“You planning on murdering me today?” I ask. “I mean firing me would be a lot easier…”
Sloane chuckles darkly. “If I wanted to murder you, Oliver, you’d know it.”
“That doesn’t sound fucking ominous…” I say, and he laughs.
Then he opens a heavy, steel door. Light pours through into the alley, and I look at him in surprise.
“Go on.”
I step in, and a moment later I feel him behind me, his warmth, his presence. His spicy wood-leather scent fills my lungs, and I relax almost instantly. He brushes past me, taking the lead, and I follow him down a brightly lit corridor until we arrive in a lobby with several offices and suites. He heads directly for one that readsLa Salle,and the closer we get the heavier the scent of sugar and coffee is.
Inside, it’s small, not overly busy. I follow him to the register, studying the menu, but everything is in French, and I have noclue what I’m looking at. The only word I think I understand iscreme brulee.
“What is this?” I ask under my breath.
“Breakfast.” Sloane shrugs.
“No, I know that, but like… I don’t even know how to pronounce this stuff.”
Sloane gives me a sly grin.
“Well, perhaps you will just have to trust me, Oliver.”
I narrow my gaze at him as the barista comes up to the register.
And then she speaksFrench.
My blood chills. I have no clue what she said. I can only surmise that because this is a cafe, she asked what he wants, but still, it’s a little jarring and I’m not sure I expected that.
Or the fact that Sloane answers, in perfect French, something that sounds sinfully sexy.
He pulls his card out and turns to catch my surprised glare.
“What?” he asks as if he didn’t just speak the sexiest jumble of words I’ve ever heard.
“I didn’t know you spoke French.”
Sloane grins with pride. “I minored in French in college.”
“Of course you did," I say, shaking my head. The barista hands him back his card, and we move down to the counter. She sets to making the drinks, the scent of espresso and cream thick in the air.
“If you’re trying to impress me… it’s working," I say with a smirk.
“If I wanted to impress you, I wouldn’t take you here," he says, shaking his head.
“No? Where would you take me?” I ask curiously.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t have the same effect. You wouldn’t be surprised.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s how you want to be?”
His eyes sparkle with that familiar darkness that makes my stomach twist so deliciously.
“That’s how it’s going to be," he says as the barista slides two drinks towards us. Sloane hands me one, and a moment later the barista presents us with two cardboard boxes. Sloane thanks her—I assume, because I don’t know French—and then we take our seats in the corner. There are no windows, but it still feels bright and cheery, and the interior reminds me of an outside cafe.
Our seats aren’t close, but the space is tight. He might be across from me, but there’s nowhere to stretch my legs, so they end up between his. I pop open my box to see what looks like some sort of egg dish and bread with some small souffle cups of what looks like cream, butter, and jelly.
“What is this?” I ask as I unravel the napkin and find the silverware.
