Page 34 of From Paris, with Butter
Laurent walked behind me, and as he did, he placed a gentle hand on the small of my back. I wasn’t sure whether it was to protect me from being jostled or out of a simple desire to touch me, but, in either case, it set me tingling all over.
When we got to our table, Laurent smoothly stepped in front of our server to pull out my chair. I’d seen a thousand men attempt the same move at Le Jules Verne, but none of them had managed to do it with Laurent’s finesse. Charmed, I smiled at him as I sat down.
“This place is lovely,” I said.
The restaurant was small and paneled with dark wood, but the space still felt bright due to the large windows letting the light stream in. The ceiling was pressed metal, with a fleur de lis motif, and the walls were hung with watercolors of conifers.
“I hoped you’d like it. I’ve been here twice and had an excellent meal both times.”
Laurent passed over a menu, pointing out his recommendations. I liked that he gave his opinion then left me to it. I’d had too many dinners where my date decided to order for me because he “just knew” what I’d like best.
When our server came by, we got moules-frites to start, and I ordered a brandy-based cocktail and the chicken braised in cider. The specialty of the restaurant was pork, and I looked at Laurent to see if he was dismayed that I was ordering chicken. But he only smiled.
“A smart choice.”
Laurent ordered a glass of Bretagne cider and the cotriade, a seafood stew. Our drinks came, and we clinked glasses. In both my personal and professional lives, I was used to driving conversations, but Laurent beat me to it.
“How has your week been?” he asked.
I was about to give the usual platitudes, but he seemed genuinely interested—his eyes alight as he leaned forward, closer to me—so I gave the real answer. I told him about the new fall menu at Le Jules Verne, how lovely serving the Iliescus had been, how I was sad that summer produce was thinning at the markets, and the cake ideas I was considering for Colette, whose birthday was next week.
Not a bit of it was revelatory, or even particularly interesting, but he kept his golden eyes on me the whole time. His gaze was so intense I warmed under it.
“And…and you? How have things been?” I asked, feeling slightly off-kilter.
“Nothing nearly as interesting. I finally finished unpacking. Other than that, mostly working.”
“How’s work? You work in an office now?”
“Yes. For a shipping company. It’s not particularly enjoyable.” He spoke lightly, but I saw from the tightness in his face that there was some deep unhappiness there.
“Right. Of course,” I said, flailing for a new conversation topic. “Where were you living before you moved into the building?”
Laurent gave a small smile, a real one this time. “Aix-en-Provence, where I’m from. Back when I was being an insufferable boor, I believe you mentioned having been there?”
“Several times. I love it there. Was it hard to leave?”
Laurent moved his fork half a centimeter so that it was perfectly parallel with the rest of his cutlery. “Not particularly. My girlfriend left me, so I needed someplace new to live anyway.”
Ah, zero for two. I grimaced in embarrassment.
But, to my surprise, Laurent laughed. “You walked right into that one. Don’t worry. We were a poor match.” His tone was relaxed, but I noticed he took a rather large gulp of water. “My parents and sister wanted me to stay in Aix, but it had too many difficult memories.”
Yes, I understood that completely.
“I knew I wanted a change in scenery,” Laurent continued. “Paris was the obvious choice.”
I smiled. “It always is.”
Laurent took a sip of cider, and I watched him as he closed his eyes, savoring the taste as a smile crept across his mouth. I found the corners of my own mouth turning up. A grump could never appreciate a drink the way Laurent did.
Laurent opened his eyes, still looking a little dreamy. “Beautiful,” he declared, setting his glass squarely back in the center of his coaster. “What about you? Your accent isn’t Parisian.”
“I’m from Alsace. Colmar, specifically,” I said, naming a town in northeastern France, close to Germany and Switzerland.
“Ah, Colmar,” Laurent said, smiling the way French people usually did when I told them my hometown. I understood why. Colmar—with its cobblestone streets and overflowing flower boxes and medieval half-timbered houses—was easy to love.
“Colmar, Paris, and you mentioned living in Martinique. Have you lived anywhere else?”
