Page 31 of From Paris, with Butter
“I chose that photo of Minerva because she looks like she wants to murder the entire human race,” Laurent said. “That’s a very grumpy thing to do.”
Even as he spoke, I was shaking my head and grinning. “Own up, Roche. I bet you even smile when it’s a nice day outside or you see a little kid laughing while eating an ice cream.”
“You have entirely the wrong idea of me,” Laurent said archly. “I hate both children and nice weather. Ice cream is fine, though.”
He moved his wallet away from a splatter of oil that I’d missed. “I will tell you one thing I do love above anything else, and that’s a clean kitchen.” Without waiting for me to respond, he stood and opened a cabinet, then began pulling out cleaning supplies.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll do that later.”
“I insist. You made the entire meal.”
I was tired enough to let him have at it. Laurent topped off my wine glass then got to work, piling dishes into the sink and scrubbing down my countertops. He really did seem to be enjoying himself. I watched his biceps strain the fabric of his shirt as he washed the dishes, his back to me.
Yasmine was right. His arms did bear more than a passing resemblance to many of those Greek god statues in the Louvre.
As Laurent tidied up, I started to get nervous again. I still had no idea if this was an actual date, or if Laurent was just being polite to a neighbor, or if it had started as a date but had then become so insane it was now no longer a date. (Or if it had started as not a date and my baking had been enough to win Laurent over? One could hope.)
But even if this wasn’t a date, I could still see Laurent again. If he didn’t initiate, then I would. I should wait a few days to not seem too eager, I decided. And I should suggest something simple. Coffee? Or was that still too much?
Maybe I could knock on his door, tell him I was on my way to pick up coffee, and ask if he needed anything? I think that’d be OK. The important thing was to start small. And I shouldn’t say anything at all to him for at least three days so I didn’t overwhelm him.
Baby steps, that was the way to do it.
I smiled at Laurent, secure in my plan.
He smiled back. “I want to take you to dinner.”
“What?”
Of course this night had one more curveball to throw at me.
“I want to take you to dinner,” Laurent repeated. “There’s a place called LaForêt that I think would be perfect. “You made this wonderful meal for us, so for our second date, I don’t want you to do any work.”
As he rattled off the restaurant’s selling points, I stared wonderingly at him. Not only was Laurent perfectly confident that this had been a date, he also knew he wanted to see me again.
“That sounds wonderful. My next night off is Tuesday,” I said, still not quite believing this was happening. I was expecting at any moment to wake up and find myself back in the smoking, oil-soaked ruins of my kitchen.
“Perfect. And gelato afterwards? I’ll get that free scoop,” Laurent said, grinning.
“I expect nothing less from a man who probably keeps a gratitude journal and has an album of his favorite sunset photos saved on his phone.”
Laurent raised an eyebrow. “A pretty snappy comeback for a woman who I expect has hated the human race at least once when a diner showed up to Le Jules Verne in athleisure clothes.”
“Wrong again. I adore it when diners show up in nothing but a sports bra and spandex shorts. It’s the perfect outfit for a fancy dinner.”
My pulse raced as we grinned at each other. There was a flush of color in Laurent’s face. I told myself it wasn’t just due to the wine.
Laurent asked if he could take a piece of the tarte tatin home, so I wrapped half of it up for him. At the door, we said our goodbyes. I thought he might kiss me on the lips, and he seemed to consider it for a moment, leaning forward and then pulling back. But I guess no one’s confidence is unshakeable all the time. In the end, we kissed on the cheek. Not that it wasn’t thrilling to have his cheek pressed to mine. He smelled like pastry and woodsy-scented shampoo (and slightly of burnt oil, but that one’s my fault). When we broke apart, I wondered if I looked as dazed as he did.
“I’ll see you on Tuesday then,” he said when we broke apart. “À bientôt, Margot.”
Chapter 13
Ifloated through work the next day, impervious to the strenuous attempts the diners at Le Jules Verne made to bring me back down to Earth.
The wheels started coming off barely thirty minutes into the lunch shift. There must have been something in the wine Paul was pouring because nearly every table I had was anxious or unhappy.
“You know, we tried to make a dinner reservation but couldn’t,” one particularly aggrieved couple informed me. “We had to settle for lunch, and it’s throwing our whole schedule off.”
