Page 43 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
She was lit from within, like the way a piece of paper shone with a lightbulb behind it. He scooted his chair a little closer to her around the table. “Talk my ear off, Jacqueline. What’s the oldest wine family in France?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Yes.” He took another sip of his wine as the server appeared with their first course, a lovely assortment of mussels in one of those delightful wine sauces the French were crazy for. “I love hearing about what’s important to you, and I happen to like wine.”
She grabbed a toast point, dipped it into the sauce, and then moaned. “I’ll tell you all about the Chateau de Goulaine in a moment. I want to savor this. It’s been ages since I’ve had this dish, and I have to confess something…”
Oh, this sounded delicious, and the way she said it had the whispers of arousal moving over his skin. “Confess away.”
“I missed bread—French bread—so badly that I’ve eaten bread at least seven times a day since I’ve returned to Paris.” She gave a lusty sigh, and he tried to slyly dab his temples with his handkerchief. “It’s not that the other places where I’ve lived didn’t have bread.”
“No, I mean San Francisco has their famous sourdough—”
“Exactly!” She took another bite and chewed with relish. “It’s helpful you looked me up, I suppose. But then again, I looked you up too.”
“It’s the world we live in,” he reasoned. “See anything you liked?”
Her mouth curved. “Perhaps.”
His entire body shivered with attraction. “Good to know. You were talking about bread?”
“Yes.” She kept her half-eaten toast point in her hand. “It’s not that you can’t find baguettes around the world.”
“But the ingredients aren’t the same—even if you could get them.” He shrugged. “Thea is like my little sister and goes on about this all the time. She sometimes squeals when she gets in a new order of flour or butter. Then there are days when she picks the product up and kisses it. It’s a little weird to some, but not to someone whose passion is bread.”
“I confess I have never kissed a bottle.” She picked theirs up with a laugh as if considering it before setting it down. “You really love your roommates, don’t you?”
He thought of the talking points and the handkerchief. He smiled. “Yeah. They’re better to me than my family, and while there are plenty of little things they do that drive me nuts, I can’t wait to see them every day. Okay, maybe I could go a day without seeing Kyle, but only because I know he’ll still give me shit and look absolutely freaking perfect while doing it. I swear that guy wakes up that way.”
She tipped her wine toward him. “You wouldn’t want to be that perfect every day, I think. It would bite into your inner drive to be Jerry Lewis. People who make people laugh can’t be perfect. There’s nothing to laugh at.”
He wanted to scratch his head. “I’d never thought of it that way. You’re the first person to make being imperfect sound cool. So what you’re saying is that I’m way more interesting like I am…”
“I believe I mentioned you being unlike anyone else I’d met.” She handed him a toast point. “I’ve never had an outing with a person and a parrot and enjoyed it so much.”
“Wait until you see what I have planned for our next date,” he told her, biting into the toast point. “I thought I’d rein myself in a bit tonight since we didn’t have a chance to talk much last time, what with you laughing like a crazy person over my very understandable French mistake.”
Her mouth started to tremble in laughter. “I’ve thought about it whenever I’m in need of a laugh.”
“Good to know,” he told her, and it was. She hadn’t gone all stiff and cold when he’d told her about his plans for another date. He settled back into his chair and watched her eat her bread with a side helping of mussels as she told him about the Goulaine family in the Loire Valley.
By the time their main course arrived—a lovely seabass in a cream sauce—he was wishing he had a Sawyer quote up his sleeve. With her Encyclopedia Britannica love of history, he figured she’d go for a quote by some famously eggheaded dude who’d donned a wig most of his life.
He picked at his fish, which he was happy had been deboned. You could never count on that in France. He’d gotten nauseous the first time a waitstaff had brought the whole fish—the accusatory eyes still open and glazed—tableside and deboned it there.
“You don’t like the fish,” she commented.
He looked up. “No, I was just thanking the culinary gods they didn’t bring the carcass to the table. That’s too up close and personal for me.”
Her lips twitched as she forked a piece of flaky fish and plopped it into her mouth. “So far, your chef is very impressive.”
“Flowers for Nanine tomorrow for sure, then,” he said, finally taking a bite and chewing. “Personally, I think fish tastes better without the whole head and bones thing. You?”
“And here I was hoping they’d bring it that way so I could hear you make jokes about what the fish was saying.” She bit into a baguette slice and closed her eyes.
He took the opportunity to grab the handkerchief and dab his temples and the back of his neck. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do if I find myself in that predicament. Or maybe I’ll ask them to serve it up whole next time so I can make you laugh the way you’d imagined.”
Her brown eyes flew to his, and he saw shock momentarily. “You would do that?”
