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She’s with me to get information for Toni’s investigation.
I have to keep that in mind.
“You said earlier you had ‘breaking news,’” I remind her. “What was that?”
“May have found some social media correspondence that indicated Toni’s mom was preparing to take off, and where to.”
The plot thickens. “Have you, really?”
“Sure have.”
“Excellent.” I’m not sure how much I should be getting into this, how much help she needs from me or what I can even offer. So, I decide to tell her the truth. “I’m sorry. I have to admit, I’m not sure how much help I can offer. But I promise you, whatever I can do, I will.”
She smiles, just as the waiter brings our food. “You know, I’m not sure the media portrays you accurately.”
“Oh? How exactly does the media portray me?”
I know exactly how they do, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear her stumble over the words. It’s what everyone does, trying to pretend to be polite about it when there’s no polite way to say it at all.
“They kinda portray you like a class A prick,” she says with a shrug, giving me a precocious little wink as our waiter’s eyes bug out of his head and he nearly drops his plate. I suppose he wasn’t expecting that.
“So sorry,” he mumbles in a French accent. She did that on purpose. She so did.
The waiter places our plates on the table. “Coq Au Vin for you, monsieur,” he says, bowing his head. “And Sole Meunière for the mademoiselle.”
Samantha covers her mouth with her folded napkin and manages a choked, “Thank you.”
He leaves and I eye her curiously. “What the hell are you giggling about now?”
“You got a dish called cock.”
“C.O.Q. It’s French for chicken, woman.”
She snorts even louder, tears leaking from her eyes. “Oh. Oh, right. Goddammit, I should’ve studied French in school. But no, I had to go and study German.”
“Benimm dich, Frau,” I say. Behave, woman. I give her a wink of my own.
She nods, tugging her lips down with effort as she tries to get serious. God, I love how unencumbered she is with perfect manners and well-chosen words, how she doesn’t don a veneer of cultivation or refinement just for show. She says what she thinks. She takes joy and pleasure from the simplest things. I don’t feel like I have to be a certain way around her. I can just be myself.
“Okay, so,” she says, her lips still quirking up. “What, pray tell, is coq au vin, sir?”
There it is again. Sir, said in that throaty way of hers, her coquettish look damn near driving me mad.
“Coq au vin is an example of classic French cuisine, chicken braised in wine with mushrooms and garlic. Here, it’s plated with roasted potatoes and pan-seared green beans.” I pick up my knife and fork, my mouth watering. I point to her dish. “And your dish is a delicate sole cooked simply with butter, lemon, and parsley. Served with steamed potatoes and wilted greens.”
She takes a large bite, and her eyes roll back in her head. Still chewing, she moans, “Yum. Ohmigod this is divine.” She leans in, her eyes dancing. “Tell me you can cook this, and I will make you a very happy man.”
I lean in to her in turn, noting the way her eyes reflect the candlelight, so blue they make my heart hurt. “Look at me like that, and I may drop to one knee and ask you to marry me right here, sweetheart.”
A slow smile spreads across her face, making her eyes light up. “You do know how to flirt with a woman, kind sir.”
God, I love how she does this archaic language thing. It’s adorable.
“I do try.”
We eat our meal slowly, savoring each decadent dish and glass of wine. She goes over the details she’s gathered in the investigation, connecting bits of information together with what her friends have gathered as well, but we both know she’s at a standstill until she speaks to Toni’s social worker and teacher.
“Dessert?” our waiter asks.
This is where every woman I date shakes her head and declines, patting her stomach and telling me she’s too full. But not Samantha.
“If your dessert is anywhere near as delicious as that meal I just ate, I want everything on the freaking menu.”
The waiter smiles. “I can assure you, you won’t regret a single dish. May I suggest the crème brûlée, or perhaps a slice of our flan? They are our house specialties and the most lauded of all of our desserts.”
Samantha nods soberly. “Why yes, yes you can.”
“One of each, please.”
“You will have to roll me out of here, but it will be worth it.”
I flex. “Ready and able.”
It feels so easy and natural with her.
I like that.
Our desserts arrive, and I reach for her hand across the table. As soon as I do, a bite of flan slides off her spoon and plops onto my hand.
