Perfect Strangers

I suppose it’s disrespectful to me how indiscreet they’re being, but I can’t blame them. His mere presence is commanding of attention. He could be passed out on the floor and it would still be impossible to look away.

“Thank you for doing all this.” I toy with my fork, flattered by how much effort it must’ve taken him to plan and arrange this date. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have stayed holed up in Estelle’s apartment for the summer.”

He doesn’t reply. He simply watches me play with the cutlery, his gaze penetrating, until I get too self-conscious and fold my hands in my lap.

Finally, he says, “I’m bothering you again.”

“You’re bothering half the women in this restaurant.”

“I don’t care about them,” comes the instant response. “I care about you.”

The intensity in his eyes flusters me. I have to look away so I don’t make a fool of myself and start reciting odes to his beauty. Very quietly, I say, “Same.”

I hear his low inhalation. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand—resting on the arm of his chair—curl to a fist, then flex open.

Why that should make my pulse double, I don’t know.

His voice low and controlled, he says, “You have no idea how beautiful you are, and how much I love knowing that color in your cheeks is because of me.”

I reach up and touch my face. Sure enough, my cheeks are burning. “You’re tough on my equilibrium,” I admit sheepishly. “I’m not normally this affected by anything.” My laugh is small and nervous. “Or anyone.”

“Look at me.”

When I do, I find him staring at me with blistering focus, his blue eyes clear and fierce.

He says, “Me neither.”

There’s a little heartbeat between my legs, pulsing in time with every hot surge of blood through my veins. I’ve never been this strongly attracted to a man before. The frightening thing is that it’s not only a physical attraction. I’m drawn to everything about him, from the way his eyes change with his mood and the light to the obvious depth of his intelligence and sensitivity.

“Tell me,” he commands, because of course he can read me like an open book.

I whisper, “You scare me.”

He leans forward, his voice urgent. “You’re afraid of me?”

I know he’s asking if I think I’m in physical danger from him, which stops me for a moment. The assumption is so off base it seems uncharacteristic. He can usually gauge me so well. “No, not like that. Like…”

I take a breath for courage, glancing down at the tablecloth in search of a safe place to hide from his piercing eyes. “Like if I’m not careful, I could fall into you and drown.”

After what feels like an eternity, James reaches across the table and grasps my wrist. Wary of his reaction and if I’ve admitted too much, I glance up at him from under my lashes.

The savage hunger on his face takes my breath away.

“Don’t tempt me, Olivia. Don’t make this a hypothetical. Because if I thought you were actually going to give me an inch of rope with this thing going on between us, I’d take it to the last goddamn mile. And believe me, that’s not something you want.”

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I’m too stunned by the combination of his expression and his words, spoken in a dangerous, terse monotone in stark contrast with all the heat and desire on his face.

“Bonsoir, monsieur et madame! Bienvenue chez Jules Verne.”

I jump, startled by the sudden arrival of the waiter at our tableside.

His eyes shuttering and his expression wiped clean, James releases my wrist and leans back into his chair, crossing his legs. He casually adjusts a cufflink, then offers the waiter a disinterested smile.

He went from a boiling vat of molten lava to cool as a cucumber in one second flat.

It’s incredibly unnerving. Not only because it seemed so effortless, but also because it seemed…practiced. Professional.

As if he learned it in school.

The waiter rambles on in French through what I have to assume is an introduction to the menu or the restaurant itself, which is named after the famous French novelist, poet, and playwright Jules Verne. Then he directs a question to James, who orders two bourbons and sends the waiter on his way.

With a shaking hand, I reach for my water glass. I gulp the cool liquid, trying to buy some time to calm down. When I set the glass back onto the table, James says, “I should’ve asked if you have any spots in particular that you’d like to visit in Paris. I know the city well.”

His tone is polite. Distant, even. I don’t know if this is part of his breakneck mood change or if he’s taking pity on me and letting me off the hook. I think if he tried to force me to respond directly to that mind-blowing speech he just gave, I’d bolt right out of the room in a panic.

I clear my throat and moisten my lips. Despite all that water I drank, my mouth is desert dry. “I didn’t…I haven’t really thought about it, to tell you the truth. I expected I’d be focused mainly on trying to write, not…” I trail off, picturing our passionate tryst in the book store. Heat creeps back into my cheeks. “Sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing,” he repeats, his voice husky.

Don’t look at him. You’ll burst into flames. “But I suppose now that I’ve got someone with experience to show me around, I should take advantage of it.”

“Yes, I’m very experienced. And I’d very much enjoy showing you around.”