He slides into the barstool next to mine, turning slightly to face me. “Well, what is a woman likeyoudoing here?”
I noticed that he’s wearing dress shoes with red soles. Well, then….
As myabuela?* would say, “Mija?*, a man like this is only after one thing.”
Well, abuela, I hope he’s after my pussy because I’m so ready to…get it filled.
I’m twenty-eight, single, and it’s been so long since I’ve had sex that….
Dios mio?*, I’d have to carbon-date my lady parts to know precisely when.
“Monsieur?*, I’m practicing the fine American tradition of wallowing.” I lift my glass. “As you know, we export many things—Hollywood, hamburgers…heartbreak. And it’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”
He exhales a soft laugh, more cynical than amused. “Valentine’s Day is an American invention designed to sell chocolate and bad poetry.”
“What have you got against a day dedicated to love?”
“In France, we need no calendar to remind usof love or…lust.” He gestures toward the room, all glittering couples and roses. “But you Americans…you commercialize even martyrdom.”
I arch a brow. “We do?”
His voice drops. “Saint Valentine was beaten, stoned, then beheaded. And for this, you buy heart-shaped balloons.”
“Really?” I flutter my eyelashes like an ingenue, which I most definitely am not.
I have a degree in art history, so I know the St. Valentine’s Day story, but I have no problem letting him play teacher. I can even call himsir.
I stifle a giggle, and drain my drink.
My mystery Frenchman lifts a hand to the bartender, who immediately sets to work on another champagne cocktail for me. The man beside me drinks an amber liquid—cognac, judging by the glass.
“Yes, really.” He looks at me as the bartender slides me a fresh drink. “You must admit that you Americans make a spectacle of it.”
I sip the drink. It’s as good as the first one.
“Well, lucky me. Iamthe spectacle.”
That earns a low chuckle. He leans closer like a predator circling prey.
“What’s your name, Spectacle?”
“Tara.”
He nods once, like he expected nothing less. “Gustave.”
I hold out my hand, and he takes it, but instead ofshaking it, he brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
Now, I’m a grown woman, but when I tell you that sparks flew—I mean it. It was like electricity ran through me and hit my clit.Boom!Like Cupid’s arrow!
“What are you doing in Paris alone on Valentine’s Day, Tara?” He holds my hand as he talks, his thumb doing things to the palm of my hand that should be illegal.
“I….” I shake my head. “Does it matter?”
He thinks about it for a moment and then tips his chin in acknowledgment. “Non?*, it doesn’t.”
And that’s it. No last names, no job titles, no explanations. Two strangers in the most romantic city in the world, sparring in a beautiful bar, our banter as sharp as the citrus twist in my drink.
“Oh, please, Americans are so smitten by Europe that it’s given you a superiority complex,” I argue when he says that Paris is wasted on tourists.
