Chapter 1
Miquela
Did she think Sette would actually show up to their “date” on Friday night?Who knows.When Miquela made reservations for the French restaurant on the other side of town, she did so knowing that she might be dining alone, which was fine with her. Her book app was loaded with tales she had yet to crack, and earbuds were placed surreptitiously in her jacket pocket. There was nothing wrong with having a date with oneself, after all. Especially when she had to parse everything that had happened in the past few weeks.
I’ve met someone quite unexpected. I’ve fallen in love with her. I want her to be mine.Yet, despite the initial shock, June’s pitch did not surprise Miquela.“For the love of God, go get laid somewhere else for a weekend before you tell me that you love me.”While scandalous to a normal woman in love, Miquela had heard of weirder ultimatums.Besides, I’m dating a courtesan.A woman who had been sleeping with other people while takingMiquela’s money. Exclusivity wasn’t guaranteed even with patronage. Usually, Miquela was fine with that…
Well, she would have to be. If she claimed to love June, she had to respect whatever parameters June offered.She would be so stupid to leave her life behind for me.On a whim, anyway. Maybe after a couple of years…
Besides, monogamy wasn’t as appealing to someone like Miquela, who had grown up around her parents’ own open marriage that was a secret to everyone but their children.They say it’s my mother’s French side.While Miquela knew how things were supposed to look on paper, in private, she was a lot more understanding.
At the very least, she would show June that she wasn’t afraid to take some much-needed advice. In a way, June was right – Miquela had to experience a couple of other women to besurethat a courtesan was the one she wanted. Let alone for so much money. Because the amount Miquela was throwing out there was no small sum.
She looked up from her phone when the maître d’ escorted Sette to the table.
“Hala.” Miquela turned off her screen and tucked her phone into her pocket. “You’re even more beautiful done up like this.”
Sette glanced down at her dark red dress, still standing in front of the table. Miquela had reserved a booth in the back and asked for the “date night” treatment, which included a small bouquet of roses, a sampling of French chocolates, and either a bottle of Champagne or wine – Miquela had opted for the wine, since she wasn’t sure what they were celebrating here.I guess I’m championing not having to pay to possibly get laid.She then remembered she was paying for this date, whether Sette liked it or not.Well, then…
Until that moment, she wasn’t sure she would pursue taking Sette home with her. Then she appeared in front of the circularbooth wearing a sleek black coat over a red A-line dress and a skirt that stopped short of her knees and swished when she moved. Right then, Miquela knew exactly what she wanted to do to that dress.
What would June make of that, hm?Would probably tease her. Ask her for details. Use it as blackmail when things inevitably go south between them.
Sette removed her jacket and hung it next to the booth. The maître d’ was gone by the time Sette slid into the booth and accepted a glass of wine. “Thank you.” She searched for a menu, but didn’t find one.
“I took the liberty of ordering two of the Provencal courses,” Miquela said. “Have you been here before?”
Sette kept her spine rigid as she squared her shoulders. With her long brown hair smartly pulled up into a sleek, upturned bun, her façade was more striking, and her red lips more enticing than they had been in the café where Miquela had employed her favorite trick to use on American women.Think I like her with her hair down more, though.
“A couple of times.” Sette forced a smile, as if she realized how standoffish she was. “Last time was for a friend’s birthday. We did not get the courses.”
“Do you like French cuisine?”
Sette didn’t answer. Instead, she slightly cocked her head, revealing a dimple between her jaw and ear, and asked her own question. “Whatisthat accent?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sound more French here. Is it because it’s a French restaurant?”
“Suppose my accent is related to the last language I’ve been speaking. I’m sorry, I grew up in three different places. French is technically my third language.”
The first course ofsoupe au pistouwith bread and butter with herbs arrived. Miquela asked for the curtain to be lowered for privacy. The waiter didn’t hesitate to lower a gauzy, slightly opaque veil from the corners of the booth. Miquela could still see someone coming with more food, but nobody could see them.
“I actually spent time in Spain,” Sette said, finally relaxing as she sampled the wine. She did not pick up her spoon to try the soup. “I studied abroad in Granada, but it was my residency in Barcelona I remember more.”
“You’re kidding.” Miquela was only slightly delighted by this. “Hablas en Espanol?”
“Only a little.” Sette’s pride was, in turn, slightly diminished when she admitted this. “But I remember the important things, like how to pronounce the letterz.”
“Yes, it’s very important.” Well, Miquela would at least start eating. “Otherwise, you end up asking for something entirely different.”
Sette huffed a small laugh and at last tasted the soup. The rigid line of her shoulders softened almost imperceptibly.
Good. Wine will do the rest.
They eased into conversation more naturally after that. Miquela learned that Sette had left medicine not because she hated it, but because she had never chosen it in the first place. That she painted early in the mornings, before the world awakened and teased her with chores and errands. That she rowed in college and still woke before dawn out of habit.
Sette learned that Miquela had split her childhood between Monaco, Valencia, and sometimes Nice, that casinos bored her unless she was running them, and that she found Americans refreshingly blunt.
