, of course,” I say quickly, even though I pretty much only know that chocolate croissants, coffee, and adorable entryways are on the top of her list of pros.

“But the studio we have is quite large, and we will give her a discount. I wanted to explain this to her, but I thought it best to do it in person.” He turns to Joy. “I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s okay,” she says, beaming.

“And I will show you the studio now. I think you will like it,” he says with a smile, gesturing to the stairs. “Be very careful. This is an old building, and it has a narrow wooden staircase.”

Joy’s eyes twinkle as she takes the first step. She makes a sound like a squeak. “Oh my God, I love it. It’s uneven.”

I roll my eyes as I laugh. “First the door, now the uneven steps. Remember, you do have to walk up these every day.”

She marches up, head held high. “I don’t care. They are the complete opposite of my big fat driveway back home. Therefore, I love these uneven steps.”

When we reach the second floor, Stephen heads to a door at the end of a narrow hallway and unlocks it, opening into a relatively well-lit and admittedly spacious studio.

Joy wanders in, running her hand over the slim kitchen counter, along the back of a black leather couch, and then over the frame of a window that lets in a decent amount of light, considering it’s on the second floor.

She turns around. “It’s not bad. I had just hoped for more light.” She looks at me. “Know what I mean?”

I nod. “Yes. You do love your light,” I say, since I’m quickly learning Joy doesn’t just like things. She falls hard for them. She’s a woman who goes all-in. And, like that, my dirty mind slips to thoughts of things I’d like to put all in her.

Crap.

Must clean filth from brain now.

I glance at Stephen. That does the trick. He taps his finger against his lip. “Hmm.”

“You have a way for her to have more light?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath, claps his hands together, speaking to us both. “Okay, I like you two. I want you to have a good deal. You are young lovers and have so much energy. I have an idea.”

My instinct to correct mistakes kicks in. “We’re not—”

Joy steps on my toe. Hard. If there’s one language I understand thoroughly it’s shut the fuck up when I smack you. I zip my lips.

“This might not be to your taste,” Stephen says to me, switching to rapid-fire French again. “The flat I have in mind is one we don’t rent often. It’s usually just on Airbnb for those who want a true Parisian experience, and can brave the stairs.” He tips his forehead to Joy. “I have a feeling she might like it. She has a certain exuberance about her,” he says with a wink, and I nod in acknowledgement then turn to Joy.

“He says you’re exuberant, and he has something else that you might like.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Exuberant is my middle name.”

Stephen smiles. “But it’s on the sixth floor. You’ll need to climb up the uneven eighty-four steps every time to reach this place. We don’t have a lift.”

I nod and give Joy the overview.

To my complete non-surprise, she says, “I want to see it.”

We climb. Up and around. The steps groan and shriek their displeasure with every footfall. This is precisely the type of climb no one wants.

When we reach the top floor, Stephen unlocks a door and tugs it open.

Once inside, Joy gasps. She blinks, taking in the sun-drenched flat. The living room is dripping with natural light. It’s bathed in it, and Joy marches to the windows, places her hands on the edge of the floor-to-ceiling shutters that open onto a tiny terrace, and gazes outside. Honestly, she’s in a perfect position for all the things we can’t do anymore. I do my best to imagine she’s thinking deep thoughts about turtles or hamburgers, and that helps me navigate my way out of the dirty zone.

She spins around. “And it has parquet floors, too. Gah!”

I laugh. “Maybe wait till he gives you more details and a price.”

But she can’t even wait, because she pushes open the door to the bedroom. “More windows,” she calls out, and when she strides out of it, she points to an open set of stairs at the end of the living room. “Where do those go?”

“Ah, yes,” Stephen says with a quirk in his lips. “We have a rooftop terrace here. Like a garden.”

Her eyes widen, and she heads up the stairs and momentarily out of sight. I follow, quickly joining her on the roof. Potted plants and flowers line the edges, and an iron railing rises four feet high. She wraps her hands around it and stares at the endless view of Paris. “Everything,” she whispers, wonder in her tone. “I can see everything.”

Stephen cuts in. “This one is a little bit more. Because of the terrace.”

She turns around. “I’ll take it.”

Stephens smiles and shrugs. “It is perfect for lovers, no?”

Joy wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing my bicep. For a moment, I’m speechless, all from her hand on my arm. It makes no sense why it should feel so damn good. But it does, and her touch sends a wave of heat through me.

Now I’m thinking how very perfect this flat is for lovers.

And cursing that we can’t test out the window, the garden, the terrace . . . not to mention the bed.

Then I remember Stephen’s question, and Joy’s foot digging into my toe, and perhaps she needs me to play along.

“It is perfect for lovers.” I drape an arm around her shoulder, and she lifts her face to mine. In the span of a second, it’s as if Stephen is gone, and there’s just this woman and me, and all I can think is how much I’d like to press a kiss to those perfect red lips.

Perhaps she can read my mind, because she dusts her lips against my jaw, and that barest touch triggers a rush of heat in my body. I’m not even sure why we’re playing this game, but I also don’t really care.

When she lets go of me, she says, “I can move in today. Is that okay?”

Stephen nods. “Excellent. I will switch the paperwork. Let me go call the office to get that started.”

He heads down the stairs, leaving us on the rooftop garden.

I scrub my hand over my jaw. “Why did you want to go along with the whole young lovers thing?”

“Because that man is a romantic. I could see it in him. In the way he looked at us and seemed to catalogue how we interacted. Some part of him liked the idea that we were a thing. Doesn’t hurt anything for him to think that.” She nudges me. “Besides, we almost were, right?”

“We almost were.”

“It didn’t bother you to play along, did it?”

“Not in the least.”

“I suppose we can go back to being translator and translatee, Blaze.” She winks and heads down the stairs.

I’m alone on her roof, staring at the city. This woman might be the toughest client I’ve ever had, since I’m going to spend every second resisting her.