Santino chuckled and shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “You are God’s way to punish me on Earth, Anna.”
“Well, I’m a hell of a good time, that’s for sure.”
He laughed some more and finished his Pernod, then mine. “Go to bed.”
On any other day I would have made an inappropriate comment but this moment right there, and the whole evening felt too special to ruin it with something like that, and so I only leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek before I stood. “Sweet dreams, Santino.”
I could feel his eyes following me as I headed into the bathroom to get ready. Inside, I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of loneliness and longing I felt. I wanted to snuggle up to Santino and talk through the night. This was such a strange thing to want, but today I felt closer to him than ever before. I’d always been strongly physically attracted to him but now another layer had been added, which was disconcerting. I wasn’t sure if I wanted this new feeling to last or pass. The latter was probably the wiser choice considering everything. Emotions weren’t practical. Not when they posed a risk for the future that lay ahead of me.
Santino was already awake when I came out of my bedroom around nine the next morning. Only the hint of shadows under his eyes and an even grumpier expression than usual spoke of a long night and a little too much alcohol. I wasn’t sure how many more Pernods he’d enjoyed after I’d gone to bed.
“I need food,” I groaned as I sank down on the hard kitchen chair across from Santino.
“Good luck with that. We forgot to go grocery shopping yesterday.”
I grimaced. Mom had reminded us to go shopping before she’d left, but of course I’d forgotten it right after. I’d never had to go grocery shopping before, without Mom.
“What do we do now?” I said miserably.
Santino smirked. “We could go grocery shopping.”
“I think I’ll pass out until then. I really need to eat.”
“You’re a drama queen.”
I scowled.
“How about we head into one of these tiny cafés you’re always raving about? Croissant and a hot chocolate will cure your hangover.”
I gave him a pleased smile. “Sounds like a plan. Let me get ready.”
I put on a cute dress, an oversized cashmere sweater, cashmere chunky cable knit leg warmers and suede boots, and braided my hair before I put a beret hat on.
Santino glanced at his watch when I emerged. “Thirty minutes? I thought you needed food ASAP.”
“We’re heading into a café in Paris. I can’t go in sweatpants.”
Santino rose to his feet. “Alllrrriggghtt.”
Despite his grumbling, I didn’t miss the appreciation in his eyes as he scanned me. I looked cute, even if he would never admit it aloud.
We strolled through the street side by side, the winter sun kissing our faces. On occasion, our arms brushed and it felt marvelous. “I think we’re pretty good together. You can tell that people think we’re a cute couple.” It was a thought that hadn’t left me all night.
Santino slanted me a weary look. “But we aren’t.”
Apparently, his lowered guards were no longer in effect. He was back to being the distanced bodyguard.
I motioned at a small corner café ahead of us. I’d seen a recommendation for it in a Time Out article about breakfast places in Paris. When we stepped in, a waiter gave us a curt nod and greeted us in French then proceeded to ask if we had a reservation. His words were directed at Santino who stared back blankly.
I replied, before Santino could ask him to speak English and cost us any chance at a table. The waiter’s face brightened when I spoke to him in fluent French, which was probably why we were lucky enough to get a table. Someone had canceled their reservation and we got a small round table near the window overlooking the street.
I settled on the chair. Santino with his larger frame bumped his knees against the underside of the table. “Are these places made for kids?”
“Not everyone’s as tall as you. If you don’t man-spread, you’ll be fine.”
Santino gave me an annoyed look, then turned the menu card over, probably looking for the English version, which wasn’t there. He sighed.
Santino was trying to find fault in all kinds of things because he simply didn’t want to be in Paris. If he’d just enjoy it, he’d find joy in the differences.
“You should consider learning French. It broadens the horizon, which is never a bad thing if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Santino growled. “And unlike you, I don’t have any spare time.”
“French people don’t like to talk in English. They’ll be nicer if you at least try to speak their language.”
A waitress sauntered over to us and gave us a tight-lipped smile. I ordered an Americano and an egg-white omelet and was about to ask Santino what he wanted when she turned to him, ignoring me. He was leaning back in his chair, manspreading in all his muscled glory and giving her a smile that suggested he had a secret to share with her. The expression made me want to stab someone with a fork, mostly the stupidly smiling waitress. “You American?”