“I want to see more of Paris first.”
A member of the wait-staff placed martini glasses on the cocktail table erected in front of them and prepared their drinks. They gave him their order and settled back to take in the room.
Orchid took a sip. It flowed glacier-cold over her tongue.
The waiter returned and delivered their order. There was a porcelain server filled with dark grapes, a plate with Port Salut cheese, almond-stuffed olives in a smaller bowl, a basket filled with miniature ovals of pain grillé, toasted to perfection, and a plate of cheese. He rushed off and returned moments later with the grilled mushrooms, still hot.
“You ordered all vegetarian?” she said. “That was so thoughtful of you.”
“You’re a good influence on me,” he replied, placing a slice of cheese on the pain grillé.
She sampled an olive. “What’s the story behind this place?”
“It’s an underground market from the eleventh century. It created so much traffic that, in the 1960’s, the city moved it to the outskirts of town. That is, until some architects revived the original place.”
“I love it here,” she said, aware that perhaps something else was fueling her emotion.
“You’re a marketing exec for a French company. You should finagle more trips to France,” he suggested, popping into his mouth another crust of bread, this one with a smear of cheese.
“Sure. And maybe you could open counterAgency’s next office in Paris.” She pictured a life for them among the streets and boulevards of this magnificent city, enjoying hot chocolate for breakfast, and crusty bread and French table wine spread out on a picnic blanket in the Bois de Boulogne at the end of each workday.
“I’ve often wondered about expanding. But French labor laws are intense, making it almost impossible to fire anyone.”
“Did you know they’re guaranteed at least five weeks of vacation a year?” Orchid asked.
“The country shuts down in August. It’s a lost cause setting up a meeting then.”
“Forget China,” she said, a morsel of mushroom waiting on her fork. “I’m going to transfer here.”
“I’ll join you,” he said.
They shared the moment, laughing together, heads thrown back in the dim light, bellies full. Orchid’s brain effervesced lighter than champagne bubbles. Never mind his comfortable upbringing; their bond transcended class.
When they’d finished eating, Phoenix pointed towards the bar. “Want another drink? I’ve heard that alcohol is the antidote to jet lag.”
“That’s BS, but sure.”
He led her to one side of the curved bar and they chatted with the bartender. The foreign tongue flowed quickly and she did her best to follow along. Now that they were standing, she had a clear view of the dance floor through a curtained opening. Music and pulsing lights issued from the space.
Phoenix handed her a shot glass and a lime.
She arched a brow. “Tequila…in Paris? Is there anything less French?”
He leaned towards the bartender and ordered something that Orchid couldn’t hear over the din of the crowd.
“Cheers,” Phoenix offered, and clinked her miniature glass. They downed the burning liquid and sucked on the tart citrus, temporarily turning their grins into puckering mouths.
The bartender pushed two bottles towards them. Orchid placed her empty shot glass onto the bar and eyed the chasers. “Beer?”
Phoenix handed her a Budweiser.
She laughed. “Okay, so you actually found something less French than tequila.” She took a long draw from the bottle. The cool brew washed away the tequila burn.
She glanced towards the dancing club-goers and tapped out the rhythm as the percussive bass beckoned. “Want to check it out?” she asked.
He nodded. The beat grew louder as they neared.
She picked an open space on the dance floor.Her body moved to the compelling beat.Phoenix had no trouble keeping up. Not only did he move well, but his steps were sharp, then slow, capturing the pulse of the music.
