Page 34 of The Paris Trip

Other than that tiny detail, she was not his type. If he even had a type anymore, which was doubtful.

Maybe once upon a time, he might have had a ‘type’ of woman he routinely fell for… And that would have been someone like Liselle, he suspected. Bold, vibrant, showy, and yes, hard work…

In the past, and especially in his late teens and early twenties, he’d routinely become obsessed with difficult women, the type who baffled and intrigued him, and who always behaved unpredictably. A psychologist would probably have said that was the result of losing his mother so young. He preferred to think of it as a fervent desire to avoid commitment, the sort of women who attracted him tending to be those with zero interest in settling down and starting a family.

But endless work and grief over his brother’s death had all but driven women from his mind in recent years, much to Liselle’s frustration.

Suddenly, he was interested again. Yet couldn’t grasp his motivation. Maeve was no pushover, it was true. But neither was she a firebrand.

At that moment, she stopped staring down into her lap and shifted to study the massive fish tank instead, situated immediately behind their alcove.

He caught his breath, his gaze narrowing on her profile.

Again, a vision struck him.

Maeve sitting beside an open fire in a darkened room, her face turned away, light glinting in her hair, perhaps a half-smile on her lips…

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked abruptly, and she turned back, a startled look on her face. ‘Just then, looking at the aquarium… What were you thinking about?’

‘I was thinking how strange it must be,’ she said slowly, ‘to be a fish.’

Leo threw back his head and laughed at the unexpected absurdity. ‘A fish?’

‘Well, you did ask.’

‘And let that be a lesson to me.’

She gave a little chuckle herself, seeming to relax. Though he had the impression she was never really relaxed, even when smiling. That she was always waiting for something bad to happen. That she feared making a mistake, perhaps.

‘Would you call yourself a perfectionist?’ he asked, and saw surprise widen her eyes.

‘I don’t think it’s possible to be perfect,’ she muttered.

‘But you try to be perfect.’

It hadn’t been a question. He was starting to understand her.

Maeve hesitated. ‘I try not to get things wrong, I suppose,’ she said, sitting very straight, her back stiff. Jean came back with the menus and she gave him a dazzling smile. The kind of smile she had never given Leo. ‘Merci, Jean.’

Jean grinned at her, and then encountered another hard stare from Leo. Hurrying away, he said, ‘I’ll fetch you both an aperitif. On the house.’

They perused the menu in silence, and when Jean came back with the drinks, they gave him their orders. His cousin seemed to have taken a liking to Maeve, he noted, Jean even going so far as to put a hand on her shoulder while he was laughing and explaining the intricacies of one of their signature dishes.

Leo glared at that hand until it was withdrawn.

Once Jean had disappeared again, Maeve sipped at her aperitif and choked on the strong alcohol. ‘What on earth is this?’ she enquired, peering at the milky pink substance in her glass.

‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t take much interest in this place. Jean designs all the food menus and invents his own speciality drinks. Though this,’ he said, indicating what he was drinking, ‘is my usual when I come through. A non-alcoholic aperitif. Ruby Fruit, he calls it. Mainly orange and pineapple juice, with a kick.’ He bit into one of the cherries bobbing about at the top of his glass, and caught Maeve’s curious glance. ‘What’s the matter? You don’t approve of non-alcoholic drinks?’

‘I thought that you…’ She bit her lip. ‘That is, I assumed…’

‘I used to have a problem with drinking,’ he said bluntly. ‘Which is why I try to avoid it these days. I’m okay most of the time. But when things get stressful, I like to drink and I can take it too far, if you see what I mean. So it’s best avoided altogether.’

‘I understand,’ she said earnestly, leaning forward again with her gaze on his face.

‘Do you? Do you really?’ He saw her wary expression and pulled a face. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean…’

He stopped himself and grimaced. How was it possible to keep sticking his foot in his mouth every five minutes? She seemed to bring out the idiot in him. Or maybe she made him nervous, which was a novel thought.

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