Page 81 of Crazy In Love
Bridger thanked him and then pulled out my chair, and it surprised me that he sat in the chair beside me instead of across from me.
Our waiter walked over immediately, and Bridger ordered a bottle of wine, and he did it so confidently that I didn’t argue.
Because I’d just found out the best little tidbit ever.
Bridger Chadwick spoke French.
Fluently.
He and the waiter went back and forth, and then Bridger turned to me with more swagger than any one man should be allowed to have. “Are you okay with me ordering for you?”
“Yes,” I said, eyes wide as I listened to them speak to one another.
The waiter collected our menus, and then Bridger turned to look at me. “I don’t take women out romantically, which I believe was your question.”
Talk about a subject change.
“Okay. I have many questions at the moment, so buckle up, Chadwick.”
He chuckled as our waiter returned with the wine, which Bridger sampled before nodding. The server poured us each a glass.
I took a sip, and if the man ordered food the way he ordered wine, I was going to be living large tonight, because this was the best freaking wine I’d ever had.
“You have many questions?” he asked, as if he was giving me the floor.
“First off, let’s discuss the easy things, and we can circle back to the dating discussion.” I set my wine glass down and rubbed my hands together. “You speak French?”
“I do. I come here often.”
“Interesting,” I said. I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a man who spent time in Paris. I don’t know why; I guess this man was just full of surprises.
“I think so.” He shrugged. “It’s a beautiful city.”
“Did you take French in college?” I asked.
“I took Spanish. I taught myself French later, when I started visiting Paris more often.”
I tore off a piece of bread and groaned when I popped it in my mouth.
“Do you always make noise when you eat?” he asked, tearing off a piece of bread for himself.
My eyes widened. “I don’t know? Do I? Is it annoying?”
“Yes, you do. It’s not annoying, it’s… uncomfortable.” He wiggled a brow.
“Uncomfortable?” I asked, before he continued staring at me and speaking without words, and then it hit me.
“Ahhh… it’s like food porn.” I laughed, and his lips remained in a flat line, giving nothing away, like usual.
“It’s not the food I’m responding to, Emilia.”
I felt my cheeks heat as I reached for my wine glass. “So you don’t date?”
“I don’t do your version of dating.”
I nodded as our salads were set in front of us. “What is your version of dating?”
Why was I asking this?
