“Oui. Réservation pour deux,” Simon confirms, his British accent like butter even while speakingFrench.
The restaurant décor is posh ambiance. Wood-paneled walls. Linen-clothed tables. Staff members draped in black suits and red ties—even theladies.
We’re taken to a small square table, suited for two, where the petite waitress hands us menus and babbles something about our server being with us soon, before shedisappears.
“Thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight, Lauren. Your company is quite anhonor.”
I remember to breathe before I say, “Mycompany is an honor? I can say the same about you,Simon.”
His cheeks turn pink for a minute and I swear his eyes let out a flicker of a sparkle. He’s super dreamy. Again, the man of mydreams.
“What do you suggest I order? I’ve never been here and everything on the menu looks soimpressive.”
His icy blues hang on me for a few lingering seconds before he murmurs, “Veryimpressive.” Then he shakes his head as if he’s trying to rid himself free of sinister thoughts. He clears his throat, and adds, “The vegetable tasting menu is pretty popular. Chef Alain owns three organic vegetable farms and has fresh vegetables sent here via train about three times aday.”
“Then vegetable tasting menu itis.”
“Wonderful. How about a glass ofwine?”
“Oh,” I say, “I don’t really drink. Only on special occasions. And rarely on the firstdate.”
“Surely, our meeting and the fact that we are neighbors, are factors worthy of a celebratory swig. Life itself is a specialoccasion.”
I suppose the fact that I scored the publishing deal withLa Boutiqueis cause for a celebratory swig as he so eloquently putit.
“Okay, order me a glass of your favorite,please.”
Simon orders our meals, glasses of wine, and water, making me swoon at the allure of all hissuaveness.
He certainlyseemsto be a great catch, but I obviously need to know more abouthim.
All the things, like Arabellasaid.
“So, Simon you know who I am, what I do for a living. Tell me aboutyou.”
He rests his hands on the table, his eyes still the smoldering blue that makes me salivate.H.O.T.
“I’m a software designer for a Fortune 500 company. They sent me here, as a part of their plans to expand. Since I speak fluent French and have lived here once before, I became part of the Paris team—there are only about ten of us here rightnow.”
The waitress approaches our table, carrying a round serving tray with four glasses of wine on it. She places two on our table, one for me, the other for my handsome companion, before she zips to anothertable.
I lift my glass, breathe in the fruity aroma, and take a sip of wine, then ask, “Does that mean your time here in Paris is onlytemporary?”
He smiles with his eyes and mouth and says, “I certainly hope that’s not the case”—he pauses to take a sip of his wine, savoring it slowly before he adds—“not nowanyway.”
Our food arrives. Heavenly.Decadent.
No wonder this place has earned its acclaimed star-merit.
We gobble our meals, each studying the way the other eats. The place is packed now, diners’ voices occupying the tables getting louder. The chef emerges from the kitchen, making an effort to touch every table, thanking guests forcoming.
I lean into our table and say, my voice low, “Does he always do that? Pop in and chat with guests at eachtable?”
“Who, ChefAlain?”
I nod as I continue to observe the chef, now approaching ourtable.
“Yes, he’s known forthat.”
