Later, when he took her to what he called his favorite bistro, she wasn’t sure what to think about it. Twelve tables on a cobblestone side street in the 11th arrondissement that she’d never have found without him, and might spend the rest of her trip trying to find again. No menu, just a chalkboard inside with six items on it. The owner knew him by name and brought wine without being asked.
He ordered for her without asking, which she clocked as presumptuous, but then forgave when the food arrived.
First,œufs mayonnaise— hard-boiled eggs with house-made mayonnaise that made all the difference in the world. She’d long ago learned sometimes the simplest dishes were the ones that exposed a kitchen most completely.
Then the blanquette de veau arrived, and she could only close her eyes in bliss. The veal had been cooked so slowly it was far past tender, suspended in a cream sauce so carefully balanced it tasted like it’d been reducing since before she arrived in Paris. The vegetables were soft and yielding, the rice a perfect supporting element.
She ate slowly and just fuckingexperiencedit.
“You’ve had this before,” he said, and she didn’t think it was a question, but she couldn’t be certain with the language difference. She had her phone propped up off to the side between them, translating what they both said into the other language.
“I’ve made it,” she said. “But I’ve never had it quite like this.”
Thetarte tatinarrived warm, with a dollop of crème fraîche that cut through the caramel the way it was meant to, and she sat back and accepted that it was perfect. Impossible to improve upon.
“You don’t just design menus like an artiste. You cook,” he said.
“Oui. And you are undoubtedly a pain in the ass for any restaurant to please, but I can see why this is your favorite place.”
And then came the show.
The translator app had saidCrazy Horse, and she’d figured it would be whatever that was in French. But it wasn’t. She stared at the sign, a crazy anachronism in the middle of Paris.
She’d heardcabaretand assumed it’d be like the topless Vegas shows, but she’d been wrong.
The Vegas shows are about spectacle. Elaborate costumes, with the audience kept at a safe distance.
But this theater was damned near intimate, the stage close enough she could see every detail of every bare nipple — but also the way the lighting treated the dancers’ bodies as more than mere decor. They were art and movement in a way American productions had never shown her.
Also, the dancers weren’t typical provocative showgirls. This was true talent with years of training behind it. And the choreography showcased what beauty can look like whenit’s treated with grace and respect. It was geometry and shadow showing off the female form.
This was an artistic production, eons above mere spectacle — and yet it was also bawdy and hilarious. She kept one earbud in and let the translation app do its work, and she was really happy for it. Despite the artistry, the show didn’t take itself too seriously.
Once back outside, walking through Paris at night, he told her, “If you come home with me, I will cook you breakfast in the morning.”
She didn’t have to make sure he knew this would just be sex. For one thing, they didn’t speak the same language. For another, she lived a continent away. Also, this job was nearly done, and then she might never see him again.
So she merely smiled and said, “Well, how can I turn that down?”
He lived just off the Place de la Bastille, and his apartment was high enough up, you could see the opera house from his windows.
She wondered how they’d get to the sex without a whole lot of conversation, but it turns out, his arrogant asshole nature came right back to the forefront once he had her behind closed doors, and her inner masochist was pleased.
He directed her like it was his natural right — hands firm on her hips, voice low and commanding in rapid French she mostly didn’t need translated. He touched her without hesitation, without asking, confident she would open for him. Melt for him.
Which she did, because the charming asshole had skills.
He wasn’t a sadist, just a man used to being in charge.
And he played rough. He wasn’t completely uncaring as to whether his partner was into it, but he was mostly chasing his own pleasure.
But despite her three more-than-decent orgasms, she stared at his ceiling afterward feeling vaguely unsatisfied.Hollow.
But that wasn’t his fault. It was her own fault, for letting Knife’s last words to her get under her skin in a way she couldn’t just walk away from.
But she could put it away, and she did. Again.
And slept surprisingly well.
