Matthew
“My mom’s good,” I say simply, and before Brooke can press for details, our order is called from the counter in rapid-fire French.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter, pushing back my chair. I weave through the cozy café, the smell of butter and caramelized onions getting stronger the closer I get. The tray is warm in my hands when I pick it up, heavier than I expect, two generous slices of pissaladière still bubbling at the edges, a steaming bowl of lentil and sausage stew, and a basket of crusty bread that smells like heaven.
Carrying it back to the table, I feel something I haven’t in a long time: content. No conference rooms. No back-to-back meetings.Just good food, Paris, and Brooke Masters sitting across from me.
“Wow,” she says as I set the tray down, eyes lighting up at the spread.
I slide the plate toward her and tear a piece of bread for myself. “Trust me, this place is famous for this.”
I take a bite of the stew first, and holy hell, it’s incredible. Rich, smoky, a little spicy. The sausage practically melts in my mouth, and the lentils are hearty without being heavy. “Okay,” I say after swallowing, “remind me to fly to Paris more often. For research purposes, obviously.”
Brooke laughs, picking up a slice of pissaladière. “Obviously.”
She takes a bite, and I can’t help watching the way her lips curve when she does. She hums in approval. “Okay, this isgood.”
“Right?” I grin, grabbing my own slice. The crust is crisp, the onions sweet and jammy, the anchovies salty and perfect. “See, this is what people miss when they stick to tourist traps, real food.”
“Real food and real company,” she teases, nudging my foot under the table.
I glance up, meeting her eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”
“So why are you avoiding talking about your mom?” she asks, spearing a piece of sausage with her fork.
I wince. “Caught that, huh?”
She raises a brow. “You’re about as subtle as a screaming baby on a red-eye.”
I let out a long breath, leaning back in my chair. “She’s just… Mom.” I run a hand through my hair, searching for the rightwords. “She didn’t want me moving to Paris, but I did. And then when I came back, she wanted me to move back home.”
“Oh,” Brooke says, and I knowexactlywhat she’s thinking, I’m a grown man and still tethered to my mother. And she’s not wrong.
“My mom’s used to being with me,” I admit quietly. “It’s been just the two of us my whole life. And I felt guilty moving to France. I thought… maybe if I put an ocean between us, it would give her time to build her own life. Make friends. Date. Something.” I shrug, swirling the wine in my glass. “But it’s like… nothing changed. She’s still the same.”
Brooke studies me for a second, her expression softer now. “But you’re not.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
Her smile shifts, softer, but with that familiar teasing glint I remember. “How’s she with your girlfriends?”
I huff out a laugh, leaning back in my chair. “There haven’t been any since college. And back then, I tookgreat painsto make sure they never met.”
She grins, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’m well aware.Mr. Made-Me-Sneak-Down-the-Fire-Escape.”
My cheeks heat immediately, the memory crashing back, Brooke barefoot, holding her shoes, laughing breathlessly as she climbed down the narrow metal steps because my mom had come home early. God, I’d forgotten how much Ilovedthat laugh.
“My mom can be… intense,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “And I didn’t want her scaring you off.”
“Even when I was just a friend?” she asks, tilting her head.
I meet her gaze, steady and sure this time. “You were neverjusta friend.”
Brooke blinks, lips parting slightly, and then she bites down on her bottom lip, as a faint pink creeps across her cheeks.
“Huh,” she says, trying and failing to sound casual.
I put our empty bowls back onto the tray, needing to move before I do something stupid, like lean across the table and kiss her. “Ready?”
