Page 4

4

Hugo

T hough not the cheapest grocery store in town or the closest to his house, the Spar Alpina offered two clear advantages that kept driving Hugo back: the easily accessible parking behind the shopping mall, and the great cuts of beef available in the pre-packaged meat section.

There were few things Hugo enjoyed more than a freshly grilled steak. He stood in front of the window, hesitating between big and bigger. The weather was perfect for grilling tonight. Warm enough that he’d be fine in a T-shirt, but not so hot he’d be sweating like a pig by the time the food was done. Hell, he was going to grab himself a six-pack of beer too, and make it a party of one. He was hungry, hungrier than he’d been in recent memory. Blame it on his session with Dr. Marsh, the relief of knowing he was getting his job back, or a combination of the two.

Trust me . Dr. Marsh’s office was right around the corner. He wondered if this was where she did her own grocery shopping. And then she was there, as if he’d conjured her out of thin air. The moment was a flicker—caramel-colored hair, still done up in that tight bun, the tilt of her head, just before she disappeared around the corner into the next aisle. Was it really her? He wasn’t sure, but the thought sparked an instinctive jolt of recognition and desire.

He rushed after her. He didn’t want to lose her. Assuming it was her. He turned the corner in a matter of seconds, but there was nobody there. He hesitated now, scanning the row of canned soups in front of him like they might have some advice to offer him. Had he made her up? He strode forward, weaving his way past a group of befuddled-looking tourists, probably looking for something they could eat cold or place in the microwave. His boots squeaked faintly on the polished floor, undermining his otherwise calculated strides.

Where is she?

He reached the end of the aisle and got a glimpse of her back again, just as she slipped out of sight into the next row, labeled International Foods. He quickened his pace, pretending not to notice when his shoulder nudged a precarious display of tortilla chips. A store employee stopped what he was doing and held on to the bags he’d dislodged before they could hit the floor. “ Merci ,” Hugo called out, ignoring the answering glare. So much for subtlety .

Turning the corner again, he stopped abruptly, catching sight of Dr. Jo Marsh’s very shapely behind as she crouched slightly, scanning something on her phone. Her ass in that tight pencil skirt was a work of art.

Hugo’s heart pounded, though not from the chase. Relief and nervous energy hit him in equal measure. “Hey!” he called, walking briskly toward her.

She turned her head, startled, and his stomach flipped. Hugo realized a few things, all at once: that in his hands he still held the two cuts of meat he’d been looking at, that Dr. Marsh was wearing sunglasses indoors, and that she held a long white cane in her right hand.

The greeting in Hugo’s mouth died out. He stood in front of her, like an idiot, balancing the two trays of meat in his hands. She looked worried for an instant, but moments later her expression cleared.

“Mr. Morant,” she said, her husky voice carrying the same warmth that had lingered in his memory all day. Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “You sound like you’ve been running. You ran through the store... to say hi?”

“I wouldn’t say ran. More of a brisk... jog,” he lied, standing straighter and smoothing his shirt.

For a moment, she studied him, and then she laughed—soft, genuine, with just enough of a teasing edge to make his cheeks heat. All afternoon he’d imagined her laugh, what it would sound like, but this was the first time he’d heard it. It sounded better than he’d imagined it would. “Well, that’s... impressive. Or a little crazy. Either way, I’m flattered.”

He decided to address the elephant in the room. “You are …” Hugo stuttered. He couldn’t make sense of what his eyes were telling him, and yet so much made sense now. The way she hadn’t shaken his hand, back in her office. The unwavering directness in her gaze. The precision with which she’d aligned her tablet against the side of the table next to her. How could he have been such a moron?

“Blind?” she finished for him, straightening to her full height. She seemed shorter than she’d looked in her office, and it took him a moment to realize she’s exchanged her black heels for a pair of black sneakers. “I am.”

“You never told me.” He realized how ridiculous he was being and shut his mouth.

“I don’t remember you asking, Mr. Morant.”

“Hugo. Please.” He couldn’t take more of this Mr. Morant, not from her. Not now, when he’s just uncovered something monumental, and she was standing there as if nothing had happened.

She thought about that for a second. “Then you should call me Jo. Since you’re here, Hugo, tell me. Does this corn have added sugar?” Hugo realized she’d been using an app on her phone to scan the cans. Hugo leaned in to read the small yellow-on-white text.

“No added sugar,” he confirmed.

“Thank you,” she said. Hugo stared, transfixed, as she leaned down and expertly dropped the can into her basket, which was touching her leg.

“Okay, well, I’m going this way,” she said, pointing towards the meat section.

“Me too.” The words were out before he could stop himself.

“But you came from there.”

“I have two packages of meat in my hands,” he admitted. “I was trying to decide between them when I saw you and ran after you. I need to put one back.” Dr. Marsh—Jo—laughed. A beautiful sound. “May I walk with you?”

“Sure. As long as you’re not going to try to steer me. Some people do that, when they realize you’re blind. I don’t like that,” she said.

No steering . That, he could do. He had no idea how to walk next to a blind person, but it seemed like the kind of thing you learned by doing, so he stepped in beside her. He caught the faint scent of lavender—new and familiar. Hers . She kept the cane in front of her, always in contact with the floor, while she pulled the small basket behind her. Beside her, Hugo found himself hyper-aware of the space ahead of them. A change in the floor texture suddenly became an obstacle in his mind, something that could cause her harm.

“Relax,” she confided. “I know my way around the store.”

“You’re not only blind, you’re also a mind-reader?” he dead-panned.

Jo laughed again. Mission accomplished . “You know, this is not something I would mention in my office …”

“We’re not in your office.”

“I know. Which is why I feel okay about telling you. You’re cranky.”

“Cranky? Me?” He wasn’t about to admit this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.

“I’m not the only one who thinks so. Madame Lagarde thought so, too.”

“If that’s your receptionist, that’s … how do you Americans call it? The pot calling the kettle black?”

Her lips curled in a small smile “Which one are you? The pot, or the kettle?”

“It doesn’t matter. But your Madame Lagarde is the other one.” He paused. “Just don’t tell her I said so. Please.”

Jo laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

At the next corner, the group of tourists was still there, occupying most of the aisle. One of them shoved a cart in their direction. Hugo tensed. His first instinct was to take her in his arms and protect her from the world, even as the cart lost its momentum and stopped a good distance away from them.

Jo laughed again. “You seem really tense. Is it the cart I can hear in front of us?”

Hugo forced his shoulders back and his arms to his sides. “Impressive hearing. It’s all good. Just a few tourists.”

“They’ll move out of the way when they see the cane,” she said. Hugo glared at them, for good measure, until they did exactly that. They reached the meat section, where Hugo dropped one of the packages in his hand, not bothering to check which. A young employee ran out from behind the counter. “Mademoiselle Marsh,” he gushed. “I saved you some of the braised honey ham you like.” He spoke loudly, as if Jo were deaf, rather than blind, but Jo seemed to take no offense.

“Thank you. That sounds wonderful, Sandro.”

The man visibly puffed up. “How much would you like?”

“Enough for breakfast and lunch tomorrow,” she said.

“Two hundred grams, then. Coming right up.”

Jo lowered her voice so only Hugo could hear. “I’ve no idea how much that is. I still have trouble with weight conversions.”

“It’s enough if you’re not very hungry.” Hugo paused. That wouldn’t even be a snack for him. “You know, that man has never even said hello to me before, and I’ve been coming here for years. And he saves you the ham you like, and speaks in English to you?”

“What can I say? He’s a nice young man.” She hesitated. “At least, his voice sounds young. I can’t be sure how young he is.”

“Young. Very young. And spotty.” That was probably an unkind description of the young man, but Hugo didn’t really care.

“Spotty, huh. Is that so?” Then, in a louder voice. “Thank you so much, Sandro. I’ll be back next week.”

“I’ll be here, Mademoiselle Marsh.”

“Do you have everything you need?” Hugo asked.

Jo nodded. “I rent a flat upstairs in the Alpina Apart-hotel, so I usually eat dinner at the hotel restaurant. I just needed a few things for breakfast and lunch.”

Together, they paid for their items. Hugo watched, amazed at how easily she navigated the situation as they paid for their items. “May I take your bag?” he asked.

She considered that for a moment. “Would you have offered to take it from a seeing woman?”

“I promise I would.”

Jo nodded, handing the bag over. She stopped just before her cane touched the edge of the sidewalk.

“You’re good with distances.”

“I’m good at counting paces,” she retorted.

There was so much he wanted to ask her, so much he wanted to learn about the way she navigated the world. Had she always been blind? If not, since when? And it wasn’t just morbid curiosity. She was still the same intelligent, enthralling woman he’d met that morning in her office—the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about all day. And he wanted to learn everything about her, and about what made her tick. Except now he also wanted a world without danger, a world without cracks on the floor.

It was loud on the street, that perfect storm of a moment combining rush hour and going out hour, and Hugo wondered how much louder everything would seem to her, without the visual cues he took for granted.

“I don’t have a car, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said.

“So, you are a mind reader.”

“Not a mind reader, just … good at hearing unspoken questions. An occupational hazard, one could say.” Her expression softened.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

She sighed softly. “I know from experience that it tends to derail the conversation, and I didn’t think you were paying me to hear my life story.”

That made sense. “Do I have to pretend I don’t know, now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not a secret,” she said, waving the cane in front of him.

“I was just kidding,” he said, raising his hands.

“Wow. A joke. I wasn’t expecting that.” She reached out to take her bag from him, and Hugo realized they were right at the entrance to the apart-hotel. She really was good at counting steps. “Thanks for your help. I live here.”

Jo

“I can bring the bag upstairs for you,” Hugo said, his deep, resonant voice carrying easily over the busy sounds of the street.

She could feel his hesitation, the faint sound of his breath catching as though he wanted to say more but hadn’t decided how or what. That tiny pause told her everything. He felt it too—that invisible pull. The unspoken connection that vibrated in the stillness.

There was a warmth emanating from him, a distinct energy that she couldn’t explain. The same energy she’d felt in her office that morning. It wasn’t physical heat—it was something else. Something sharper. Magnetic. She stilled, her hand tightening slightly on the cane resting against her thigh.

For the umpteenth time that day, she wished she could see his face. His gruff demeanor told her there was nothing soft about him. But was he as handsome as Madame Lagarde had implied? Were his eyes really dark and soulful? What did he look like?

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, pulling at the bag. He released it quickly into her hand, and though their hands didn’t touch, she felt the current of electricity between them, ions and electrons moving through space. And he was so close. She didn’t need her eyesight to know that he was right there. So close she could touch him if she only reached out. But that would be highly inappropriate. Just because they weren’t in her office right now didn’t mean he wasn’t her patient. She had a responsibility, both to him and to herself, not to act on this moment. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay grounded. “Thank you, though. Goodnight, Hugo,” she said, hoping her tone conveyed the finality of her feelings on the matter.

Hugo took the hint. She felt the current between them shift—though not disappear—as he took a step backwards, his boots brushing against the ground. And though it was exactly what she’d asked for, she still felt the loss keenly.

“Have a good evening, Jo. I’ll see you tomorrow.” There was no pity in his tone, and she liked that about him. Of all emotions she’d learned to contend with as a blind woman navigating this world, she hated pity most of all. It was the reason she mainly slept with strangers. Strangers she didn’t need to worry about seeing again.

When she reached her floor, she stepped out of the elevator and counted the steps to the door of her apartment. She liked the fact that the lock had a fingerprint sensor on it. Though she’d learned to navigate a number of complex situations as a blind person, there were also simple things she found hard to do using touch alone. Fitting a key in a keyhole was one of them. Putting her earrings on was another one—she’d given up on that one and let the holes in her ears close.

She closed the door, enjoying the comparative silence of her fifth-floor apartment after the busy street below. Her phone pinged—a sound she knew well. Her dating app. It wasn’t really a dating app, since Jo didn’t date. It was more of a get-together app that she’d discovered when she moved to France. She liked that about this country—how much more casual people were about sex, whereas back home it was still so often confused with intimacy. And intimacy was exactly what Jo didn’t want—but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes need sex.

Here in France, sex was everywhere. Not in an explicit way, necessarily, but in the air, in the way people spoke and touched. She’d learned that sex here didn’t always go hand in hand with an expectation of transcendence. It wasn’t the sacred act of soul-baring she’d grown up believing it was, and it didn’t have to carry the weight of emotional commitment. Sex could just be a great orgasm.

Or no orgasm at all . She sighed as the app read the message out loud to her. The man proposing a second date was the same man she’d met up with at a bar two months earlier.

She thought back in embarrassment to one of the most dissatisfying sexual encounters of her life. She struggled to put her finger on what had gone wrong. The man had been pleasant enough, but he hadn’t smelled right, and the foreplay had been all wrong, so in the end she’d gone home more frustrated than when she arrived. She hadn’t felt like seeing a man again since.

Now, though, Jo’s mind conjured up Hugo’s deep, rugged voice. He would make me come. Multiple times. Gripping my hips tightly as he rammed into me. She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. Where had that thought come from?