Page 112 of Relationship Goals

Ah, that’s why the name of this place was familiar. They were all over the headlines when they opened a couple of years ago for their very controversial no-phone policy.

“If you could put your devices in here,” Gerard continues, pulling out a clear acrylic container with a combination lock on the outside. “Ici, ici,” he orders, and Abigail immediately drops her phone into the bin.

Reluctantly, I pull mine from my pocket and carefully place it next to hers.

Not that I’m opposed to a dinner without screens.

I am, however, opposed to being told what to do, and I’ve already put on their scratchy borrowed sport coat.

“The food here is delicious,” Abigail says, and when I meet her eyes, her lower lip is trembling slightly as if she’s going to cry.

“I trust you,” I tell her, and I do. I do trust her.

Except around stick shifts and Italian sports cars, but now isn’t the right time to bring that up. There might never be the right time for that, in fact.

“If monsieur could take his shoes off?” Gerard asks lightly.

“What?” I blink. No way I heard him right.

“Oui. Pas de chaussures. No shoes allowed.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” I say slowly.

He breaks into a laugh, and Abigail joins him while I stare at them both, finally shaking my head at him. “You almost got me—”

“Take them off,” he demands, and another man flits into our circle, holding another acrylic case, though this one doesn’t have a combination lock on it.

I guess they’re less worried about people stealing someone else’s used shoes.

“It’s part of the experience,” Abigail whispers, her eyebrows cinched together. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No phone, no shoes, and a sport coat.” I sigh as I bend down to do as I was instructed.

When I stand back up, Abigail and Gerard are sharing a strange look, one that quickly smooths out into smiles as I narrow my eyes.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m being pranked?” I mutter.

Gerard’s nostrils flare, then he inhales for so long and loudly through his nose I start to wonder if he’s having some kind of fit.

“Mon Dieu, l’homme est trop grossier, je suis dégoûté. Dégoûté.”He keeps muttering to himself in French, then sharply turns around, beckoning us to follow. “We have private paths to all the rooms here to ensure the celebrities who frequent our establishment are allowed as little contact with le paysans comme toi as possible.”

The carpet sinks under my socked feet, and I shake my head, completely bemused by the entire evening so far.

I wish Abigail and I were at my house eating Mexican takeout and sunning by the pool.

This is not my thing.

A sidelong glance at Abigail brings me up short, though—if this is what she wants, if this isherthing, then I’ll go along with it.

“You upset him,” Abigail tells me, looking for all the world like she’s about to burst into tears.

“I’m pretty sure he just called me something rude,” I whisper in her ear. “My French is rusty, but I’m ninety-nine percent surecomme toimeans ‘like you.’ ”

My gaze cuts into Gerard’s back.

A sniffle interrupts my murderous thoughts, and I glance back at Abigail, horrified.

“I’ve ruined our night,” she wails as soon as my attention lands fully on her.

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