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‘Oh, come on!’ I jabbed my elbow into his ribs, nearly giving it a bruise. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Quite simply. It. Is. Not.’
‘Mr Ambrose—we are in the middle of a beautiful park, which by the way we have nearly all to ourselves at this late hour—sitting on a chequered blanket, eating sandwiches and watching the stars glitter in the night sky. How does this not qualify as a romantic picnic?’
‘Easy. It is merely a simplified work dinner. It relieves one of the need to expend money on useless items such as chairs, tables, knives, forks and plates. I am actually considering implementing a similar eating environment at my various offices and factories.’
‘I’m sure your staff will be thrilled.’
In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled out a baguette and started cutting it into neat, equal slices. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale started to sing. Other than that, there were no sounds audible here, deep in the park, shielded by the trees and the night.
We’re totally alone.
As if sensing my thoughts, Mr Ambrose glanced up. He didn’t stop his preparations for his simplified work dinner, his hands continuing to move with the effortless precision of someone who’d had to make his own meals many a time. His eyes bored into me.
We’re even more alone than we were on top of Notre Dame. Nobody else is in the park at this hour. All the fine people of Paris are probably preparing to go to the opera, looking forward to hearing sweet songs about love.
The nightingale sang again, this time closer. Mr Ambrose put the knife aside and leant towards me.
I don’t think I’m going to need to go to the opera.
‘Miss Linton?’
‘Yes?’ I breathed.
‘Hand me the bacon.’
I blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘The bacon. To put on the baguette. And the bowl of scrambled eggs.’
What the…? Was he serious? He wanted to eat? And, even more disturbing…
‘You’re out on a romantic midnight picnic in the middle of Paris, and you brought eggs and bacon?’
‘This is not a picnic. And certainly I did.’
I reached into the basket and pulled out the bowls with the eggs and bacon. For a moment, I considered smashing them over his head—but then concluded that would probably hurt the bowl more than him.
Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he feel what’s happening between us?
Before I could fling the questions or the bowls in his face, he reached out to take them. And when his fingers touched mine, I realized: he did know. He did feel. He was just very good at hiding underneath a hard shell of ice.
Heat surged between us as our fingers brushed against each other. His hand lingered. One moment. And another. And another.
‘Let go of the bowls, Miss Linton.’
‘You let go of my fingers.’
He didn’t.
I let go of the bowls.
He still didn’t.
A branch cracked nearby, and we started apart, relaxing only when the shadowy form of a bunny raced across the lawn. If someone saw two gentlemen in tailcoats having a romantic picnic in the moonlight, probably not even the liberal-minded Parisians would be willing to look the other way. Still, I couldn’t seem to make myself care. It felt as we were in our own little world, as if the night around us was protecting us and our special moment.
Opening the bowls, Mr Ambrose started to prepare sandwiches. I didn’t really feel hungry anymore. Not for food. But when he lifted one tasty morsel into the air and held it out towards me, that didn’t keep my mouth from watering.
