Chapter Text
Chapter one
Andy felt a bit like a Christmas ghost, wandering aimlessly through the townhouse. After a week in Paris filled with laughter, noise, and loved ones, the sudden quiet hit her like a wave. The silence was deafening. Miranda was out at a business lunch with Donna Karan and an investor. The twins were with their father and Anna. Even Maria was away on well-deserved holidays with her family.
I should write, she thought. But no. Instead, she went to the den and sat on the sofa, the one where she'd cried in Miranda’s arms that first night in the townhouse, back in autumn. She caressed the fabric absentmindedly, remembering all the times they’d kissed here since then… and the few times they had made love, too eager and too desperate to even make it upstairs. Why am I so blue? These damn hormones. I must be PMS-ing… She lay on her side, hugged a pillow, and sniffled into it.
When she woke up, the room was dimly lit. She blinked several times, disoriented. A warm throw had been placed over her, and the lamp in the corner cast a soft, amber glow.
“Amour?”
“Darling, finally. I was starting to worry.”
Miranda put aside the Book and her glasses, then rose to come closer. She sat gently at the foot of the sofa and stroked Andy’s back through the cover.
“Did you rest well, my sleeping beauty?”
“I did… What time is it?”
“One a.m.”
“One?” Andy sat up, her hair tousled. “I slept for over twelve hours?”
“It must be the jet lag,” Miranda said, studying her carefully. “Come. I’ll reheat your dinner, and then we’ll go upstairs.”
Andy yawned, stretching lazily.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep again.”
Miranda glanced at her over her shoulder and said, with that glint in her eye:
“Don’t worry, darling. I have my ways to put you to sleep.”
Then she disappeared into the kitchen, hips swaying just enough to make Andy forget how to breathe.
Effectivement.
*
Miranda hit Enter to send her email, then leaned back in her home office chair. Andrea was on the couch by the window, writing away. I love these quiet moments when we work together, side by side… Miranda mused, then frowned. In fact, she hadn’t heard the usual tapping of Andrea’s keys. Glancing over at her lover, she saw her staring blankly at the wall. Miranda rose gracefully and approached without a sound, not wanting to startle her. As she neared the couch, she glimpsed the screen… and the untouched, glaringly white document.
Oh. Writer’s block. Darn. She kissed Andrea’s shoulder softly. The younger woman turned toward her, wide-eyed.
“Amour, I have an extraordinary idea!”
The excitement bubbling in those beloved brown eyes was contagious, and Miranda couldn’t help smiling.
“All right, tell me then. What will be the subject of your next Goncourt Prize–winning book?”
Andrea’s eyes grew even wider, if that was possible. Trembling with anticipation, she leaned in, as if sharing a secret.
“Not what. Who.”
Miranda arched an amused brow. “Very well, I stand corrected. Tell me, darling: who will be the subject of your next book?”
With a look so tender it made Miranda’s breath catch, Andrea cupped her cheeks and pressed a soft kiss to her lips before answering.
“You.”
Miranda sprang to her feet as if burned, fixing Andrea with the iciest stare she had ever bestowed upon her lover.
“Mark my words: that is out of the question.”
“But amour…”
“I love you, Andrea. But I won’t repeat myself. No.”
*
“Why are you in the doghouse, Andy?” Cassidy whispered while Andy was shrugging out of her winter coat.
She and Miranda had received a last-minute dinner invitation from James and Anna, and since they missed the girls, they had accepted… even though things had been distinctly frosty between them ever since Andy’s ill-fated question that afternoon. I just don’t get what the big deal is.
“Yeah, Andy,” Caroline added, continuing the inquisition. “Why is Mom mad at you?” She threw a cautious glance over her shoulder to make sure her mother was still busy chatting with her dad and Mrs. Mortimer, safely out of earshot.
“I… well, I asked her if I could write her biography…” Andy began, then stopped, wilting under the girls’ horrified expressions.
“You what?” Caroline gasped. “You asked the most private person on Earth, who never even told us about her childhood, to let you put it all down on paper?”
Well, Andy admitted to herself, put like that… it does sound kind of stupid.
Cassidy grinned and mimed dramatically with her hands. “This is you.” She held one fist up. “The Titanic. And this is Mom.” She raised the other. “The Iceberg.” She smashed the Titanic into the Iceberg with theatrical flair. “Boom. Sunk.”
“OK, Munchkin, no need to rub it in, will you?”
Just then, James appeared in the entryway, grinning. “So, how is my ex’s future ex doing? Going for the shortest betrothal in history?” He held out a hand for Andy’s coat.
Andy threw it at him without ceremony. “So you’re the one they inherited the sense of humor from.”
“Well, it’s not Miranda, that’s for sure.” He glanced behind him to make sure Miranda was still out of earshot. “What did you do, Sachs? Spill coffee on the Book?”
“Dad!” Cassidy stage-whispered. “Fearless Andy here asked Mom if she could write her bio!”
James burst out laughing, then quickly clamped both hands over his mouth as Andy and the girls shushed him.
“Well, for your information, Sachs, we don’t have a guest room, but there is a foldable couch in the girls’ room for sleepovers.” He patted her shoulder and went to hang the coat.
“Ooh! You could…” Cassidy started, eyes bright with mischief.
“Nope,” Andy cut her off. “That’s not happening. And she’s not that upset.”
I… hope. As they stepped into the dining room, where Anna and Elizabeth—James’ mother—were engaged in conversation with Miranda, heads turned toward them. Miranda’s smile was perfectly polite. Her gaze, however, never met Andy’s. She looked everywhere but at her fiancée.
Ah, merde.