Heat has crept back into his voice. It causes a vivid flashback of my fantasy of him thrusting into me from behind as I’m on my knees, my face buried in a pillow.
“You’re quiet again.”
I fan my face with my hand. “Just trying to manage this hot flash. It’s a doozy.”
“I’ll give you a minute.”
In his pause, I hear stifled laughter. Then he comes back on the line, all business. “All right, let’s agree on terms.”
“That sounds depressingly practical.”
“It is practical, but it doesn’t have to be depressing. This way, we both know what to expect. It will cut down on the weirdness.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“You mentioned you’re not in Paris for long. When do you leave?”
“The first day of fall. September twenty-third.”
“I’m marking it on my calendar. What do you have planned while you’re here? Visiting with friends? Sightseeing?”
“You sound like a customs officer. Do you want to stamp my Visa?”
“I want to know what your schedule looks like, smartass.”
I can tell by the abrupt following pause that he didn’t mean to call me that. I find it oddly endearing that he did.
I say, “Normally I’d object to a man calling me names before we’ve even had our first date, but considering the timetable we’re working with, I’ll let it slide. Also, it’s apropos: I am a smartass. And I like that you’re comfortable enough with me to call me out on it.”
“Still. It was rude. I apologize.”
He sounds satisfyingly contrite. “Apology accepted. When you’re not demanding compliments or ignoring people’s wishes that you not sit at their bistro table, you have very charming manners, you know that? Thank you for the flowers, by the way. White tulips were a classy touch. Sophisticated, but not trying too hard. If you’d sent red roses, I would’ve been forced to downgrade my opinion of you.”
“What’s wrong with red roses? Aren’t they romantic?”
“Only to people lacking imagination. Real romantics never go for the cliché because passion is so utterly individual.”
After a moment, he groans softly. “You’re adorable. Three months won’t be long enough.”
“Sorry, big guy. You already marked it on your calendar.”
I say it lightly, careful not to let the tremor in my hands leak into my voice. Even over the phone, his desire is palpable.
I’ve been around long enough to know that things like this aren’t made to last. This kind of instant, thermonuclear attraction inevitably flames out as quickly as it appears, leaving broken hearts and bewilderment in its wake. It could never withstand the day-to-day drudgery of marriage, child-rearing, and real life.
But in our case—with our real lives thousands of miles apart—it’s perfect.
We’llbe perfect.
Perfect strangers, unencumbered by all the bullshit that poisons desire.
“Speaking of calendars,” says James, “what’s on yours for tonight?”
“You’re taking me to dinner. Just not Café Blanc, please.”
“Not up for more verbal sparring with Jean-Luc? You seemed to handle yourself well.”
“Condescending waiters make me feel stabby. That reminds me: did you know Edmond was once stabbed in the neck with a fountain pen by one of his mistresses?”
“Oh yeah. He loves to tell that story. Has he told you the one about the beautiful Asian woman he fell in love with who turned out to be a man?”
I gasp, thrilled at the drama of it. “No! Tell me right now how it ends!”
James chuckles. “I see you haven’t yet met his current wife.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Really. They’ve been married nearly twenty years and have never spent a night apart.”
I take a moment to reorient this new information in my brain. “That’s possibly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Do you think they’d let me interview them about it?”
“You mean as the basis for a book?”
“Not a biography, per se, but maybe just as inspiration for a story.”
“I think Edmond would pay you a gigantic sum of money if you wanted to create a fictional character based on his life.”
I think of the obvious delight with which Edmond shared the story of the passionate Italian and her sister. “You know, I think you’re right.”
He gently teases, “Not everyone would rather contract the Ebola virus than be immortalized.”
Wow, he really was paying attention to everything.
“So this dinner you’re taking me to,” I say, smiling. “Make it somewhere casual, please, because all I brought with me are jeans and T-shirts.”
His tone goes rough. “Which you make look spectacular, by the way. When you walked away from the table at the café, I thought I’d fall off the chair. Your ass should be put on display in the Louvre.”
That makes me laugh out loud. “Now who’s the one exaggerating?”
“I’m not exaggerating.”
“I know what my butt looks like, Romeo.”
“You don’t know what it looks like to a man.”
I don’t have a smart comeback to that. The hunger in his voice leaves me momentarily speechless, though I know for a fact there were dozens of far perkier asses than mine in attendance at the café.
“Okay. I’ll play your game. What does it look like to a man?”
“Before I tell you—and I will tell you, this is just a side note—I want to mention that not even three minutes ago you ragged on me for fishing for compliments. And now you want me to describe your derriere.”
“This is completely different.”