Одри Карлан - February (Calendar Girl #2)

“No, ce n'est pas nécessaire, ” he said in rapid French. “Contact 3B. She’s a doctor and a friend,” he said his eyes boring into mine. “You’ll be fine, Mia,” he assured me, and when he spoke with that slight accent I may have actually swooned; a definite clench occurred between my thighs. Men with accents were deadly sexy. Then again, it could have been the pain raging through my limb that had me clenching. I was pretty sure it was the former.

Within moments, a tiny speck of a woman rushed in holding what looked to be an old-fashioned medical doctor’s bag. She introduced herself and helped me slide off my boot without jarring the leg. She may have been a miracle worker. A snicker could be heard over my shoulder as the doctor was prodding my ankle. I looked over at my client whom I knew to be Alec Dubois, though we hadn’t actually exchanged pleasantries yet.

“What?”

“Your socks. Positively enchanting, ma jolie ,” he finished in French, which sounded sexy as hell but pissed me off even more, because I didn’t know what it meant. Could be anything like klutz, or moron, but I’d never know. I looked down at my Christmas socks and then at the doctor. Her lips curved up, but she stayed completely professional as she checked my ankle. Her, I liked; the jury was still out on hunky French camera guy.

“Well, it’s not broken. You’ve got a slight sprain. I’ll wrap it, but keep off it as much as possible, and you’ll be good as new in a couple weeks. You’ll need to rest it, ice it, elevate above your heart and keep it wrapped. I suggest getting some crutches,” she said and my shoulders sagged in defeat. I hated crutches. The entire world hated crutches. They sucked. Bad. I was not looking forward to the skin around my underarms being worn raw or feeling bruised, along with the bum ankle, especially on a new job. I wondered if he’d want a refund on his purchase. A moment of panic shredded through my heart thinking about my dad and how I’d get the next installment to Blaine if French guy didn’t want me now that I was damaged.

“I’ll take perfect care of you, ma jolie . You needn’t worry for a thing,” Alec sat down next to me placing an arm protectively around my waist sliding me close, so close it was as if he’d know me for years not moments. He definitely had some serious space invasion issues. Even so, it felt nice and helped relieve the fear that he was going to send me home.

“ Retournez au travail, ” His obvious instruction was punctuated with some arm movements before he lifted me as if I weighed nothing.

“What does that mean? And what are you doing?” I clung to his shoulders so as not to fall while he walked towards the elevator.

“Taking you home so you can rest. You must be tired after traveling. And now, with a sore ankle, you need to lie down.” His eyes were kind as he looked at me. “And before, I told my crew to get back to work,” his accent was stronger now, but it was obvious he’d been in the US a long time. His English was perfect.

I huffed but hung on. “This is so weird. I’m sorry about the painting and the mess, and now I’ve busted my ankle and I’m supposed to be this spectacular muse.”

“Oh, you are most spectaculaire , the finest features, and your face in two is a perfect mirror image,” he said as if this was the most astonishing news, though I didn’t really understand.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean by a mirror image.”

One of Alec’s men in black followed us into the elevator carrying my single suitcase and pressed button twelve, which was the highest number on the panel. He didn’t answer my question as we exited the elevator, and he carried me into another wide-open loft. It was the same size as the level we were on before, only this was complete with a kitchen, living space, and a set of stairs that I assumed led to a raised loft bedroom. There weren’t any walls, other than in the corner with a door. If I was a betting woman, which I am—my dad taught me everything he knew about gambling—I’d bet that door led to a single bathroom.

He brought me to that door, and yep, it was a bathroom. I hopped on one foot to the sink when he let me go. Out of thin air, my bag appeared, and Alec rifled through it, pulling out a shirt and a pair of pajama shorts.

“Here, put these on. I’ll get a bag for your clothes.” Within moments he returned and handed me a garbage bag.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked, a hand curled around the door knob.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” I could feel my cheeks heat as he shut the door.

Stupid, stupid, stupid klutz! As quickly as possible I trashed the jeans and shirt covered in paint and put on the shirt and shorts. Once done, I washed off as much paint as I could see. I’d need a full shower, but right now, I needed to settle things with my client, gauge his mood, see if he was angry with me.

When I opened the bathroom door he was there and swept me into his arms again.

“Ooophf!” I gasped as he carried me then sat me down on a plush velvet sectional in the deepest purple known to man. So dark it was almost black, though if you ran your hand over it, the fibers shifted and left a much lighter eggplant shade. Once I was situated comfortably, foot on the ottoman in front of me, Alec lifted his leg and straddled the ottoman, pulling my sore ankle into his lap. I leaned forward and held my leg at the sides not knowing how to respond to a man who touched with abandon.

“Now, your question, about mirror images?”

I nodded and bit my lip. He lifted a hand and with one finger traced the center of my face from the hairline at my forehead, over my nose, down between my lips and stopping at my chin. A shiver rippled through me at his heated touch, or was it the sultry way he looked at me as if I was the most beautiful woman in the world. Wes looked at me like that. Hell, Wes made me feel that way. A pang of guilt needled at me, but I shoved it away. Wes and me, we were not an item. Friends with benefits absolutely…with the hope of more. One day. Maybe. Not today.

“If you cut your face down the middle here,” he traced my face again with the pad of his finger, his eyes seemingly lost in his task, “each side would mirror the other.”

I frowned. “So would anyone’s.”

His hand cupped my cheek, long fingers twining through the dark tresses to cup the back of my nape. “Yes, ma jolie , but they would not be symmetrical. Your face, it’s perfection . Equal on both sides. Neither better nor worse than the other. It’s unusual. Astonishing. You are unique,” Alec’s faced dipped close and he pressed a warm kiss to each cheek. “Tomorrow, we start work, oui ? Today, you rest.” He placed my swollen ankle onto the ottoman after setting a pillow under it. “I must work now,” he said moving around as if he was already distracted by the tasks ahead.

Interesting guy, Alec Dubois.

***

For the entire afternoon, not willing to brave the stairs up to the loft on one leg, I hobbled around, took a nap on the couch, called my best friend, Ginelle, and checked in with Aunt Millie. Both Gin and Aunt Millie found it hysterical that I’d twisted my ankle and was stuck at the mercy of a hot French artist guy. Gin called me a lucky bitch and Aunt Millie just ended her call with a “Have fun doll-face.”

The door of the elevator dinged, and I could hear the metal scraping as the gates were opened. I couldn’t see anything from my position on the couch, but I didn’t have to wait long. Alec strode through the room carrying crutches and a white takeout bag that smelled deliciously like Chinese food. Without delay, Alec set the food on the coffee table, leaned the crutches on the side of the couch, then came to my side where he sat.