Another cute grin.
“You?”
“I can play the piano. I started when I was four years old, and I’m pretty damn good at it.”
“Now thatisimpressive. Okay, let me think. Hmm. Are you an indoors or outdoors person?”
“Indoors. I like environments I can control.”
“Also not a surprise. I like both. Indoors so I can snuggle under a blanket and read when it’s cold out, but outdoors when the weather’s warm and I can go for a nice, long walk.”
“You’ll like my mother’s home, then. The garden’s been featured in some of Paris’s best home and garden magazines.”
“Ooooh, really? Alright, my turn. Your favorite kind of ice cream?”
“Not fair, it’s my turn.”
We slowly descend a bit lower. She gasps.
“Fine then,” she says with a nod. “Your turn.”
“Favorite ice cream.”
“Cheater! I like good, plain vanilla, but not the cheap kind. The premium, handmade kind that’s creamy and not too sweet.”
“I see. Ice cream snob, are you?”
“You have no idea. Now is it my turn?”
“Go for it.”
“If you could talk to anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?”
This one takes me by surprise. I didn’t expect we’d dive deeper this soon. I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. “I’d say Napoleon. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by him, but maybe instead…” I’ll start this slowly and lure her in. She doesn’t know what I’m going to ask her to do. But if I’m honest… “I’d say my father. I was an asshole when I was a teen. Mouthed off a lot. Thought I knew better than he did.”
“Not uncommon for a teen, though.” I realize she’s the one holding my hand now, instead of the other way around.
“There were things I’d like to say to him.”
“Believe me,” she says with a sigh. “I understand. Though with me, it would be my mother. My father and I understood each other. We talked all the time. My mother was hardworking. She dedicated her entire life to her family. It mattered to her that we became successful, and the two of us fought a lot about what that looked like.”
I nod and stroke my thumb along the top of her hand. “I understand that, too.”
I draw in a deep breath.
“Two minutes until landing,” the pilot tells us.
“Good. Just enough time for you to answer my question. I want you to tell me, in detail, what your perfect day looks like.”
“Oh, my. Now that I’d have to think about.”
“You have to answer before we land.”
“Okay. Hmm. Alright, I’d have breakfast in bed to start. Featuring, of course?—”
“French pastries and eggs.”
“Very good, Fabien.” I adore that look of approval so much, I’d do anything to earn it.
