Page 28 of Kept 2
“I’d say thank you, but I’m not allowed.”
“I’m sure it could be arranged.”
“I’ll get into trouble.”
“Yes, you will,” he murmurs, rising. “I will be back in a moment.”
I stand, puzzled, waiting behind his chair, and catch my breath when he returns with Mr Lam.
“I have explained to the maître de that this is my last night here for some time, possibly for a very long time, and that I have thoroughly enjoyed your professional and dedicated service,” Mr Lumier says quietly, looking me in the eye with his intense, deep blue eyes, “and I have asked him if he would mind you joining me.”
“Oh.”
“And he has agreed that would be acceptable.”
“We are most assuredly happy to accommodate any and all of your desires,” Mr Lam says seriously, nodding to Mr Lumier.
“But, I shouldn’t,” I start.
“Please don’t feel uncomfortable,” Mr Lam says quietly, turning to me. “You are free to dine, Ms Bailey.”
I nod and widen my eyes as another waiter comes in to take my place, and Mr Lumier draws out the chair opposite him, gesturing with a casual wave of his hand, for me to sit.
Mr Lam gives a short bow and leaves, and it is just the three of us, me red as a beetroot, Mr Lumier watching me closely, and the waiter behind us, looking to the ceiling, his face a picture of professional courtesy.
“Do you require the menu?” Mr Lumier asks, handing one across to me.
I take it, smiling nervously, but don’t open it. I know it off by heart.
He nods, as though he already knew this.
“I believe we are ready to order,” he tells our waiter, ordering the pink salad for me, and the suggested mussel dish for himself.
The sommelier is called, we accept his recommendations, and he leaves as the waiter retreats to the kitchen to place our order.
“Alone once more,” Mr Lumier murmurs, his eyes meeting mine.
I don’t want to say I am ‘stunned’ but I have never seen such beautiful eyes, and I’m sure my mouth opens a tiny bit, but I quickly slam it shut before lifting my glass and sipping my rich, dark red.
I’m really glad now that he sat with his back to me all those weeks. Nothing, and I mean nothing other than a twig-thin line of self-respect, is stopping me from telling him how beautiful he is.
Trying my best to look composed, I attempt to converse as we normally do.
“So, you are going away?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I must.”
“It seems like you have only been here a short time.”
“A few months,” he shakes his head and smiles at some private joke, “it took me a while to find what I was looking for, but it turned out it was right under my nose all along.”
“And before Paris?” I smile as the waiter tops up my wine, “where did your business take you?”
“I was in Bali,” he says quietly, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
Suddenly I feel as though I can’t breathe, and I put my glass down sharply on the table, lest I spill it.
“Your heart is racing,” he murmurs, his eyes intent, “take a slow breath, Josephine.”
