Page 41 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
When he arrived on the quay and walked down to where the private boat was docked, she was already standing there, gazing up at the night sky.
Sawyer might talk himself silly about the way the Seine was lit up along the quay or how you could hear the fall leaves of the sycamore trees rustle as the wind blew. But all Dean could think about was the way she looked in the golden light from the waiting boat.
She wore a fitted black dress with matching heels designed to raise his blood pressure, and yes, make him drool a bit. Her slender neck was arched back, giving him her profile. Her hair looked more brown tonight than dark blond, and he knew enough about women to know she’d spent extra time making those soft curls that trailed between her shoulder blades. She was slender but with curves in all the right places, and as he approached, he caught that perfume of hers, a little floral and a little musky, as if she had two sides of her, ones he couldn’t wait to learn more about.
“You’re staring,” she said in French, turning to face him. “I didn’t realize we were going to be on a boat tonight when you sent the address. In fact, I don’t know this restaurant.”
He grinned as he walked closer and handed her the bouquet. “Most restaurant people I know don’t like to eat in restaurants on a night off, so I hired a boat and a private chef Nanine knew instead. I hope that works for you. If not, we can go somewhere else. Ah, do we greet each other like Parisians or would you prefer we forgot that until next time?”
“Thank you for the flowers.” Her mouth twitched, a sure sign she was fighting a smile. “You think there will be a next time before our date has even begun?”
He casually leaned down to see if she was going to accept his two kisses, and when she leaned in, he lightly brushed her powdered cheeks. “Something you should know. I’m an eternal optimist. The dictionary people may think they have the definition down, but their take is way too tame if you ask me.”
“I’m mostly a pessimist,” she responded, giving him a once-over with her eyes. “But I appreciate positivity when I come across it.”
He extended his arm to her. “Then meet your date, Mr. Optimism. I’m here to show you how fun and happy life can be. Shall we?”
They walked up the gangplank after he called out to the captain, who appeared on deck in his sailor’s hat, the only outward indication that he had any ship knowledge. He wasn’t wearing dress whites or anything, but then again, that was the Navy, wasn’t it? He had no idea what private boat captains wore in France. For all Dean knew, the guy probably could be drinking Pastis in the back.
He made sure to steady Jacqueline when she stumbled a little up the gangplank. “I wouldn’t have worn heels if I’d known,” she muttered absently.
He thought about Madison’s talking point about knocking her off the boat. He hadn’t considered it was a serious possibility until now. “I can pick you up and carry you around, or you can kick off your heels and be comfortable. I’m sure they swabbed the floor for tonight.”
She laughed at that and stopped to unhook her heels, holding on to him, which only made him want to wrap her up in his arms. “Clearly, it’s not a fishing boat.”
“God, I would hope not.” He sniffed the air. “Thankfully, the Seine doesn’t stink right now.”
She gasped. “The Seine never stinks. How dare you insult her! She’s always beautiful. Always.”
Her outrage was as hot as Sawyer’s would have been, a thought that made him smile. “I know that’s sacrilege to some, but when was the last time you walked along the Seine during the summer, especially when it’s pushing forty degrees Celsius?”
“Fine.” She held up her heels, a brand Brooke would have approved of. “It’s been a while. You’re forgiven.”
He shot her a flirtatious smile, hoping for one of her sexy French pouts. He knew she had it in her. “I don’t remember apologizing.”
She started to pout and then raised her brow instead. “You think you’re very charming, don’t you?”
He was ready for her retort. “So must you, or you wouldn’t have agreed to go out with me again.”
She leveled him anothermake him work for itlook—the kind French women had mastered—her eyes watching him intently while her mouth turned all serious and suspicious. “I can always change my mind,” she responded.
He only smiled, getting into the flow of their flirting. French flirting was different, something he’d need to remember. He’d only been out with a few French girls when he’d studied abroad ten years ago, and of course, he’d watched French movies. They loved to pretend they weren’t interested—also a French trait—when they truly were. He didn’t wonder why. He only knew he liked the game. There was nothing boring about it, and God knew, he’d had plenty of boring dates who could only talk about how much they loved salad and why yoga should be a national sport.
“That is your prerogative, but I’d let me pull out all the stops tonight before you make a final decision on the matter.”
That had her smiling—and he wanted to give himself a fist bump. Yeah, she liked the one-step forward and two-steps back dance. She was going to be the death of him, but he couldn’t deny he loved it too.
Another boat guy appeared—the first mate?—and led them to the dining area. Overhead lights showcased a small table covered in white decorated with more flowers he’d requested as well as a few short candles. Brooke had told him to insist on that because a) you wanted to see your date and b) tall candlesticks were a fire hazard to both one’s hair and the tablecloth. He hadn’t asked whether that last item was wisdom from Brooke’s personal experience in the Hamptons.
“This is very nice,” Jacqueline said with some surprise in her voice.
He rushed to pull her chair out and it scraped on the floor. Smooth. He waited until she was seated before taking the place across from her as the boat began to glide forward, the scene outside the windows slowly changing, like a slow-moving movie reel.
Chef Patrick appeared and told them to expect a wonderful meal. He was younger than Dean had expected—Nanine had said he’d been working as a chef for twenty years, but he looked to be midthirties. Maybe he was the Doogie Howser of French cuisine. Dean didn’t care so long as the food was good.
A young woman appeared in all black with a bottle of wine. He watched as Jacqueline leaned forward in her seat as the woman presented the bottle before opening it.
“I went with the chef’s suggestion for the wine, given he’s making the food,” he told her. “In case you were going to critique my choice.”
