Philippe continued. "For wine, I suggest two glasses of a 1992 Château Margaux. A beautiful year. Elegant. Complex."
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
Philippe's eyebrow lifted just slightly—a flicker of curiosity—but he was too professional to let it show.
"Excellent choice, monsieur." He nodded once and disappeared.
Mila leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Did you understand any of that?"
"Not a damn word."
She laughed again, and I realized I could get addicted to that sound.
The food came in waves.
Small plates at first—delicate, almost too pretty to eat. But when I tasted the quail egg, the flavor exploded on my tongue. Rich. Earthy. Perfectly balanced.
Mila made a soft sound of appreciation, and I had to look away before my imagination turned that sound into something else entirely.
We talked.
She asked about my childhood, and I sidestepped the sticky parts—St. Paul's, the things I'd done to survive. Instead, I told her about sports. Five in elementary and middle school. Three in high school. How I'd been recruited to play college football but enlisted in the Navy instead.
"Why the Navy?" she asked, her fork pausing mid-air.
I shrugged. "It felt right. Structure. Purpose. A way out. Plus, the recruiter said I’d get to see the world."
She didn't push, and I was grateful for that.
She told me about growing up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business. About her mother, who'd struggled with depression. About her father, who'd buried himself in work to cope.
"I think that's why I like photography," she said quietly. "It's a way of holding onto things. Proof that they existed."
I didn't say anything. Just listened.
The food kept coming. Thefoie graswas buttery and rich, the brioche crisp. The dover sole melted on my tongue. The wine—Christ, the wine—was like drinking liquid gold.
Philippe never hovered. He appeared when needed, refilled our glasses with perfect timing, and vanished again.
And through it all, I felt myself being pulled deeper and deeper into Mila's eyes.
Dark. Expressive. The kind of eyes that made you want to tell the truth even when lying would be easier.
Before I knew it, dessert was finished.
The tarte tatin was perfect—caramelized apples, buttery pastry, the ice cream melting into it like a slow surrender.
I set my fork down and leaned back, stuffed in the best possible way.
Mila smiled at me. "That was … incredible."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It was."
I signaled Philippe. "Can we get the bill?"
He smiled. "It's been taken care of, monsieur. Would you like me to call a taxi?"
I looked at Mila. She shook her head.
