Page 58 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
Here was a moment where he should be giving himself an inner high five. She liked him! Really liked him. And yet that revelation had come with one that lodged a stone in his chest. What in the world was he going to do? Jacqueline’s heart resided in that cave. If they bought it from her half sister, they would break her heart.Hewould break her heart.
“Let’s take a look at the menu, shall we?” he suggested, needing a minute.
She dug into her examination while he picked the first item on the top of the various courses in a bid for efficiency. He didn’t have the energy to consider any more options.
Mathieau appeared and took their order. When he was gone, Jacqueline asked how Pierre was faring, and Dean was grateful to fall into entertainment mode. He had made a video of Pierre wearing his new chef’s uniform, and while he hated to bring his phone out at dinner, he did so in a desperate attempt to keep her engaged while his mood continued to sink.
He didn’t taste his food as they ate. But he knew how to keep a conversation rolling, even if his head wasn’t in the game, and he kept prompting her with questions about the wine or her best wine stories. As she talked, he did his best to look engaged. He couldn’t help but notice how radiant she was when she spoke about wine, so sticking to that topic seemed like a good idea. She could be happy while he…tried not contemplate the predicament they were in.
When they finished their meal, he leaned forward and took her hand. “I told you I had a surprise in mind. Do you mind forgoing cheese and dessert and getting the check? I know I’m a philistine for asking, but there is somewhere else I want to take you.” He only hoped it would help them reset.
“The place you hinted at last time.” She tightened her grip and gave a breathtaking smile. “I can’t wait.”
He’d been so happy when he’d planned it, and since it involved spending time in another venue where he didn’t have to talk, he decided to go through with it. She would love it, he thought, and he discovered he was right when they stopped in front of the oldest cabaret in Paris.
“Oh, I adore this place!” She wrapped her arms around him suddenly—in what appeared to be sheer delight. “The oldest cabaret in Paris. Papa took me when I came back from London one Christmas. It’s so much fun. Come on.”
She practically dragged him inside. He’d reserved their tickets, of course, not wanting to arrive only to discover the show was sold out. The inside of the place, decked out with black-painted wood, was cast in red light from the lampshades hanging from the ceiling, the kind that made him think of a seedier Paris at night back in the 1920s. The walls probably carried a thick coating of debauchery and drink, and normally he’d have been grinning like a fool as they were escorted into the salon with the age-old Yamaha piano and communal wooden tables with random carvings accompanied by hard benches.
He and Jacqueline saidBonjourto the other people seated at their table. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the other details, including the rows of seating against the dark walls, already lined with people.
A miniscule lamp with a red lampshade sat on the piano, illuminating a stack of weathered sheet music. An old portrait of a woman from a bygone era hung directly above it, reminding him of the chicks Sawyer drew. There was also an antique wall clock that told accurate time, along with a ton of other framed art depicting Parisian scenes. A beautiful woman in an old-fashioned gown walking her dog. A few figure drawings of the naked female kind—God, he loved Paris. Clowns, of course. The walls were covered with them, the scenes like a tribute to days past.
“I’m going to have to bring my roommates here,” he told her as a server brought them their signature brandy with tiny cherries in shot glasses. “Sawyer would love the drawings. He’s a painter. Tortured. More talented than he can see.”
She looked up from studying her brandy and gave him a full-on, bright-as-sunshine smile—all reserve gone. “I’d love to see his work sometime,” she said before leaning into him and embracing him. “Dean, thank you. I still can’t believe you thought to bring me here. I’m so happy I won’t even comment on the low quality of the brandy.”
He took a sip, his eyes widening. “That’s clearly what the cherries are for.” Looking around, he leaned in. “Where are we supposed to put the pits?”
Her laughter was filled with gaiety. “On the table, my friend,” she said companionably as more people packed into the room like sardines.
“That explains the grime.” He would make sure not to rest his elbows on the surface. “I’m glad you’re happy.” That was his only saving grace tonight—that he’d pleased her. “You look even more beautiful when you are, by the way.”
She cast him a coquettish smile before glancing down at her brandy. “I wonder if they’d be interested in a better brandy supplier. I could probably help them with that.”
He wanted to kiss the top of her head. “Maybe shut your sommelier brain off for the night. I believe our entertainment is starting.”
An old man in glasses and a textured vest and a red scarf stepped out and began to talk about singing songs of the heart. Then he broke into song—a foot-stomping French song that everyone else knew. Jacqueline joined in with gusto, singing at the top of her lungs, even swaying from side to side when the old man asked the crowd to sing the chorus.
This was old Paris, with even older songs—the kind he imagined had been sung in dance halls and maybe even Moulin Rouge back in the day. He blocked out his Moulin Rouge memory. He and his roommates had gone, hoping for old Paris, only to discover a modern show that certainly broke with his multiple viewings of Nicole Kidman’sMoulin Rougeperformances. He took another drink of his brandy as the man next to him slapped him on the shoulder, singing something about the pitfalls of falling for beautiful women.
He’d read this was the place to sing old French songs, and when a woman wearing a red sweater with an accordion strapped to her front came out and sang in that old classic Edith Piaf way of hard times and tragic love affairs, he plunged into the spirit of the place. There was clapping, and people were signaled out for fun. Sometimes the old man toasted someone in the sea of wall-to-wall people. They even sang the children’s song, “Alouette, Gentille Alouette,” but he didn’t know all the words. Jacqueline did and started to sway against him, singing loudly.
He was glad he’d brought her if only to learn yet another detail that had him falling harder for her: she turned into a total loon for singing.
She clapped, she danced in her seat, she held long notes—along with most of the crowd—and she even clanked glasses with the robust man across from her when they belted out the last line of a song together. She’d revealed a whole new side of herself—funny, enthusiastic, and affectionate. A woman he could see himself spending all his time with, someone he could be happy with. Not just dating. But in life.
At the end of the female singer’s raucous story about her husband leaving her for a woman with a peg leg, Jacqueline glanced at him. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she was grinning, still humming, and suddenly she slid her hand around his nape and leaned in to kiss him. Those few precious kisses felt like they were cementing something deeper between them.
They could have fun together, and she seemed to be opening herself to the possibility thathemight be her dream man.
Then it hit him.He could be her dream man.In fact, he could be her hero. All he had to do was buy the cave with his roommates from her half sister.
Maybe Jacqueline would be willing to take half of the cave with the rest going to Nanine’s. Or he would find another cave to buy for the restaurant, leaving this one for her. Perhaps Paris had guided him to it for this very reason.
Now all he had to do was convince his roommates.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
