in her teens, but now that she hadn’t spoken a word in over thirteen years...
All of her tingly, flirty feelings began to dissolve in an ever-growing pool of insecurity.
“Sheesh. Sorry, mate... Raphael. Sorry, sorry...”
She stumbled over a few more apologies. Years of being “one of the guys” at work and growing up as the tomboy kid sister in a house full of blokey blokes had rendered her more delicate turns of phrase—if she had ever had them—utterly obsolete.
She puffed up her cheeks and blew out a big breath, trying to figure out what would be best. A meat pie and a pint?
She took in a few more blinks’ worth of Raphael, patiently waiting for her to get a grip, and dismissed the idea. French people didn’t go out for meat pies and pints! Why had her brain chosen this exact moment to block out everything she could remember about France?
Oysters? Caviar? More champagne?
Crêpes! French people loved them. Sydneysiders did, too.
There was a mobile crêpe caravan she’d visited a couple of times when she was in between patients. She grabbed her backpack and began pawing around for her mobile to try and find out where it might be parked up tonight.
What was it called? Suzettes? Flo’s Flaming Pancakes?
“Actually...” Raphael put his hand on Maggie’s forearm to stop her frantic excavation. “As I am starting work tomorrow morning, perhaps we’ll take a rain check?”
Maggie nodded along as he continued speaking. Something about heartfelt thanks for her help in getting him the job. The stacks of paperwork she’d breezed through on his behalf.
In truth, it was far easier to stand and smile while she let herself be swept away with the rhythm and musical cadence of each word coming out of Raphael’s mouth than to actually pay attention to what he was saying. Each word presented itself as a beautiful little stand-alone poem—distinctly unlike the slang-heavy lingo she’d brought with her from her small-town upbringing.
That year in Paris had been her mother’s last gift to her. A glimpse of what the rest of the world had to offer.
She’d found out, all right. In spades.
A glimpse of Raphael’s world, more like. And she wasn’t just talking about trips to a museum.
For her there was only one Raphael and he was standing right here, speaking perfectly fluent English, his mouth caressing each vowel and cherishing each consonant so that when his throat collaborated with his tongue and the words hit the ether each word was like an individually wrapped sweet.
A bon mot.
She smiled to herself. Of course the French had a phrase for it. In a country that old they had a beautiful phrase for everything. Including the exquisite pain of unrequited love.
La douleur exquise. And, wow, was she feeling that right about now. Why had she been so useful when he’d written to her a couple of months ago from...? Where was it? Vietnam? Or was it Mozambique? Both?
Regardless, his email hadn’t suggested he was intent on coming to Australia. Just “considering a change.”
Typical Maggie. She’d just picked up the reins and run with it. Filling out forms. Offering to get the right information to the right people on the right date at the right time.
“Best little helper this side of the equator,” as her mother had always said.
And now that he was here...
Total. Stage. Fright.
She’d been an idiot to think—
Nothing. You’re friends. Just like Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart.
“Yeah, you’re right. Early to bed sounds good. In fact...” she glanced at her watch “...time’s a-tickin’. Best get cracking!”
An image of Raphael tangled up in her sheets flashed across her mind’s eye as the rest of her barely functioning brain played a quick game of catch-up.
“Wait a minute. Did you say you were coming to work tomorrow?”
“Oui. Didn’t I tell you?” His brows cinched together in concern.
Again the nervous laughter burbled up, scratching and becoming distorted as it passed through her tight throat. “Well, yeah, I knew you were coming. My boss told us about it the other day. But I didn’t—” She stopped herself.
She’d thought she’d have more time to prepare. To become more immune to the emotional ramifications of working with the one man she’d imagined having a future with. In Paris. On a surgical ward. In a marital bed. Together.
“Maggie, if you do not want me working at your station...”
Raphael pulled out the vowels in her name, making it sound as if she were some sort of exotic bird or a beautiful length of stretchy caramel.
Quit staring at the gorgeous man and respond, Mags.
“No. That’s not it at all. I’m totally on board with it. You’ll be amazing. Everyone will love you. I must’ve gotten muddled. It’ll be nice for you. To hit the ground running, I mean.”
“Absolutement.” Raphael nodded. “I am completely ready to be a true Australian.”
Maggie couldn’t help herself. She sniggered. Then laughed. Then outright guffawed. “Raphael, I don’t think you could be a ‘true Australian’ even if you paddled backwards on a surfboard, dropped snags down your throat and chased them up with a slab of stubbies, all with a school of sharks circling round you. You’re just too...” She held her hands open in front of him, as if it was completely obvious.
“Oui?” Raphael looked straight down that Gallic nose of his, giving her a supercilious look.
Had she taken the mick a bit too hard and fast?
“What is it that I am too much of, Maggie?”
“Um...well... French.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “You know... You’re just too French to be Australian.”
The warm evening air grew thick. Whether it was an impending rainstorm or the tightening of the invisible tension that had snapped taut between them, she wasn’t sure. Her body ached to step in closer. To put her hands on his chest.
“I suppose I will have to rely on you to help me,” he said.
Whether he meant it or not was hard to tell.
“No wuckers, Raph,” she joked, giving him a jesty poke in the ribs with her elbow, trying to defuse the tension. “I’ll give you training lessons on Aussie slang and you can help me with my...um...”
Her vocabulary deserted her as her eyes met and locked with Raphael’s.
“Francais?”
It would be so easy to kiss you right now.
“Maggie?”
Oh, God. She was staring. Those eyes of his...
But, again, the bright blue was shadowed with something dark.
What’s happened to you since we last met?
Something about the slight tension in his shoulders told her not to push. He had his reasons for giving up his surgical career and zig-zagging around the world, only to land here in Oz. The last thing she was going to do was dig. Everyone had their “cupboard of woes,” her mother had often said. And no one had the right to open them up and air them.
Just chill, Mags.
He’d spill his guts when he felt good and ready. Listening to people’s “gut-spills” was one of her specialties. But when it came to spilling her own guts...there was no way she was going to unleash that pack of writhing serpents on anyone.
When they reached the