“Je vais bien, merci.”
“C’est la première fois que j’vous vois. C’est tu votre première fois ici?”
“Oui, oui, c’est bien ma première fois. J’suis venu rejoindre quelqu’un. Merci.”
She waved me off when I motioned that I was meeting Dominique.
Dominique broke from his daze and shuffled upright as I approached. Like our excursion to the Apothecary, he’d left his coat on as though prepared to run out the door should things sour.
“Am I that intimidating?” I asked as I crossed the room.
He screwed up his face in confusion.
I waved the comment off with a chuckle, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting. Scanning him head to toe, I tipped my head to the side. “I’ll try not to take it personally, Doc, but you look awfully distraught for a man on a date.” I pointed to his forehead. “These aggressive indentations you’re sporting suggest you’d rather be anywhere else. Am I that bad?”
“No. God no.” Dominique self-consciously rubbed his fingers over the creases in his brow as though he could erase them, but they remained when he folded his hands on the table. “I’m sorry.” He tried smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This is… new for me. I’m glad you came.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Truly.”
I puzzled him for a moment, but he seemed genuine. “Can I buy you a coffee? Food?”
“No, no. My invitation. My treat. Besides, you paid the tab at the Apothecary. It’s my turn.” He moved to stand but sat again, frowning. “What are you having? They don’t take orders at the table. It’s not that type of establishment.”
“In that case, I’ll follow.”
A menu board hung from the wall behind the counter. I studied it as Dominique asked for a breakfast croissant with egg, spinach, feta, ham, and onions. “To drink, I’ll have a large… Canadiano. S’il-te-plaît. With milk.”
I frowned. “Isn’t it called an Americano?”
“Non, non. It change now,” the woman behind the counter said in her broken English, indicating the menu board where the wordAmericanohad indeed been crossed out. Someone had written above it in markerCanadiano. “This is Canada, non? We only make Canada coffee here.” She wagged a finger.
I chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll have a toasted sundried tomato and asiago bagel with butter and a café mocha. The biggest size you make.”
The woman tapped away at the register and recited the total. Dominique paid, sliding a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. The woman beamed and thanked him before explaining in French that she would deliver our food and drinks to the table when they were ready.
We sat, but Dominique didn’t appear any more comfortable. He had trouble holding my gaze, his attention drifting repeatedly around the room as he weaved his fingers together and squeezed them until the skin turned white. I wanted to reach out and peel them apart, hold them so he calmed down, but with my luck, the gesture would have the opposite effect.
“This is a cute place,” I said, opening the conversation.
“It is. I like it. Marcella is the owner.” He indicated the woman behind the counter. “She’s wonderful. Cosette loves her but mostly because she gives her free cookies whenever we come.”
“I’d love her too if she gave me free cookies.”
Dominique attempted to smile. It hooked one corner of his mouth but didn’t stick around long. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow, and he stared at his hands, fretting again.
The air crackled with tension. I wanted to break the ice and take us back to the few relaxed moments we’d shared at the Apothecary the previous week. I wanted to learn all there was to know about this troubled man, whom I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Thewhyof my attraction baffled me. Despite all the eligible bachelors on my dating apps, the troubled pathologist was the one who interested me most. Damaged souls sought damaged souls, it seemed. Perhaps I recognized a kinship in Dominique, sensed his imperfect history, and knew he might be the kind of man who understood mine.
“This is ridiculously early, by the way.” I tapped my foot against his under the table, drawing his attention. “What the heck time do you hit the gym? You’ve already been this morning? That’s what you implied when you invited me.”
“I have. Usually, I go between four thirty and five.”
I groaned with disgust. “Good god. Why?”
The corner of Dominique’s mouth turned up again as he put the stray packet of sweetener back in the caddy. The lopsided smile was endearing on the constantly fretting pathologist.
