Page 95 of Catching Trouble

By the time Maxime emerged from the bathroom, sans erection, I was on all fours about to look under the bed.

He stopped in the open doorway. “What are you doing?”

I glanced up. “Can’t you tell? I’ve decided a disguise is my best option. I’m masquerading as a coffee table.”

He stared at me like I’d grown antlers

“I can’t find my top. At this rate, I’ll be doing a nudie-run down the hallway.”

He scowled, and my belly skipped. I’d kind of missed it his cranky-bear act. With a sigh, he pulled on his discarded pyjama bottoms, before handing me his white shirt that lay abandoned on the dresser.

I shrugged into the sleeves, the scent of his cologne enveloping me. But when Sophie’s voice rang out even louder, just outside the door, I fumbled with the buttons. It never ceased to amaze me why clothes manufacturers put men’s and women’s shirt buttons on opposite sides of a garment. It was just plain rude. And wildly inconsiderate to the half-naked and panic-ridden.

Maxime’s shirt drowned me, and I’d only got a third of the buttons done up before he took pity.

“Come here,” he whispered, his face far softer than I expected. He brought his hands to the buttons, completing all but the last few. When he finished, he held my shoulders, kissed me on the nose and stared deep into my eyes. “We’ll talk later.”

I nodded.

“Maman, non!” Sophie’s voice came even louder. We stared at each other as a crisp knock shattered the silence. Maxime tightened his jaw.

“Maxime?” came a woman’s voice. He shook his head.

“I have to go out,” he whispered. “If I steer her towards the kitchen, you can leave.”

I nodded. Believe me, I was more than ready to make a run for it. Valerie didn’t sound happy.

With a last kiss to my forehead, he crossed to the door, onlyopening it once I’d tucked myself out of sight, wedged between the wardrobe and the wall.

Once he left, I crept out and pressed my ear to the door. In principle, Maxime’s distract-and-evade plan was sound. Only at the steady volume of the voices outside the door, he wasn’t having much luck moving Valerie to the kitchen.

My blood ran cold. What if she knew I was in here? What if she could smell my perfume, or worse still, smell it on Maxime?

I cast my eyes around the room, terrified of having to explain my predicament. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but when I spotted the open bathroom window, my inner Houdini perked up and rattled his chains like it was showtime.

I padded across the floor. When I pushed, the window creaked open a little further, and something surged in my chest—hope, maybe. Or adrenaline. Or plain idiocy.

Sucking in my belly, I turned sideways, checking my reflection in the mirror. Then glanced back at the window.

I smiled. I’d fit.

Even if it was a tight squeeze, I’d manage. I went caving in Portugal. I’d ridden down more water slides than I could count. I was bendy and good at yoga. People had said—on more than one occasion—that my downward dog was impeccable.

I could and would lower myself out of the window and escape to the annex. There, I’d brush my hair, get dressed, emerge looking like the responsible nanny Valerie expected, and nobody would be the wiser.

I gripped the windowsill and leaned out, testing the drop. Not that far. A soft thud and a quick jog to the annex. Easy.

I lifted my feet from the floor and teetered, hips perched on the windowsill like a human see-saw.

Then paused.

What was I thinking? Was I about to launch myself headfirst? Knowing my luck, I’d end up concussed, or at the veryleast, in a neck brace. I wriggled back inside, turned awkwardly, and started again. This time, feet first. Graceful. Elegant. Controlled.

Only, not so much.

I slithered out of the window, likely taking a sizeable chunk of my bottom out on the sharp edge of the sill. But when my feet hit the ground, I let out a sigh. Victory!

Then I looked up.