His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. It is not long enough to be rude. It is more dangerous than that. It is long enough to be real.
I turn toward the aisle. “I should go.”
“Where?” Damien asks.
“Somewhere that does not involve you correcting my produce selections.”
“That narrows Paris considerably.”
“It’s a large city. I’ll manage.”
Damien walks beside me without asking. Not too close, not too far. It happens so naturally that I make it three stalls before I realize I have allowed it.
“Are you following me?” I ask.
Damien looks at a crate of apricots as we pass. “No.”
“You are walking in the same direction.”
“I was going this way.”
“So you are coincidentally beside me.”
“That is what the word same means.”
I glance at him. “You’re very difficult.”
“I have heard that from reliable sources.”
“I believe them.”
He looks at the cherries in my basket.
“Those are good.”
“I know.”
“You should eat them by the canal.”
That stops me and I turn to him fully.
“That sounds suspiciously like a suggestion.”
“It is.”
“Do you usually make plans with women over stolen tarragon and market cherries?”
“No,” he says.
The answer is too quick to feel polished. I should leave that alone, but I don’t.
“Why not?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. “Because I don’t usually want to.”
The market keeps moving. Someone brushes past my shoulder. A vendor calls out a price. The sun catches on the brass scale at a nearby stall. The basil in my basket releases its scent into the warming air. The whole world remains busy enough to pretend it has not heard him.
I hear him.
