One Bride for Five Mountain Men

His eyes crinkle when he smiles at me and I suddenly realize he's the first person I have made eye contact with in weeks. It's nice, seeing someone. Really looking at them. He asked me if I will have dinner with him and I tell him no, but I agree to a cocktail at dinner time.

I am being coy, how about that? I like the feeling of being in control. I like the subtle twitch of disappointment when I say no at first, and he has to come up with an alternate plan. It makes me feel powerful.

I gave him the address of the little restaurant down the block from my house. Not too close so he can't stalk me or anything, but not so far that I need to take a taxi. I could probably have three or four glasses of wine and still manage to stumble home.

He's already there when I arrive, camped out at a small, tablecloth-covered table at the corner of the gated enclosure. His smile is wide and brilliant when he sees me, his cheeks lined with long dimples that bracket his perfect white teeth.

This is fun, I tell myself. Fun, remember that? It's a thing people have people. I should try it.

There's already a glass of wine at my seat when I sit down. I smile at his thoughtfulness, thanking him as I tip the rim of my glass against his. That sound the glasses make is like the starting gun of a race. The game is on. Flirtation, go!

He is charming and self-effacing and has this lovely, sexy chuckle that I find myself eager to hear again every time it dies away. It makes me think that his chest must be broad and strong, just right for leaning my head on.

Oh my, what am I saying? The wine must already be going to my head.

He leans forward, cupping his square chin on the palm of his hand and tapping at that sculpted cheekbone with his fingertip.

“So tell me more about you,” he invites me. “I love your accent. I love the way you talk.”

“My accent?” I repeat. “I don't have a… Oh, I suppose I do. I never thought about it.”

“Yes, I like the sound of it. It's so refreshing to hear you talk.”

“Oh, you have heard me talk before, haven't you? Madame Brevelle has called on me at least four times. Remember all those questions about Corot? I felt like she was daring me not to know who he was!”

“Ah yes, the French are very possessive of our reputation as artists,” he agrees readily. “No, but what I mean is… you know.”

I take another sip of my wine. At first it had seemed a little rough, a little astringent, but now the sweetness is really coming through. I like the way it makes my blood feel thick as honey.

“What do I know? About Corot?”

He tips his head to the side and wrinkles his nose slightly. “You know. There is no sound. On your… videos? Your, um, broadcast? Stream! That's the word!”

He smiles broadly, congratulating himself for remembering the word stream, apparently.

My mouth has gone suddenly dry.

I set the glass down in front of me slowly, turning it in place and pressing my palms flat to the tablecloth.

He knows. He recognized me.

“Oh, you know… I really should be going,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looks alarmed. “Did I make a mistake? Did I say something to offend you?”

I shake my head tightly. “Oh, no. Of course not. It's just that I haven't eaten… Too much wine, you know.”

The push myself to standing and try to take a step away from the table but his hand is quick and encircles my wrist. That innocent, farm boy sweetness has somehow been replaced by raw strength.

I should have seen this coming! I scream at myself. I should have known I could never have a normal life!

I twist my hand away roughly, saying thank you as loud as I can and attracting the attention of several of the other restaurant patrons. I hobble away, sticking him with the bill. I could have paid, of course. But at least I figure that will slow him down.

Automatically I storm toward my apartment, and then realize what a foolish move that is. Instead I double back across the street, cutting across the park in no particular direction, just away. Away from where he is. Away from the ridiculous farce of my first normal date with a stranger in Paris.

After a little while, I begin to feel more confident that he's not following me, but now I'm blocks away from where I need to be. I squint down the street, looking for a taxi and then suddenly realize where I am.

Standing right in front of R’s apartment.