Christophe’s home was a modern space with sparse, masculine furnishings and cupboards containing a few functional dishes, but not much else. His place was the ultimate bachelor pad, complete with a bike hung from a wall rack and a big screen TV attached to an adjustable mount. Of course, he spent much of his time living out of a backpack-style travel bag, holing up in whatever accommodations were available, from a five-star hotel in Paris, down to a simple tent on the Serengeti. This lock it and leave it condo suited him perfectly, containing the bare necessities and nothing more. The man didn’t even own a plant.
I wandered to the row of framed photos hung on one wall, particularly drawn to the forlorn girl of around five crouched on a pile of rubble in the middle of a devastated village. Wide, sad eyes stared at me, tears creating shiny rivulets on her filthy, mud-caked cheeks. Her story, as told by Christophe, was heartbreaking. That pile was the remainder of her home after an attack by rebels, her parents and two brothers missing and presumed dead.
On Saturday morning, he’d shown me his collection of albums and several magazine spreads featuring his work. His tales at the wedding were no lie; he travelled everywhere and seen things I’d never imagined. Nobody could deny his compassion and courage, his work unsuited to the faint hearted.
After topping up my cup, I headed onto the sunny patio.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Christophe said without pausing his movements. Tai Chi, he’d told me the day before when I’d found him practicing the dance-like moves before the sun had even risen. He’d offered to teach me, but I hadn’t managed to drag myself out of bed at five a.m. to take him up on it.
I settled into one of the loungers, enjoying the sight of the man’s tanned, well-toned chest. “How do you have so much energy after last night?”
“To which part are you referring?”
“All of it.” Ah, the rush of adrenaline as we flew over the forest’s canopy in near darkness, followed by his enthusiastic and energetic lovemaking had me all turned around. “It was a good night.”
“Good! That’s all I get?” He stretched before strutting over and planting both hands on the arm of my lounger. “I must try harder.” Setting my cup aside, he hauled me out of the chair and tossed me over one shoulder as if I weighed the same as a feather. His deep laugh rumbling, he pinned me there and strode inside.
I kicked and squirmed, pummelling his back with my fists as he carried me up the stairs, dissolving into giggles as he tossed me onto the bed.
“Ah, Marley, you have some fight in you,” he said in a deep, growly voice. “I love it.”
This big bear of a man dove into everything with exuberance, existing in perfect simplicity. That appealed in an inexplicable way, yet left me off-balance and questioning everything.
That afternoon, we explored the downtown before he took me to the air terminal for my return flight to Vancouver.
“Now what do you have to say?” He narrowed his eyes, but his lips twitched, his eyes twinkling.
“Amazing.” I kissed him, smiling inside as he hugged me tight. “I had a great time. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I’m on a plane tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back for the weekend. Maybe we could find a new adventure near Vancouver.”
“I’d like that.”
After another long kiss, he handed me my overnight bag. “See you next weekend.” He retreated and sat on a nearby bench, waving as I stepped onto the seaplane.
I sank into the seat and closed my eyes, exhaustion overtaking me after our whirlwind weekend of sightseeing and adventure. When I looked out the window again, the city had disappeared into the distance, and I wondered if I’d drifted to sleep during takeoff.
Christophe was fun, but I questioned the stamina level it would take to keep up with him.
Chapter 17
The dreaded call came at the end of October, just as the first sets of twinkling, festive lights began to appear.
“Have you booked your flights yet?” my mother asked after we’d exchanged our usual greetings.
“I’m not travelling east this year, remember?”
She sighed. “I wish you’d reconsider. Martin and Michelle are bringing the kids.”
Oh, joy. If there was anything my mother could have said to ensure I’d avoid the holidays in Toronto, that was it. My rambunctious eight-year-old nephews were hazards to life and limb.
“When did you see them last?” she asked.
“The time of the great turkey disaster,” I said as evenly as I could manage, picturing the flaming inferno that had ended our last family Thanksgiving feast two years ago.
“Oh … right. At least it was only a small fire.”
“Ah, Mama. You’re so forgiving. The little monsters torched your dining room.”
“It was Thanksgiving, Amara. They’re family, so what could I do?”
Send my brother the repair bill? “I’m sure you’ll all have fun. Just don’t light any candles. Anyway, it’s my turn to cover the holidays at work. I’ll visit in the spring.”
“Promise? I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Mama.”
“Oh. One more thing.” Her voice level rose. “Dara sent us a video of the wedding and reception.”
I scrubbed my palms over my black leggings. “That was sweet of her.”
“So was that kiss between you and Jakob. Why didn’t you tell me you spent time with him at the wedding? Are you still in touch?”
Dara had a video of that? “No, it was just a stupid wedding game, and the groom thought it would be cute. Jake and I don’t talk.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll be sure to send your gifts before the end of November.” Her tone dropped an octave as another voice sounded in the background. “That’s your father, bellowing about something. Bye, darling.”
It still broke my heart that
