Page 171 of Remy

I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my lips.

There’s never been a situation more out of my comfort zone, but I love it.

Dad’s gaze snaps to me. Lucy’s, too.

“It’s not funny.” My dad smiles through the concern. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat this without being rude.”

“Just use your fingers.” Remy picks up the gougère and demonstrates, my laughter snuffed as his mouth wraps around the circular pastry.

I salivate.

I’d give anything to know what it’s like to be kissed by him. Devoured. It’s becoming the entirety of my bucket list.

Dad and Lucy follow suit. I choose to nibble mine through the nausea-inducing infatuation.

Our plates are cleared. Our drinks refilled. Then the appetizer arrives—a salmon tartare with avocado, caviar, and yuzu dressing, which we eat through a debate over the best ice cream flavors.

The soup course is a creamy chestnut with an extravagant French name. The hot appetizer is seared foie gras on brioche with apple compote and sauternes reduction.

It’s all breathtakingly incredible, each bite a mouthwatering surprise as the champagne begins to soothe my frazzled energy into something warm and comforting.

Dad brings up the topic of most memorable childhood moments as the fish course is served. I smile as he revisits a story I’ve already heard a million times about how my late grandmother would scream bloody murder if anyone dared to tackle him while playing school football.

There’s a palate cleanser. A meat course. Then a platter of cheeses. And a pre-dessert before an actual dessert.

It’s ridiculously lavish and the absolute best food I’ve eaten in my entire life.

By the time we’re finished, my belly is bursting and my skin flushed from more than one too many champagnes.

I’ve grown high on the classical music, the violin notes dancing in my ears and vibrating into my chest.

I begin to feel at home, even though I’m miles from Baltimore in a dress that’s fit for royalty, while seated in front of my dying father and adjacent to a brutal murderer.

“Remy, do a sick man a favor and ask my daughter to dance,” my dad says, pulling me out of the mental calm to drop me straight into a pot of what-the-absolute-fuck?

Dad meets my gaze with a snicker. “Don’t look so surprised. You love dancing.”

“I loved it when I was five. Things change.”

He returns his attention to Remy. “Come on, Costa. It would mean the world to me to see her live a little.”

“Dad,” I scold.

Is he trying to play Cupid?

He doesn’t acknowledge the reprimand. He gives literally no shits as he blinks at Remy with overexaggerated puppy-dog eyes.

Oh. God.

What’s worse is that I can’t tell what Remy’s thinking as he focuses on me with indifference. If he’s trying to come up with an excuse, or attempting to distinguish whether my protests are earnest or just to save face from an inevitable rejection.

It’s both.

I don’t want to recreate the first time I was turned down by the man of my fantasies. And even if he does want to dance, I don’t think I can when my renewed nervousness will undoubtedly cause me to regurgitate each and every one of those ten courses in front of my dad, Lucy, and the restaurant staff.

So I scowl at Remy in warning.

Scowl so hard I’m sure the resulting wrinkles will become a permanent fixture.

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