Page 66 of His Secret Gift

“Is Pinot okay?”

“Totally.”

“Great.” He flashes his almost perfectly white teeth at me. He also orders himself a Captain and Coke.

After getting our drinks, he asks if I’d like to go outside for a minute to get some air. That sounds wonderful to me. I’ve already started sweating all over.

However, as we walk, I make eyes with Callie and point where we’re going. She gives me a thumbs up before continuing to dance.

Ahhh.The cool, crisp air is so refreshing. And a break from the loud music and screaming people also helps.

“So, what brings you to Morocco?” he asks, his floppy, dark hair blowing in the breeze. If I had to equate his looks to anyone it would be a mix between Disney’s Aladdin, the cartoon version, not live action, and Uncle Jesse fromFull House—sans mullet.

“Work.” Finally, I’m not lying to him.

He cocks his head to the side. “Is that so? What kind of work do you do?”

“I work on a yacht. I’m a steward.” I feel so proud saying that, as if I’m a contestant onThe Yacht Life.

He lifts his drink and takes a sip. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. You know, for now.”

He grins. “Right.”

“Um, what do you do?”

“International trading.”

I nod like I have a clue what that entails. “Very interesting.”

At that, he chuckles. “I suppose it can be.”

“What, uh, do you trade.” I’m practically crossing my fingers.Please don’t say people, please don’t say people.

“Clothing, mostly.”

I sigh in relief.Thank god. Although would anyone actually admit if they were trafficking people?I look him up and down with suspicion. But he seemed to be a normal, incredibly handsome man to me. He’s wearing a longitudinal, blocky, and striped—black, white, red, and tan—short-sleeved button up that’s open pretty far down his chest and khakis.

“Interesting.”

His brown eyes lock with mine. “That seems to be your favorite word.”

“What?” My blood feels like it’s running cold.Did I say something stupid?

He chuckles and looks at the ground for a moment. “Interesting.” Instead of his sexy accent, he seems to be trying to adopt my own.

“Oh, sorry.”

He turns to face me and leans on a table nearby. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Right.

An awkward moment of silence passes.

“But tell me one thing, you’re American, aren’t you?”

Since the jig seems to be up, I say, “What gave it away? The French thing?”

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