Page 62 of Oyster

As much as Éti was desperate to ship out of Paris for six glorious weeks off, winning the Champion’s League came with a host of media commitments. So her slender arms plunging through billows of steam to wrap around my waist came as a wonderful surprise. Even if I narrowly missed being scalded while I processed sacks of shellfish through the oyster kettle.

“Let me turn this thing off, connard,” I shouted over the noise, banging my fist down on the bright red button. “You’re going to kill us both!”

Did my bulky yellow oilskins stink? Probably. Were we surrounded by bags of unwashed oysters, clanking machinery, and a choking cloud of foul-smelling steam? Absolument. But did the woman clad in a flowery sundress and spangly gold trainers, moulding her firm body to mine like we were two halves of a perfect whole, give a flying fuck?

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until much later!”

This afternoon marked a special event, hosting our first-ever social gathering together. A barbecue at Éti’s. For my dad, Max, and Zoë. So they could meet her properly. Florian and Charles were coming too. For the last few days (and nights), she had agonised over the food, her clothes, the garden, the pool temperature, the weather, our…

“Couldn’t wait. Missed you so much, Nico. So, so much. Like I couldn’t breathe.”

Our tongues mated as if never parting again. At last, she’d mastered talking and kissing. Not breaking contact, not even for a second, I found myself walked backwards out of the steam and pushed against one of the shed doors.

“Six weeks, Nico,” she panted, nimbly unzipping my jacket. “Six weeks. Of this, of us.”

Her clean warm hands roamed across my sweaty chest as my filthy ones cupped the twin pert mounds of her arse, my dick on its way to growing as hard as the seashells scattered at my feet. Putain,how I wanted her, like, all the time. While she ground into me, heat blazed over every inch of my skin, my legs melting like chocolate. Her fingers slipped below my waistband and…

And yeah. That awkward moment when you’re making out with the girlfriend you haven’t seen for six days, fifteen hours, and twenty-two minutes and have forgotten you’re in a relatively public place. And hoping you don’t come in your trousers but with a feeling you actually just might, because you’ve missed her so much, even though you’re almost thirty and old enough to know better. And, oh yeah, your dad and younger brother have been watching with amused interest for, like, over a minute.

I had forgotten the sound my dad made when he belly-laughed. Raw and broad and so fucking joyful that, for a second, I forgot I should be drenched in embarrassment. For the sheerpleasure of the kissing and the sound of his laughter, I carried on kissing my girl.

“We’ve got company,” I murmured into her mouth.

“I know. This was, um… not how I had planned on introducing myself. If we carry on, will they go away?”

Highly unlikely.

“End-to-end stuff this, isn’t it?” said my dad to Max. “Nico’s got a silky touch.”

Fucker. Éti snorted into my shoulder.

“Might have to show him a yellow card if his balls stray into the technical area, though,” agreed Max. “Needs a bit of work on his set pieces, too. He could… “

“All right, all right, enough. Éti, my dad is blocking your escape route. And he’s desperate to meet you.”

As Éti slowly turned around, a grin pulled at my dad’s mouth. Not how I’d envisaged presenting her to the family either, but if any of us learned one thing in the last six months, what we’d planned wasn’t always what life had planned for us.

“Éti, meet my dad, Stefan. Dad, this is Éti Salvador. She’s even better than Neymar. At everything.”

“What did you say to Max? When you pulled him closer and whispered in his ear? He’s already texted me twice to see if everyone can come over sooner.”

We were in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to a salad. I didn’t think Éti’s kitchen had ever witnessed so much food—in her anxiety to make everything perfect, she’d catered for an entire football team.

“Nothing much. He thanked me for the ringside seats to the match, and I thanked him for not giving away my secrets. And for keeping an eye on you when I’m not around.”

“Hah! That’s a joke! I bloody traipse the beaches and pubs hunting him down half the time! Making sure he’s not decided to wade into the sea, never to return!”

“I know, I know,” she said, chuckling. “Calm down, angel.” She tapped the side of her head. “But it’s team psychology, non? Works a treat with the younger players when they join PSG. They need to feel important and useful. They have big egos because they have been the best at their lesser club, and then, overnight, they become a nobody at PSG, scrabbling for a place in the squad. We have to make them believe they're special until they mature into themselves and find their feet. A little like being the younger brother of a man who runs an oyster farm, has all the ladies dangling, and the face of the devil and the body of a revolutionary hero.”

“Huh. Now you’re flattering me.”

She tapped my cheek. “Yes, I am. But if someone he admires, like me, gives someone like your unhappy younger brother an important job they believe only they are in a position to carry out, they think better about themselves. They hold their heads a little higher. Young men’s egos do not like to be flattened.”

“Waouh.”Fuck, her favourite expression was catching. Éti pressed a finger to my mouth.

“You are very hot when you say that. Your lips go all pouty, Nico. Do it more.”

“No. Absolument, non.And what did you say to my dad? Because he had a stupid smile on his face afterwards, too.”

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