You're the One (a Bistro La Bohème novella)

Chapter 4: Louise

“By the way, I’m really good in bed.” Louise gave Adrien a heavy-lidded look and inched closer on the sofa.

He forced a polite smile. What was he supposed to say to a declaration like that? No kidding? I bet you are? It sounded so ridiculous he opted for silence.

She drew heavily on her cigarette. “My flatmate won’t be back until morning.”

He studied his shoes.

She spoke again. “I’m into all kinds of kinky stuff—”

“Shall we play blitz?” he asked.

She slinked to a small desk in the corner of the room, opened the top drawer, and retrieved a chessboard. “Ta-da! How about a game of strip chess instead?”

“I don’t think—”

“I’d loooooove losing this one to you,” she said with a purr as she sat down.

She emptied her beer and gave him her meaningful stare again.

Shit. The situation was getting out of hand, and he had only himself to blame for it.

He took a deep breath and blurted, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure—”

“I’ll find my way.” He jumped up before she could say something that would make him even more uncomfortable.

“It’s the second door on your left.” She sounded a little deflated.

He got there in five strides. Thankfully, the door had a lock. He turned the key and leaned his forehead against the cool wood.

Think, Adrien, think.

He had to find a reason to leave Louise’s place without being too rude. Despite her crass advances, she didn’t deserve a put-down. Nobody did.

He should’ve known better, heeded the misgivings he’d had about her even before they met in person. An amateur chess player, she had proclaimed herself his biggest fan and wrote to him through Facebook a couple of months ago. They discussed chess. She claimed to rock at blitz games and dreamed about playing a game with him. And then, a week ago, she suggested they meet in real life. By then she had hinted her interest in him went beyond intellectual. Part of him knew meeting her was a bad idea, but it had been eight months since his ex had jilted him and, well, he was feeling lonely.

His second and worse mistake was agreeing to come up “for that blitz game.” He’d already determined during their drinks at La Bohème that he wouldn’t be asking her on a second date. Behind her randiness and garish clothing, he had glimpsed a person who was emotionally unstable and silly. Going up to her apartment was a momentary lapse of judgment that could only be explained by the large amount of wine he’d downed during the evening. Which, in turn, was due to the long lulls in their conversation and his failure to work up any enthusiasm for her convoluted stories.

It’s no use ruminating now. Get out there and deal with it.

He stepped into the living room. “I’m sorry, but I just remembered something. I’ve got to go.”

As excuses went, it was a crappy one, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

She stood and sashayed toward him. Before he realized what her intention was, she put her arms around him and—taking advantage of her considerable height—planted a slurpy kiss on his mouth. She smelled of beer and cigarette. He stood still, keeping his lips sealed and his arms hanging at his sides while he debated how to extricate himself from this new complication.

To his great relief, she pulled back and stared into his eyes. “Are you gay?”

“No, but I’m . . .I can’t do this.”

She frowned, but then her face brightened. “Oh, I see. You don’t kiss during sex.”

Oh God. He swallowed hard. “I’m not ready for sex.”

Her gaze went to his crotch.

He swore silently as his face grew crimson. “That’s not what I meant.”

She gave him a hurt look. “But we corresponded for two months! I don’t understand.”

“We corresponded about chess.”

Oh, what the hell. She did have a point. He’d known for some time what she was about, and he’d been willing to take a chance on her. Until today, that was.

“Louise, I’m truly sorry about this . . .If you decide to post ‘Adrien is a jerk’ on my Facebook wall, I’ll let you.”

“You know where the door is,” she said.

The next morning, he opened his Facebook account dreading what he’d find there. To his surprise, his wall was insult free. Instead of trashing him in public, she had sent him a private message. Her shortest ever.

You obviously can’t handle an emancipated woman. I was wrong about you. You’re too straitlaced. Please don’t contact me ever again.

He exhaled in relief. Her appraisal of him was unfair and unflattering, but if it made her feel better, he wasn’t going to argue.

And he definitely wasn’t going to contact her again.