Right At Your Door

Chapter Eight

"Fear usually stops progress, and then regret sets in. But when you fear regret, that's when progress starts."

<<<>>>

“That did not happen!” Aimée cried, giggling uncontrollably.

“It did happen!” Christophe insisted, giving her a sloppy grin. “And that’s why Jett never leaves home without a tampon.”

The two burst into a whole new round of laughs and chuckles, the sound bouncing off the walls of the dimly lit room. One bottle of wine and both were incredibly at ease, giddy and slightly buzzed. They weren’t past the point of losing all sense and tact, but they could pretend, the alcohol their scapegoat for the night.

“Best story ever,” Aimée gushed, her head bobbing in agreement.

“Wanna play the best game ever?” Christophe slurred excitedly. Aimée nodded more fervently, clapping eagerly. “Let’s just ask personal questions that need answers,” he said. “Just ask truth questions.” Aimée nodded again, the only gesture she could give at this point.

“Do you regret staying with me?” Christophe asked, his smile disappearing instantly.

“Of course not,” Aimée said and his smile came back. “I miss Paris too much, but this is better than how I dreamt it to be every night.”

“You dream of me?” he asked teasingly, only catching that part of Aimée’s confession. “What of?”

“No, it’s my turn,” she answered cheekily. Aimée scrunched up her face in thought. Her features lit up when a question popped into her head, but darkened just as quickly. “Do you like Cassie?”

Christophe’s mouth dropped and Aimée swore she saw his tonsils. “No!” Christophe cried, shaking his head furiously like a toddler. “I don’t like any girl.”

Aimée pouted. “None at all?”

Out of either alcohol or embarrassment, Christophe turned bright red. “Well, no. Maybe one.” Christophe coughed, sobering up slightly. “My turn. If I were to ask you to dance with me, would you?”

Aimée tapped her chin with her index finger, pretending to take the offer seriously. “Perhaps,” she answered, amusement rounding out her voice.

Christophe stood up and extended his hand towards Aimée. “Dance with me,” he said.

“It’s not your turn.”

“I didn’t ask,” he responded, grabbing Aimée’s wrist and pulling her to her feet. He gave a few taps on his phone until soft music blanketed the cold air around them.

Christophe took Aimée’s hand in his and hesitantly placed the other on her hip. A rush of heat like wildfire connected his arm to the curve of Aimée’s waist, the warmth strong enough to redden his cheeks. He felt Aimée shiver and, mistaking it for the cold, pulled her nearer until she rested her head against his heart.

“Christophe,” Aimée breathed as he hummed in response. A thought suddenly popped into her head and she had a fleeting battle whether to ask it. In the end, the alcohol won. “What did Cassie want the other day?”

Aimée felt the tension shoot through Christophe, rendering him rigid. She reeled her head back slowly, watching him with a slight frown.

Christophe sighed. “She just kept asking me when she and I would get together or something.” He rolled his eyes, trying to pass the conversation off as insignificant. “She said she was tired of waiting, how we were meant for each other, and all that crap. Girls,” he finished with a shake of his head.