Game On

chapter 5


“IF YOU DON’T MIND A fifteen-minute walk, I know this all-night cafe where we can get coffee and food. I’m starving.”

“Sure.” Clara could have dropped to her knees in gratitude. Her stomach had been gurgling on empty for some time.

“Have you ever had Cuban food?”

Considering she wrote about food for a living and had travelled extensively, Clara was surprised to find herself shaking her head. “No, I can honestly say I haven’t.”

“You’re in for a treat. It’s straight up Collins,” he said, turning them southward along the palm-lined street, bustling with pedestrians even at eleven o’clock on a weeknight. “And we can still take Ocean Drive back to the hotel so you can get your fill of the moon over the water.”

The walk was just what she needed. The night air was a balm to her frayed nerves, and she found herself relaxing despite the fact the hottest man in Miami was attached to her elbow.

“Did you grow up here in Miami?”

“No. Montreal, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“My sister and I were shipped off to my grandparent’s farm in Vermont every summer.”

“So are you Canadian or American?”

“Both. I’m a dual citizen. Mom’s from the U.S., Dad’s French Canadian.”

“And which did you like better, Canadian winters or the summers on the farm?”

“I liked them both, very much, but I hated having to miss the summer hockey season in Montreal.”

“Ice hockey in the summer? I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Indoor rinks.”

“Of course.” Clara nodded and wished she knew something about the sport so she could ask an intelligent question. It wouldn’t be seemly to blurt out what she was thinking: What’s the fun in freezing your ass off chasing after a little black disc? Instead, she stuck with something safe.

“Tell me about Miami. Give me the For Dummies version.”

While Luc talked about the culture and nightlife, Clara tipped her head back to enjoy the evening breeze warm against her face. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with humid sea air. When she exhaled, her shoulders felt lighter, less burdened.

He had a lovely voice, smooth and deep with an unusual cadence. She’d travelled all over Europe, hearing a broad scope of accented English, but Luc’s was unique. Different from the American accents she knew from television, Luc enunciated every word like a stage actor and, though she knew he was French, there wasn’t the barest hint of nasal tonality, nor did he mangle his vowels.

“Clara?”

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you saw The Birdcage,” Luc replied. He looked down with a teasing smile. “I’m going to get a complex if you keep tuning me out.”

“I’m not listening…I mean I’m not, not listening, I’m not t-tuning—” Clara stuttered, embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to construct a simple sentence. “I heard every word.”

Luc quirked his eyebrows, clearly not believing her.

Clara took a breath and recited, “Population around ninety thousand—I’m surprised, by the way, because it feels much bigger—largest collection of Art Deco architecture in the world, considered one of the most dangerous small cities in America—you pilfered that one from Lydia—so yes, yes, yes. I’m listening. And no, I didn’t see that film.”

He still looked sceptical. “I don’t want to bore you.”

“Nonsense,” she said squeezing his arm. “Pray continue. If I’m a bit slow on the uptake, we’ll blame it on jetlag, but I promise I’m enjoying and absorbing every detail.”



Luc continued talking about the city as if it were alive, and Clara relaxed back into the rich timbre of his voice.

They arrived at the bustling café moments later.

She seeded him with questions whilst she soaked in the experience. The Latin music made a perfect counterbalance to his narration. And the fact she could eat without analysing every bite, without having to judge the service or sum up the atmosphere in seven to twelve hundred words made her spicy grilled fish sandwich with a mountain of salty plantain chips all the more enjoyable.

But she mostly loved it because of Luc, an undemanding and effortless conversationalist to whom she could listen to all night, no matter the topic. His beautiful mouth made everything wonderful. She imagined he could even make ice hockey interesting.

“I feel like I’m dominating the conversation,” he said, laying his napkin across his empty plate. “Are you always this quiet?”

“Not normally,” she said. “I’m usually quite chatty.”

“Like Charlie?”

Clara shook her head as she chewed the last of her plantain chips. “Good Lord, no. That man can talk the feathers off a chicken, and his stream-of-consciousness narratives make us all a bit clucky. I don’t think he’s had a private thought since the seventies. Honestly, Luc,” Clara paused and sipped her water in effort to suppress the quiver that went through her when she said his name out loud for the first time, the way the L deliciously rolled off her tongue. “The things he blurts out to everybody and their aunt is embarrassing. Taboo topics unfit for casual company. But he does it with such honesty, a complete lack of guile, we can hardly take him to task.”

“Like what?”

“Like his politics, his religious beliefs, and…” she dropped her voice into a hush. “How he enjoys a good spanking during sex.”

Luc’s laugh was a low rumble that made Clara gooey inside. “He must be interesting to work for.”

“Oh it’s never dull when Charlie’s around. Bit of a handful sometimes, but he’s harmless and generous and has a really big heart. He’s never forgotten a birthday in all the years I’ve known him.” Clara sighed, remembering he wouldn’t be her boss much longer. She’d miss him, the way he clucked around her and Biscuit, always concerned with her safety when she was travelling, always on hand for a motherly piece of advice or scolding. “Best boss I’ve ever had; probably ever will have.”

“Oh, I dunno. Bartel doesn’t do birthdays, but we got these watches for free.” Luc held up his wrist to show off the black and faux gold face with the BMG logo. “Course, we had to buy a subscription.”

She smiled at his delicious sarcasm. “So tell me more about Bartel, this international media magnate. What’s he really like? Any hot buttons I should know about?”

Luc shook his head, not saying a word while the waitress cleared the plates. “Oh no, we are not going there. First, we swore on our swizzle sticks that we wouldn’t discuss work, and second, I’m not risking it.”

“First,” she countered, “that was Lydia’s silly rule, and second, you’re not risking what?”

“You’re trying to start me on another monologue so you can retreat back into your quiet little shell.”

“Nonsense. I left my shell back at the hotel,” Clara teased. “And I happen to like your accent, so please carry on.”

“I don’t have an accent. You have an accent, at least on this side of the Atlantic. And kindly stop trying to charm me into distraction.” He reached across the table and laced his fingers through hers. “It’s your turn to tell me something.”

Momentarily speechless, Clara couldn’t shift her gaze from their interlocked hands. It felt right and natural, and they fit together perfectly. His long, tapered fingers were tanned to a lovely bronze against her pale skin and French manicure. It made her nervous, excited, fluttery, but she wouldn’t pull away. Never.

She looked into his eyes, stunningly blue in the artificial light, and said the only thing that came to mind. “I could pull a Charlie and tell you about my politics and religion.”

“You could, but I’d rather hear your views on spanking.”

“Naughty, Luc. Spanking should never be discussed before politics.”

“Right,” he said with a solemn nod.

Luc guided her from the booth and out the door without letting her hand go. “So, politics,” he said, once they were on the street. “We could start with Italy’s ex-prime minister’s shocking indiscretions, and that should segue nicely into spanking, non?”

“Good heavens, no. That’s all very passé.”

“Passé?”

“Yes, yes, completely over-discussed in Europe. Can’t find a pub patron who isn’t willing to give their two pence on that Italian man-whore. Any juicy tidbits in Canadian politics?”

“Uninspiring, unfortunately. They never seem to get up to any shenanigans.”

“What about the Americans? Surely there’s some wickedness happening over here.”

“Nope, sorry. Not since the Clinton administration. How about Great Britain?”

“All rather dreary on that front, I’m afraid.”

“We may have to go straight to religion,” Luc suggested.

“Agreed, but where do we start? It’s like a bloody buffet of scandal there.”

“At the top, of course. The Borgia Pope is our best bet.”

“Too right,” Clara said with a nod, admiring his choice. “The Borgias were notoriously scandalous.”

“The whole sister-brother-father sex triangle… very creepy.”

“That,” she corrected, “was never proven, you know. In fact, there are many who feel Lucrezia was a victim and not a willing participant.”

“You’re delusional. The whole family was poison.”

“Pun intended?” Clever Luc, referring to the Borgia’s alleged penchant for poisoning their enemies.

“Of course,” he said with a wink. A wink! The sheer playfulness of the conversation, verbally sparring with a man whose intelligence spanned geographical borders and world history, made her lightheaded.

The rest of the stroll along Ocean Drive was magical. They flirted shamelessly, hand in hand, while Luc pointed out some of the famous art deco landmarks. They wandered down to the beach and, while Clara dipped her toes into the surf, their conversation forayed into waters inappropriately deep for a first date—serious politics. Their only point of contention was the legalization of marijuana: Luc argued for, and not because he used but because he felt it should be controlled as a taxable industry and get it out of back alleys and the hands of organized crime, while Clara argued against because she didn’t want her airline pilot stoned while flying. “At least you could smell a boozy captain or taxi driver!” she argued.

Best of all, they laughed.

The high wire of emotions she’d been balanced on this past year since her accident had grown progressively taut with worries about the takeover, Biscuit’s death, and her impending doom as a food critic. None of these issues would have been so draining had they not been bundled together. Clara felt as if invisible bogeymen were clawing at her from all sides, waiting for her to slip up so they could mercilessly consume her.

Yet, the moment she laid eyes on Luc, as cliché as it seemed, she felt calmer, safer, shielded against those nasty, grabbing monsters.

She gave herself a little mental finger shake for acting like one of those women, women who believed a man could make all of her problems go away. No matter how bloody gorgeous, Luc hadn’t made her dog come back to life, couldn’t magically restore her damaged brain, and couldn’t secure her job. Logically, he was simply providing a temporary distraction from it all.

But she couldn’t argue with how at peace she felt.

“Oh, we’re home,” Clara said, disappointed to find her hotel in front of them. “Thank you, Luc, for a most engaging evening.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, Clara.”

He should have left, she should have gone into the hotel, but neither moved. She sensed he didn’t want the night to end any more than she did.

“I should see you in. I promised Lydia.”

“Ah yes. Miami is a dangerous place.”

Luc followed her into the white lobby, lit brighter than the noonday sun to highlight the works of art. As they walked beside the row of busts, Luc whispered, “Notoriously dangerous. You never know what could happen. There could be menace behind every pedestal, peril lurking in shadows.”

“What do you mean?” she laughed. “There are no shadows in this halogenic gallery!”

“Mayhem brewing at every turn,” he continued as they rounded the corner to the elevator.

Clara smiled as she stepped into the waiting, vacant car. She didn’t know what would happen next, but her insides flip-flopped with anticipation as she turned to face the door. He stood on the other side, giving no indication he was going to follow her any further.

Bugger.