“Don’t sound so surprised. I can get ready in under an hour now,” I said.
“I see that.” The admiration in his eyes warmed me. “I like your top. Is it new?”
Helpless longing for his approval bloomed inside me. I fluffed my hair with my fingers, striking a pose. “This old thing?”
“You look very nice.”
“So do you. Very elegant.” He wore clean jeans and a navy blazer over another of those perfectly pressed white shirts. “I think I’ll call you ‘my lord.’”
His grin deepened, which was so... Wow.
“Anywhere you want to go?” he asked as we stepped off the sidewalk. Polite as always.
A heady feeling rose in me. “Anywhere?”
“Sky’s the limit.”
The top of the Eiffel Tower. Epicure. Arpège. All the restaurants I’d longed to go to and couldn’t afford. With Trey, there was no danger he expected me to pay for dinner with sex.
“We don’t have a reservation,” I said.
“I made one at my hotel. In case you didn’t want to decide.”
According to the online guides, some of the best restaurants in the world were in Paris hotels. But... This was our chance to meet as equals, right? I wasn’t a kid begging for treats anymore.
“There’s a bistro I like. Near the square? We could walk.”
He glanced at my black espadrille wedge sandals. “You used to complain about walking everywhere.”
After we moved out to the farm, I couldn’t run across the street or down the block to play with my friends like I used to. When they toldstories about getting together after school or hanging out on weekends, I could only smile and wish I’d been there.
“That was in North Carolina. This is Paris,” I said.
We set off. The narrow streets gradually filled with people getting off work or going out for the night, Parisians pursuing their daily lives as if the terrorist attacks of less than a year ago had never happened. Lovers walked arm in arm or hand in hand. Parents pushed strollers. Groups of students, hipsters, andimmigréscongregated on corners or in doorways. Restaurants were opening for dinner, smells and tables spilling onto the sidewalks.
The bistro was down a battered back street, off from the square, the seating a mix of red vinyl booths and dark metal chairs, the doors flung open to the warm evening. I smiled brightly at the cute maître d’, hoping he would remember me and give us a table. I wanted to show off my knowledge of the city and my somewhat improved French to Trey.
And the smile worked, or maybe the man took pity on me, because he nodded and beckoned us forward to a tiny table for two squeezed in by the door.
The bar was full. Trey looked around at the dining room—cozy, crowded, and relaxed—and then at me. “This is great.”
I glowed. I suggested favorites from the menu, enjoying playing hostess. But when it came to ordering the wine, I stumbled.
“May I?” Trey conferred with the waiter before settling on a nice bottle of Médoc.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” I said after our server departed.
“I don’t.”
“Your accent is better than mine.”
He shrugged. Our table was very small. Our knees rubbed together unless I angled my legs away from his. Which I didn’t. I kept stealing glances at him, his lips, his lean, elegant hands. Excitement licked overmy skin. Yet at the same time the oddest sense of calm, of comfort, settled in my stomach, a feeling like coming home. Because this was Trey.
“Did you ever speak Spanish at home?” I asked suddenly.
“No. Granddad didn’t like it.”
“Before, I mean. When you lived in Miami.”
