Amanda's Guide to Love (31 page)

Kes had loved her. And not just in
the reasonable, merit-based way in which she’d loved Rob. Kes’s love was
passionate and unrelenting. No one had loved her like that before.

No one had loved her, period.

Unlike the more
suitable
men, unlike Patrick and even her wonderful Rob, Kes knew her—really knew her—and
still loved her. In image and in essence. In bed, in the company of other
people, and in every trivial moment of daily life.

Who needed a suitable man when you
had a man who felt that way about you? A man who was well aware of your flaws
and weaknesses and still wanted to be with you. Wasn’t that the best kind of
suitable
?
Actually, it was better than suitable. It was a rare blessing to be with a man
who cherished you for who you were.

Indelicate—and candid.

Emotionally unintelligent—and never
a bore.

Vain—and constitutionally incapable
of hypocrisy.

Imperfect
.

Amanda gave up trying to fall
asleep, pulled a sweater over her pj’s, and wandered into the living room.
There, she grabbed her phone from the charging pad and curled up in her roomy
armchair. She absently turned and flipped the phone between her fingers.

God, she missed him. Did he miss
her, too? Did he think of her sometimes, or had Clara’s striking beauty driven
Amanda out of his heart?

On an impulse, she
unlocked her phone and began to type.

Kes—

If
you and Clara are really engaged to be married, please delete this message. If
you aren’t, scroll down and read the rest.

I
should’ve told you I was having dinner with Patrick when you went to Lyon.
Patrick and I have known each other five years, first as colleagues and then as
friends. I should’ve told you he wanted to take things further, and I agreed to
think about it. At the time, I was still fooling myself that you were just a
summer fling—a glitch . . .

Anyway,
Patrick and I never happened. I haven’t been with anyone since you left.
They’re all too pale.

I
MISS YOU SO MUCH.

Important
Note: We are agreed that if you’ve read this far, it means you’re not engaged,
right? If you are, please delete immediately. Otherwise, scroll down and read
on.

YOU’RE
THE JOY OF MY LIFE.

Important
Note #2: If you intend to marry Clara (which I can totally understand—she’s
gorgeous), then delete this message NOW. Otherwise, scroll down.

Scroll
more.

PLEASE
COME BACK TO ME!

* * *

Amanda
.

Kes caught a glimpse of a slender
blonde at the other end of the bar, and his world came to a standstill. He
watched her back for a moment and then elbowed his way in her direction.

Please let her be Amanda!

But as he got close enough to catch
a whiff of her heavy perfume, he knew the woman wasn’t Amanda. He approached
her anyway, just to be sure.

The blonde surveyed him with
interest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought
you were someone else.”

He gave her an awkward smile and
walked away.

Shit, shit, shit.

Déjà vu flooded his mind, as
powerful as it was unpleasant. This exact situation had happened last week. In
fact, it had happened five times over the last two months. On two separate
occasions, each of the women he’d taken for Amanda came over a few minutes
later, a seductive smile in her eyes. Both of them thought it had been his
pick-up line. He nearly ended up sleeping with one of them but bailed at the
last moment. It had felt too wrong.

Kes pulled out his phone and read
Amanda’s text again. It had arrived several hours ago, and he could hardly
focus on anything else ever since. He kept staring at the words she’d written
and rereading the parts in all caps.

I MISS YOU SO MUCH.

So she wasn’t seeing that guy from
the restaurant, Patrick. She wasn’t seeing anyone—she was missing him, the glitch.
Did she miss him more than he missed her? Did she miss him enough to set all
her objections aside? Enough to recognize how great they were together?

YOU’RE THE JOY OF MY LIFE.

Sweet Sara la Kali, those words.
They messed with his brain and his free will. They pushed him to jump on the
first plane to Paris, knock on Amanda’s door, and remind her just how much of a
joy he was.

And then what?

Would she still tell him she didn’t
see how they could have a lasting relationship? Did she still believe they
belonged in different worlds? What if she’d written her message on a whim, in a
lonely moment when her bed seemed too empty, or out of jealousy? Everything
she’d done during their Parisian summer—including a candlelit, hand-holding
dinner with another man—pointed to the absence of deeper feelings. And yet,
here he was, seeing her in strangers and wishing Clara had been more like her.

The young Gitane had followed him
to Vegas, claiming they were
almost
engaged. He showed her the main
attractions and then sent her back to France two days later with instructions
to tell everyone she hadn’t found him. Clara had returned to her parents
heartbroken, but still a virgin.

Silly, besotted kid.

Oh, and Marco had some serious
explaining to do about giving her his number and helping her fund the trip.

What was he thinking?

Kes finished his wine and stepped
out onto the crowded Las Vegas Boulevard, his mind stuck on the last line of
Amanda’s text.

COME BACK TO ME!

By the time he reached his hotel,
the entreaty had morphed into “Come home to me.”

Home?

As he kicked off his shoes and
stretched out on the bed, a revelation struck him. He, Kes Moreno, now had one
of those. It beckoned him from far away, and he responded to its call. For the
first time in his life, he felt he belonged. It was disturbing . . .
and yet deeply satisfying.

I have a home now.

His home wasn’t a country or a
house.

It was a snooty, irresistible gadji
named Amanda.

* * *

Marc Petit, the head of R&D,
tapped away on his phone as he sat next to Amanda in the back of the company
car. She shut her phone and stared out the window. They had turned onto rue
Balard, approaching the headquarters of Eutelsat, Europe’s biggest satellite
communications provider. The aim of the visit was to present the new
photovoltaic cells ENS had developed. They were still far from discussing a
deal, but Amanda had high hopes.

She opened her purse and slipped
her phone inside. There was no point in constantly glancing at it and fiddling
with it. Those actions wouldn’t conjure up a message from Kes.

He hadn’t replied to her desperate
text of two days ago.

The meaning of his silence was
becoming harder to ignore with every passing hour.

He had moved on.

And so should she.

By the time the meeting at Eutelsat
ended, it was eight in the evening. For once, it wasn’t raining, and Amanda
needed fresh air after three intense hours in a windowless conference room. Her
place being close to rue Balard, she opted for a walk.

A big, huge mistake.

Her route offered an endless supply
of visual prompts, including the Andre Citroën Park where she and Kes used to
jog, the helium balloon they rode a couple of times, the municipal swimming
pool, the movie theater . . . When she reached her building, she
was close to tears.

Merde.

If this was how she was going to
handle her “moving on,” she might as well book an appointment with Claude’s
psychiatrist to put her on antidepressants. An ounce of prevention, as they
said.

When the elevator brought her to
her landing, someone was sitting on the steps next to her door. She froze. Was
she hallucinating? Did her longing for Kes induce her brain to generate a
mirage out of thin air?

Or was it really him?

“Howdee, babee,” he said in
English, his French accent so outrageous she couldn’t help a smile.

He smiled back. “I see you’re
pleased to see me.”

Breathe, Amanda.

Without answering or looking him in
the eye, she opened the door and went straight into the living room. She heard
him shut the door and follow her.

Good manners dictated she ask him
if he cared for a drink. But that meant prolonging the uncertainly.

To hell with good manners.

“I take it you got my text,” she
said, turning to face him.

He nodded.

“And this is your reply—you’re
back?”

She had meant it as a statement,
but her traitorous mouth transformed it into a question at the last moment.

“Before I confirm or deny,”—he
stifled a smile—“could you please repeat what you wrote in that text?”

She stared into his eyes. “Why? To
gauge my sincerity?”

He met her gaze. “Maybe.”

“Are you still . . .
in love with me?”

He didn’t answer.

“OK.” She nodded. “Fair enough.”

God, it was difficult to speak of
these things! Maybe she could negotiate putting them into a letter instead.

After a few moments of silence, Kes
cleared his throat.

She looked down at her feet and
then at him again. “I love you, Kes.”

He searched her eyes, then grabbed
her shoulders, and pulled her to him. “Amanda—”

“I love you,” she repeated, giddy.

He cradled her face with both
hands. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Gypsy boy.”

“And a gambler,” he prompted, eyes
laughing. “Albeit partially reformed.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“In that case, I love you, partially reformed Gypsy gambler.”

He grinned at her. “Also homeless,
uneducated, and banished by his clan.”

“I’m so sorry.” She touched his
cheek. “They’ll come around.”

“I hope so.” He brought her hand to
his lips and pressed a hot kiss to her palm.

“I’m so screwed,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I love you like I’ve never
loved before, not even Rob. It’s visceral. I can’t suppress it, and it scares
me. You may be a partially reformed gambler—and I need to hear more about that—but
you’re still a free spirit.”

He stared at her for a long moment.
“I used to believe,” he finally said, “that freedom was the single most
important thing in my life. Even my Traveler clan wasn’t free enough for me
with all their traditions and the need to stick together all the time.”

She hung on his every word.

“I also believed,” he continued,
“that living out of a suitcase was a small price to pay for having my freedom.
What I believe now is that settling down is a small price to pay for having
you.”

“Oh, Kes.”

“Marry me, Amanda.”

Her mouth fell open. “What, just
like that? You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“But . . . marriage
implies having a real family one day . . . you know . . .
kids.”

He grinned. “Yes, I’m aware of the
implications.”

“But your lifestyle—”

“Is going to change.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“I’ll explain in detail later, but
the short of it is I’ve branched out into stock trading.”

“What?”

“Our charade at Jeanne’s wedding
gave me the idea. In Vegas, I had a lot of time on my hands, so I taught myself
about the stock exchange and day trading from home.”

“But surely,” Amanda said, looking
incredulous, “there’s more to it than ‘buy low, sell high’?”

He smiled and nodded. “There’s a
lot of technical stuff to learn and habits to acquire. But essentially, it’s
very much like playing blackjack.”

“How so?”

“You need to estimate your odds,
have iron discipline, keep a cool head, and make split-second decisions.” He
raked his hand through her hair. “I’ve been trading as a hobby for over a month
now, and I’m rather good at it.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “Are
you saying you’ll stop gambling?”

“I’ll reduce it gradually while I
expand my trading portfolio, and then I’ll make my new hobby my main
occupation.”

She trailed her fingertips over his
cheekbones and mouth as if to eliminate any lingering doubt that he wasn’t a
mirage.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Sorry?”