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“Thirty. Would that be a problem?”
“I don’t know, should it be?” She raises an eyebrow. I have no idea what we’re talking about right now, but I am thoroughly entertained and anxious to hear an absolute no from her.
I laugh. “Would you have a drink with a thirty year old?”
“Possibly, if he doesn’t forget to tip our server.”
“How about dinner with a thirty year old? Keep in mind that whatever we do, I fully expect us to go dutch,” I joke.
Reggie lets loose one of the smiles I saw earlier during her shift. The type to make the world around us evaporate. The type to bump the temperature by ten degrees.
“Will this thirty year old keep his hands to himself?”
“Scout’s honor.” I lift three fingers.
“Crying shame,” she pouts. We both laugh.
“In that case,” I offer her my hand, pulling her up, “dinner’s on me.”
“Great, I’ll be in charge of the dessert,” she chirps.
I smirk, refraining from correcting her.
You are the dessert, darling. Merry early Christmas to me.
* * *
An hour later, we’re in my apartment. Reggie meticulously removes cheese from the pizza we’ve ordered. I wanted to go fancy and show her a good time, but apparently, Reggie had other plans.
“I just want to sit around barefoot and pig out somewhere private.”
That’s how we find ourselves sitting on my marble floor, polishing off a bottle of champagne a client gave me and I figured was finally worth opening. No glasses needed. Straight from the bottle. Reggie is scanning my Rue Saint Didier duplex, tastefully furnished with velvet, cream-hued upholstery-everything, a golden chandelier and a kitchen world-class chefs would feel comfortable in.
There’s a wrought iron bannister peeking from the narrow terrace, which the living room bleeds into, and that’s where Reggie’s eyes linger. Not the furniture reeking of money, or the prestigious zip code, or the rather odd statue of a dog by the fireplace, which probably costs more than a red-market organ. No. She longs for the dazzling view. The rows of antique buildings, charming boutique stores boasting holiday accessories, and romantic holly-laden lampposts.
“What’s your father’s name?” I ask, taking a bite of my pizza.
“Ruben. Ruben LaPenus.”
Did she just say rubbing a penis? I really should sleep with this woman for both our sakes. I’m starting to hear things.
“Come again?”
I’ll make you come again and again and again.
“Ruben LaPenus. That’s my father’s name. But, see, he used to be a businessman and did some really shady things, and had to escape America before he was prosecuted. The IRS was after him. Guess he decided to leave my mom and me and go back to Paris. So I’m thinking maybe he changed his name to go under the radar. Otherwise, how would he have gotten out of America in the first place, right?”
I’m thinking the same thing. It takes an incredible amount of bravery and determination to move halfway around the world to go in search of a parent who essentially abandoned her and her family. She glances around again, suddenly looking vulnerable. Like the very young, lost woman that she is, despite the easygoing way she carries herself.
Beyond her understated and stunning beauty is a wounded, resilient woman I find myself desperate to understand. I want to know what makes her tick, what inspires her, compels her, incites her. Hell, she is so enchanting I’d listen to her talk about her shoes until the next century and GoFundHer even if she needs the money to surgically add little freaky Halloween eyes to every inch of her forehead.
“Do you like being a hedge fund manager?” She changes the subject.
I shrug. “It’s what I do.”
“No then.” She grins, taking a bite of her pizza. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“I help my elderly neighbor make ceramic vases. He sells them at the market down the road every Saturday. Keeps me busy when I’m off work.”
