Chapter 4 #2
“Oh.” I blink. I already know he’ll insist, and I do want a tea. Typically, the French drink coffee only in the morning, and I do my part to act the local. “Just a cup of tea with cream, please.”
“And to eat?”
Am I supposed to sit here in front of him and eat by myself? My stomach growls, as if to tell him I am, indeed, starving.
“I’ll have a croissant, please. And Monsieur, je parle francais.” He doesn’t have to speak English around me.
“Je sais. I like to keep my English well-tuned. And please, call me Fabien. I appreciate that they all call me Monsieur, but it’s unnecessary.”
He places our order and leans back in his chair. I glance down to see a copy of Philosophie: une Anthologie.
I’m happy to change the subject. “Oooh. Do you like reading philosophy?”
“I do. I like reading many things. And you?”
My heart thumps. He can’t know I’m a reader, can he?
Well, duh. We’re in a bookstore.
But he wouldn’t know I enjoy reading philosophy… would he?
You’ll become his obsession.
I’m way overthinking things. There’s no way I’m honestly that special. I’m a call girl in his damn brothel, for goodness’ sake, not some woman he’s become fixated on for some bizarre reason. Not so special that he’d seek me out in a bookstore…
I realize he’s staring at me, waiting for an answer to his question. I feel a bit flustered. I can tell he’s someone who’s used to being respected and obeyed.
“I do. I like to read. Very much.” Uh, apparently, I like to read Dr. Suess? Who am I? I’m not someone who stammers in front of a man. But there’s something about him…
“What do you like to read?”
Our order arrives.
“Oh, Descartes and Machiavelli, though I read mostly bite-sized essays. I like to sort of dabble in philosophy. But I read other things, too.”
“Like what?”
“Fiction,” I say, suddenly fixated on my croissant.
I can’t tell this sexy behemoth of a man I read romance.
I’m not ashamed of it, but I can’t think of the swoon-worthy heroes on the covers and him in the same context.
“All sorts.” Romantic suspense, historical romance, dark romance… all kinds. “And you?”
I stuff my mouth with a huge, flaky piece of croissant, cuing him in that it’s his turn to talk now.
A shrug. “My father liked philosophy, so I read it to have something to talk about. He was an intensely private and introverted man, and only spoke easily about things that excited him.”
I nod.
“And after a while, I found I liked it. Now that he isn’t here anymore, I feel nostalgic when I read what he liked.”
Oh, I didn’t expect that. My throat tingles at the memory of my mother’s smiling face.
My father worked long hours and was rarely home, but my mother was a ray of sunshine.
I swallow a large gulp of hot tea. It scalds my throat, but I welcome the burn.
I swallow it down to staunch unexpected tears.
I guess I’m feeling a bit more fragile after today’s events than I anticipated.
“I liked comic books when I was a kid,” he continues. I breathe in and out and nod to encourage him. “Superheroes. In my mind, my father was a superhero. He was wealthy and powerful, and as a kid, that’s all it took.”
He doesn’t supply the rest of that thought. When you’re no longer a child, bestowing superhero status on someone is not a simple thing.
“I understand that totally. As an adult, superhero status requires a bit more, doesn’t it?”
“Without question. So what brought you to France?”
I tell him about becoming a foreign exchange student and falling in love with the culture.
I loved having something that was wholly mine.
I turn the conversation toward him and listen in rapt attention as he tells me about his travels abroad.
I listen as he recounts his trips to Africa on safari, of the ice-capped peaks of the Southern Alps of New Zealand, and the stunning beauty of Kyoto, Japan.
“Is your home here, in Corsica?”
“It’s one of them. My childhood home is in Paris.”
“Ahh,” I breathe. “I love Paris.”
“Do you?”
We easily fall into conversation. Before I know it, only crumbs remain on my plate, and my teacup’s empty.
After only a little while, my fear and self-consciousness had evaporated.
I find it surprisingly easy to talk to him.
I almost have to remind myself this is an act, that I’m a good girl who’s on a mission and this isn’t some casual date.
The lights dim. He blinks and looks around him. “Looks like we’re closing the place. Let’s get you back home. I’ll walk with you.”
Perfect.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I begin, but a sharp look from him makes me pause.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve been playing with a domesticated lion only to have his show of teeth remind me he’s the king of the jungle. What was I thinking? He won't let me walk back alone.
“Alright,” I say, as if I actually have a choice here. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” I’m not sure what he’d do if I were to decline. I don’t know if I want to find out.
I walk in step beside him as he wordlessly stands closer to the street and gestures for me to walk closer to the buildings. An old-fashioned sort, then. I like that.
The city has begun to quiet. The stores have closed, the street vendors also. Laughter and conversation filter toward us from the bar, the only noise in the otherwise quiet street.
Two men step outside the tavern, in deep conversation. One glances up at us. Recognition flares in his eyes for a halting second before he turns to his companion. They hurry back inside. If Monsieur—Fabien—notices them, he doesn’t show it.
How strange. Why would us walking down the street cause them to scurry away like scared mice?
“So you like Paris,” he says thoughtfully, his hands deep in his pockets.