Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
JEMMA
“It’s a smidge early for dinner, but I’m still on American time and could use a good meal, so how about we hit up a brasserie?” Luca proposes as we hop out of the cab and onto the sidewalk.
“Early for dinner? It’s after five,” I shoot back, raising an eyebrow as my stomach growls.
“Ah, that’s right; you Americans don’t seem to understand the value of a proper mealtime.
Now is usually reserved for aperitif—apéro—an appetite kickstarter, if you will.
So, dinner doesn’t normally start until much later.
” He wags his finger at me. “But here we say 17:00, not five o’clock.
You most certainly won’t be eating your dinner at five in the morning. ” He releases a hearty chuckle.
Ah, Mr. Cocky is back.
“I know that,” I snap, letting my hand dramatically fall to my hip. “Cut a girl some slack. It’s been a day. That whole I hardly slept since yesterday thing.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll cut you some slack.” A playful grin dances across his mouth.
“But seriously, I think it’s perfectly normal to just eat when you’re hungry,” I add.
Luca shakes his head. “No matter how many times I’ve been in the States, I’ll never understand your culture.
” A cockeyed grin takes over his face. “The sheer number of people I saw consuming their meals while at their desks, walking, in cabs, and even on the dirty subway was just mind-boggling. Too much multitasking, if you ask me.” He tosses his hands in the air in apparent disapproval.
“Meals are meant to be enjoyed, not mindlessly devoured.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I called you or I would have been walking around the streets of Paris munching on a sandwich like a heathen,” I joke.
“I saved you from many a Parisian scowl.” He smirks. “But in all seriousness, I don’t mean to be disrespectful of your culture, but I fear Americans are missing the whole point of life.”
His words are true. Most of my meals in the past year were consumed over my desk. If the crumbs in my keyboard could tell stories . . .
I follow Luca to the rear of the taxi, where he pays the driver. He slings my carry-on bag across his trim body and retrieves my suitcase. His free hand rises behind me, hovering near the small of my back, guiding me down a picturesque street lined with glowing lampposts.
“So, where exactly are you taking me?” I question as we round a corner, turning into a claustrophobic alleyway. The tall stone buildings swallow the scant moonlight.
“You’ll see. It’s this way.” He gestures.
We walk down an uneven cobblestone path, and after a few steps, I hesitate. I’m enjoying Luca’s company, and I appreciate his help, but has my situation clouded my sense of judgment? Should I really follow a man I just met into a darkened street?
My mind races with what-ifs.
He could easily rob me or lead me into who-knows-what.
Trusting tourists go missing all the time, and I’m sure this is how it starts.
But Luca seems too charming to be dangerous . . . right? Although, didn’t people say that about Ted Bundy? Ted looked like a killer if you ask me; Luca Dubois, on the other hand, does not. I swallow down the lump that’s rising in my throat.
“Jemma, are you coming?” he calls back, breaking through my spiral of self-induced anxiety.
“Yes,” I reply, shaking off the horrid thoughts taking over my mind.
Everything will be fine.
“Jemma, I promise you what’s through this alley will be worth the short walk.” He gestures to the end of the passageway, which I can’t see for the life of me. It’s too dark.
But I guess I’m already here, so I’m going to trust Luca Dubois, the French hottie. Plus, I don’t know if I’d be any better on my own, and Luca has my luggage, so I guess what will happen will happen.
Fingers crossed I don’t die tonight.
The absurdity of my situation—my day—and my entire week makes me let out an involuntary sigh. As I do, I trip over a stone hidden in the shadows, lurching forward before regaining my balance just in time.
“Careful, this uneven street can be hard to navigate if you’re not used to it.” Luca reaches out, extending his hand toward me with a sweet smile.
I accept his offer to help, feeling the warmth of his hand envelop mine.
As we finally emerge from the alleyway, I’m pleasantly greeted by a bustling five-point intersection with restaurants at every corner.
My shoulders sag with relief as I realize my worries were for nothing.
He really is a nice guy, helping me out, taking me to dinner, and showing me his beautiful city.
“Wow, this is incredible,” I exclaim, my eyes sweeping over the dazzling garland, spanning from street to street, with twinkling lights elegantly wrapping around balconies and cascading down to the glowing restaurants below.
Despite the chill in the air, countless people are sitting outside, enjoying their beverages and tiny plates of food. It’s like something straight out of a holiday painting.
“Jemma, this is Paris,” Luca replies with a hint of pride, while making a sweeping motion.
“This is better than I could have ever imagined.” I beam.
“I’m glad you’re pleased. The trick is to get away from the touristy areas and find the quaint local hangouts.
That’s how you’ll truly experience Paris,” he explains, gently taking my arm to guide me into one of the small restaurants with a handwritten chalkboard sign listing the evening’s specials.
“You’re going to love this place.” He grins. “Well, I hope you will. I mean, I suppose I don’t know enough about you yet to predict what you’ll enjoy. But everyone seems to love it here.” He chuckles.
Inside, the host greets us with a nod. He shows us to a cozy little table for two tucked away in the back of the restaurant next to a small, beautifully decorated tree with silver ornaments and white lights.
Luca tucks my luggage into the corner behind our table and pulls out my chair for me.
I’m not sure if it’s the romantic atmosphere or the soft glow of the candle on our table or just Luca’s kindness, but I think I’m falling for the attractive man sitting across from me. I mean, how could I not?
However, I can’t help but wonder if Luca is only being kind out of pity . . . that I’m simply his good deed for Christmas.
I attempt to pull my gaze away before he notices I’m staring, but our eyes briefly meet. The moment sends a surge of desire through me, leaving me blushing like a fool.
To compose myself, I open my menu, forcing my focus onto the foreign words below.
As I scan the selections, my mouth waters at the tempting array of options—from crispy duck confit to the classic steak frites—or at least that’s all my tired brain can translate right now.
I want to pull out my phone and use Google Translate, but I don’t want to look silly.
Luca glances at me. “How about mussels to start? The mussels here are to die for. They make them with white wine, garlic, and herbs.”
“Sounds perfect!” I agree, feeling my stomach rumble at the thought. “And then maybe the steak frites for me.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll have the steak frites, too,” he decides. “Shall we split a bottle of red wine too?”
Wine does sound good right about now.
“Sure,” I respond, trying not to sound too eager.
With a wave of his hand, Luca calls the waiter back over and confidently places our order.
I’m grateful Luca takes charge, sparing me the anxiety of fumbling through my French.
I listen closely, memorizing the way he pronounces each word, locking it away for when I dine solo.
That is, if I can find a place to stay, or this might be my last and only meal in Paris.
Once the server disappears, Luca leans in attentively. “So, Jemma, are you going to tell me why you decided to come to Paris?”
I open my mouth, but before I can respond, his phone rings. My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of the name flashing on the screen—Colette. A photo of a stunning brunette with sun-kissed skin and a bright smile pops up. He falters for just a moment before declining it.
The waiter promptly returns with our wine, and as he’s pouring our glasses, the woman calls again. This time, after declining it, Luca flips his phone over on the table, placing it face down. He reaches for his glass and takes a generous gulp, seemingly ruffled by his relentless caller.
Who’s Colette?
I glance at his bare ring finger—no signs of commitment there. Maybe she’s just his girlfriend.
I take a deep breath, trying to push aside the sudden pang of insecurity from the attractive caller.
I’m no Colette.
Did I really think Luca was available? A man this handsome and kind-hearted—frustrating but kind-hearted—must have someone special in his life. He looks to be in his early thirties, so he’s probably tied down. But then again, I’m pushing thirty myself and still single.
Does it matter, though?
I just met him, and I’ll probably never see him again after tonight.
But I’d hate for a jealous girlfriend to hunt us down and accuse Luca of cheating or something crazy.
Crimes of passion are high in Paris, or so I’ve heard.
I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or get between a couple, and I’m most certainly not into a ménage à trois.
Clearing his throat, he nudges the conversation back to me, completely ignoring the fact that he’s avoiding someone. “You were about to tell me why you came to Paris.”
Nervously, I twist a strand of my hair between my fingers. “I lost my job a couple of days ago,” I say in a hushed tone.
“And you decided it was a good time to take a trip?” he quips.
“Kind of.” I let out an uncomfortable laugh. “To be honest, I’ve been a workaholic and never took any vacations. So, when Foster & Sons let me go due to budget cuts, I guess you could say fate led me here. And so far, it’s been pretty rocky, as you can see. Some kind of fate, huh?”