What the hell did he say?
Regarding him with a questioning look, I ask, “Um, come again? Did you just sayvelveteen sofas?” Widening my eyes, I can’t help but wonder who this bloke is in front of me. “What are you, my ninety-five-year-old grandfather?”
His words are a vast contradiction to the manly specimen sitting in front of me, with his long muscular legs spread wide while he carelessly drapes his strong arms across the back of the sofa, all dominant, gorgeous, and perfect.
His eyes twinkle as he shrugs unapologetically. “I binged it with Sades when Charlotte was born. Remember? You called a few times during.”
“Yes, I thought you watched it afew times, not studied the terminology of the grand décor. Plus, Downton Abbey is English, not French.”
I’m confused… Why are we even talking about this shit?
He shrugs again. “Same time period. I looked that guy up when we arrived—” He points to the oval portrait beside the impressive bookcases. “Marcel Proust, Parisian novelist. This room is named after him, and his popularity reached its height in the same time period. So, they’re one in the same in my head.”
Thank god the waitress chooses this moment to walk up and serve our drinks, interrupting ourrivetingconversation.
Her hands shake as she places each one in front of us, flickering her eyes to Jackson, completely awestruck.
The poor girl, I know exactly how she feels.
Jack’s presence has always been compelling to all, even in a crowded room of beautiful, well-put-together people, like today.
Luckily, when I was younger, around the waitress’s age, I had my shit together and pretended he didn’t affect me.
Not that I had a choice.
If my brothers knew how I felt about Jack back then, they would have killed me, Jack, or both of us.
Her eyes widen in horror as some of Jack’s drink spills over, quickly trying to clean it. She looks like she’s going to burst into tears at any second.
I flicker my eyes toward Jack, trying to get his attention since he’s closer. When he realizes, he jumps in to help her.
“Je suis vraiment désolée, monsieur,” she cries.
“She says she’s very sorry,” I mutter under my breath, loud enough for only Jack to hear.
He places his hand on hers to stop her vigorous wiping, then takes the cloth and finishes it himself. “There is no need to be sorry.” He winks, and I practically roll my eyes out of my head.
I wanted him to help her, not give her a heart attack… but Jack, ever the flirt, can’t seem to help himself.
“Merci pour la boissons,” I say, thanking her for our drinks and rubbing her back when she seems stuck in place.
“Tout le plaisir était pour moi.” She smiles, embarrassed when she tells me the pleasure was all hers, right before her eyes go round at the sight of Jackson’s dimple popping.
Then she’s off, fleeing the scene. I’m doubtful we’ll see her again.
“You’re terrible.” I shake my head.
He smirks. “I did nothing wrong.”
“Uh-huh.” I hold up my champagne. “Levons nos verres, let’s make a toast.”
Jack follows suit with his glass.
“To us, to Paris, and all the memories we’ll make over the next week in this beautiful city.Santé.”
“Santé—now that I know. Cheers.” He clicks my glass but continues to hold it up. “And to taking chances.”
On us… and to taking chances on us, is what I know he really wants to say.
