The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin by Michele Renae

performing a twirl that I'd be impressed to see on any dance floor.  His abs flexed beautifully.
    I sighed.  Fencing had honed that man's physique.  I wondered if he practiced any other sports?  I wasn't in to sports, but I may have to search the channels for a fencing match one of these days.
    I performed a little wave, but he didn't notice.  He dance-stepped all the way to the door, gripped the doorknob—then paused.  Twisting a look over his shoulder as if remembering to look across the street, he saw me, and smiled.
    Whew. 
    Stepping up to the window he beamed at me and waved.  Then he tapped his ears and pointed to the dresser, where I assumed he must have a stereo. 
    I snapped my fingers and grooved my shoulders in my best Beyonce impersonation—she had nothing to fear from me—then pointed to him.
    He offered a sheepish shrug. 
    "Very sexy," I mouthed, knowing he wouldn't understand, but it didn't matter.  I twirled my fingers in a circle.
    He did another spin, ending in what was probably his best effort at a Michael Jackson sort of bent head, hand to the back of his skull pose.  Stick with the fencing, I thought.  I was thrilled to have seen that unguarded moment from him, though.  Monsieur Sexy had some groove in those hips.  And he didn't take himself too seriously. 
    Nice.
    Reaching for the notebook he now kept on or near his bed—it was nestled under the discarded fencing jacket—he quickly wrote something, then pressed it flat to the window.
    "Online business meeting with Tokyo,” I read.  “Ten minutes.  Sorry."
    Offering a consoling shrug, he dropped the notebook onto the bed.  Turning back to the door, he again paused with the doorknob in hand.  Setting the files on the bed, he then tugged off the towel, splayed his arms, and allowed me a look at the high and mighty erection.
    If that was all I'd get from him tonight, I could live with it.  Every seven or eight inches of it.  Springy and hard, even doing a few dance moves of its own as he turned to the side to give me that view.
    I gave him a thumbs up and blew him a kiss.  He caught the kiss, smashed it against his heart, then grabbed the towel and the files.  Two seconds later the bedroom light blinked out. 
    Online business meeting?  I wondered if the people on the Tokyo end would be aware they were communicating with a man in a towel?  And an exquisite erection beneath it.
    Sighing, I picked up my book and plopped onto the bed.  With hope, I'd get to the steamy parts tonight.
     
    ***
     
    It started to sprinkle outside while I was in the supermarket, loading my basket with fruits and whole grains.  I was making a concerted effort at eating healthy.  I'd already reduced my sugar consumption considerably, but grains didn't cut it all the time.  Which is precisely why I'd nestled the package of dark chocolate beneath the box of barley. 
    I perused the wine selection, which was quite good, considering that it was sold in a grocery store.  On the other hand, I was in France, and wine in a grocery store was akin to milk in the American grocery stores—de rigueur.  I was in the mood for a sweet, peachy moscato.  I'd broil another goat cheese tonight, and hide the barley at the back of the cupboard.  I figured I scored points in the health column merely for the purchase. 
    That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
    The male cashier was cute in a geeky sort of way, with green-rimmed glasses and a flip of blonde hair over one eye.  He sat behind the register with bored disinterest, running my dozen items over the beeping scanner.  He probably didn't notice how I stood taller, or that I'd combed my hair into a chignon this morning because it had emphasized my cheekbones.  Or maybe he did and didn't care.  Or he was gay.
    That had to be it, because I was looking damn good today—if I did say so myself.  Attribute it all to great fantasies about my sexy neighbor. 
    I slashed my credit card and stuffed the items into the