Chapter 10

Bright Parisian sunlight greets us when we leave the Louvre.

My stomach lets out a growl, and I find to my surprise that I'm famished. "Can we grab a bite?" I ask.

A moment later, a cozy sidewalk café greets us. It's a brisk day in February, so we stop to see if we can get a table inside. A host greets us and leads us to a table inside covered in a crisp white tablecloth. Surrounding each table are wrought-iron chairs with intricate patterns, and flowers adorn the windowsills, adding a splash of color to the elegant, vintage decor. Adding to the ambience is the window next to us. The view outside of the Parisian street is filled with people strolling by, some carrying baguettes or walking their dogs.

Brianna smiles as she picks up her menu. "I wish we had all day to spend at the Louvre. I could look at art for hours and hours."

Brock peeks out from his menu. "I saw what I needed to see."

I'm not sure what to say. I loved looking at the art, but a whole day? That might be too much for me. I look over at Dave, who's also perusing the menu. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

He clears his throat. "I did. It made me think about some stuff."

"About what?" I ask.

"Just about life in general." He sticks his nose back into the menu.

I miss jovial Dave.

I mean, I get it. We've all been freaked out. God knows I still am. But we're also in Paris, and I want to enjoy it.

A waiter comes by. "Bonjour! What can I get for you today?" he says in a slight accent.

Brock sets his menu down. "I'll have the croque-monsieur, please."

"And you, mademoiselle?" he asks Brianna.

"I'll go for the quiche Lorraine, and a side salad."

"Mademoiselle?" He nods to me.

"I'll try the Ni?oise salad, dressing on the side."

"Et monsieur?" To Dave.

"I'll have the French onion soup and a salad as well, please."

The waiter nods and then takes our menus.

"Crap," Brock says. "We forgot to order drinks."

No sooner do the words come out of his mouth when another server appears. "De l'eau aujourd'hui?"

"Oui, merci," Brianna says. Then to us, "He's asking if we want water."

"Gazeuse ou non gazeuse?" he asks Bree specifically.

"You guys want sparkling?" she asks.

"Plain is fine for me," I say.

"Me too." From Brock.

Dave simply nods.

"Non gazeuse," Brianna tells the waiter.

He pours four glasses from a pitcher and then leaves the table.

Our food comes in the next ten minutes, and it looks fantastic. Brock's croque-monsieur is a tantalizing combination of ham, creamy béchamel sauce, and toasted bread with a golden-brown crust oozing with melted Gruyère cheese. Brianna's quiche has a golden pastry crust cradling a velvety filling of eggs, cream, and bacon. Meanwhile, Dave dives headfirst into his steaming bowl of French onion soup, topped with a toasted baguette and a layer of melted Gruyère that rivals Brock's.

I look down at my Ni?oise salad. Before me sits a medley of colors and textures. A bed of crisp lettuce with cherry tomatoes, olives, hard-boiled eggs, and seared tuna, drizzled with a zesty vinaigrette. I bring a forkful to my mouth.

"It's delicious!" I say. "It tastes like I'm swimming in the Mediterranean."

Brock chuckles as he wipes some of the béchamel from his chin.

I get no reaction from Dave. Maybe he didn't hear me.

We don't talk much as we finish our meal. Once we're done and have paid up, we head back to the hotel for some much-needed rest.

I don't invite Dave to my room.

He doesn't ask, either. I think we both need a little sleep.

But once I'm inside, someone knocks. I check the peephole. It's Dave.

I sigh as I open the door. "What is it?"

"I was wondering…"

I cross my arms. "No, Dave. Just no. I can't keep doing this. I can't be your escape every time something is bugging you. I thought I could. But I can't."

He grins, and it's jovial…like the old Dave. "I came here to ask you to have dinner with me."

I stand there blinking for a solid fifteen seconds before speaking. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

I scratch my arm. "Why? Because Brock and Rory are having a date? And so are Jesse and Brianna?"

He shakes his head. "Of course not. I thought… I mean, we could have dinner together here in the hotel, as friends, or friends with bennies, or whatever, but I actually thought it would be nice to have an actual date with the woman I…"

I roll my eyes. "With the woman you…what?"

"Damn it, Maddie." He grabs me and kisses me. Hard.

I can't help myself. I open for him, sweeping my tongue into his mouth and tangling it with his.

Is he feeling something?

Am I feeling something?

Or is this just a childhood crush?

No.

Not a childhood crush. Jesse thought that's what Brianna was feeling for him, and it wasn't.

We kiss hard for a few minutes until I pull back, releasing the kiss with a smack.

"Does that convince you that I really want to have dinner with you?" he asks.

"Not really." I touch my lips. "It convinces me that you want to come back to my bed."

He shakes his head. "Christ, Maddie, what do I have to do to convince you?"

I frown. "What, all of a sudden you have feelings for me?"

"I've had feelings for you since the beginning," he says. "Despite my reputation, I'm not completely indiscriminate when it comes to the people I have sex with."

"Not completely," I scoff. "Wow, that makes me feel better."

He draws in a breath. "You know what? Just forget I asked. Maybe I'll see you down in the hotel dining room for dinner. Maybe I'll just go to fucking McDonald's and have a French Big Mac with French fries. Or do they just call them fries here?"

Despite myself, I can't help smiling. "For God's sake, David, don't do that. We're in Paris. culinary capital of the world. Don't get fast food."

"I already made reservations, Maddie. I want to take you out for an amazing French feast. Why would I do that just to get you into bed? I've already been in bed with you."

He's not wrong. And I probably will let him back in my bed, because he's an amazing lover, and we seem to have awesome physical chemistry.

I have been crushing on him for a long time.

So why am I fighting this?

"Look, Dave," I say. "I like you. I like you a lot. And we seem to be great in bed together."

"I'll say," he agrees.

"But I don't want to be the woman you fall for just because you had a near-death experience and you feel like you need to move forward with your life or something."

He doesn't reply at first, and I'm thinking I hit the nail on the head, when?—

"I'm not asking to marry you, Maddie. I'm asking to take you to dinner."

And I can't help myself. I burst into laughter.

Because it's all so ridiculous.

He's right. It's just dinner.

"Yes, Dave, I would love to have dinner with you." I shake my head. "I suppose I should apologize. Sometimes I get into my own head."

He exhales sharply through his nose. "Tell me about it. I've been all up in my own stuff since the plane thing. Looking at the art today helped a little."

"How?"

He scratches the side of his head. "Art is bigger than life, I think. Those pieces were crafted so long ago, but they still live today. The people who created them are long gone, but their works still move people. I felt vulnerable in their presence, but in a good way, if that makes sense. As if vulnerability gives us a chance for triumph."

I drop my jaw and look at him in awe.

"Fuck," he says. "You don't get it."

I close my mouth. "No. I do get it, and it's a beautiful thing. That's the whole reason behind art, isn't it? To consider what it means to be human. Vulnerability is a key characteristic of all humanity, and I believe we're all striving for triumph."

He smiles then, reaches toward me but doesn't touch me. "Thanks. You do understand. And I do want to take you to a nice dinner. I've told you before, I didn't come here looking to hook up with someone. But I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we've gotten together. Our sex is great, so let's see if there's something else."

I nod. "I'd like that."

"So no more giving me shit, all right?"

"Okay."

"So… You going to invite me in?"

I smile. "As much as I know we'd both love that, no, I'm not. I really need to relax for a couple of hours before dinner. I don't think any of us got enough sleep last night."

"You're right about that." He leans forward and brushes his lips across mine. "I'll pick you up at six o'clock."

"Sounds good." I watch him walk into his room and then close the door behind me, clicking my deadbolt into place.

Dave actually booked a limo. A limo in Paris. The driver takes us to a restaurant called L'Ambroisie located on the ?le Saint-Louis, in the heart of historic Paris. Parking is apparently limited, so the driver leaves us and will pick us up later.

The restaurant is housed in a beautifully restored sixteenth-century townhouse. The interior is adorned with rich decor that includes opulent chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, and plush upholstery. I've never been in anything so elegant, and I can't help walking through the entrance with my mouth agape.

The inside of L'Ambroisie is surprisingly intimate with a limited number of tables. The lighting is soft and subdued. The decor is muted, with shades of cream, gold, and soft pastels dominating. It screams elegance, sophistication, and affluence.

Part of me feels like I shouldn't be here. I wasn't sure what to wear, and rather than ask Dave, I chose black leggings, an oversized white blouse cinched at the waist with a silver belt, and simple black pumps. While my outfit works, most women are dressed in cocktail attire and some of the men are actually wearing tuxedos.

I sigh.

I don't have any cocktail attire anyway, so what the hell?

Dave is wearing black pants, a dark gray jacket, and a simple blue tie. It's so easy for men to dress for anything.

I glide through a haze as Dave speaks to the ma?tre d' who leads us to a table set with beautiful cream-colored china, crystal glasses, and crisp black linens. The ma?tre d' pulls out my chair for me.

"Merci," I mumble as I take the seat.

Dave sits across from me as the ma?tre d' hands him the wine list.

"Votre serveur sera avec vous dans un instant." The ma?tre d' bows and leaves our table.

Dave's eyes dance. "What do you think so far?"

I dart my gaze around to the other diners. "I think I'm severely underdressed."

"Don't be silly. You'd look gorgeous in a potato sack."

"I kind of feel like that's what I'm wearing." I look down at my plain white blouse.

"Are you kidding?" He burns his gaze into me. "Your look is classic. You fit in anywhere, Maddie. The only one who doesn't believe it is you."

A young woman wearing simple black pants and a white blouse approaches us. "Good evening," she says in heavily accented English. "My name is Giselle, and I take care of you this evening. You would like a cocktail?"

"Actually, I've ordered a special menu created by the chef, complete with wine pairings," Dave says. "So no, thank you."

"Ah, yes. Of course, monsieur. I will speak to Chef and return with your amuse-bouche." She scurries off into the kitchen.

Before I can think of something witty to say, Giselle is already back.

"Fois gras on baguette," she says.

Before each of us, she sets a small plate containing a thin piece of toasted baguette covered in something that looks…well, not good.

"What is this?" I ask Dave.

"Fois gras. Goose or duck liver pate."

I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. "And they eat this?"

"It's a delicacy. Try it. You may like it." He downs his in one bite.

"Why is it so small?" I ask.

"It's supposed to be small." He cocks his head. "Hasn't anyone ever taken you to a nice dinner?"

"Not this nice." I bring the toasted baguette to my mouth and take a tiny taste. The fois gras is creamy and rich, and the flavor is…okay. Since it's so small, I'm able to finish it, but I hope the menu doesn't contain any more liver.

A few moments later, after a busboy clears our plates, Giselle brings the next course.

"Fresh crab meat served with citrus segments, avocado, and a citrus vinaigrette," she says and leaves quickly.

This I can get behind. I love crab. I take a bite, and the tang of the citrus adds a zest to the crab while the avocado adds creaminess. "Wow. This is fabulous."

"Better than the liver?" Dave smiles.

"Much." I take another bite.

"I'm glad you like it. I've never been here before, but I did some research, and this place came highly recommended. I was lucky that they had a cancellation and could get us in."

We finish our salad, and I take a drink of the water that Giselle's assistant brought earlier. "I thought we were getting wine," I say.

"With the main course," Dave says. "Did you want some now?"

"No, that's fine. Just wondering."

The assistant brings a baguette, and Dave offers me a piece, but I shake my head. "I want to preserve my appetite."

"Good idea. You won't leave the table hungry here."

Giselle comes again with our main course.

"Roasted pigeon with a port wine reduction," she says, "with seasonal vegetables and a gratin dauphinois."

I want to ask what a gratin dauphinois is, but I just smile. The seasonal vegetables turn out to be roasted beets and carrots served with leafy kale. The gratin dauphinois is potatoes, and I do a quick search on my phone to find out that they're layered with cream, garlic, salt, and pepper. The top is broiled to a gorgeous brown sheen.

The pigeon, on the other hand, is a perfectly bronzed bird with crispy golden-brown skin, about the same size as a Cornish game hen. The glossy port wine reduction cascades over the meat, mingling slightly with the side dishes.

"This is a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth," I say, looking down at the art on my plate. "I've never had pigeon before."

"Neither have I," Dave says, "but I bet it tastes like chicken."

I laugh. "I don't know where to start. I don't want to disturb any of it."

Before I can think further, though, the sommelier arrives with our wine. "Chambolle-Musigny from Bourgogne." He shows us the label. "That is what you know as Pinot Noir. Or Burgundy if you use the French name in English."

Dave nods. "Merci."

The sommelier expertly uncorks the wine and pours a small amount in Dave's glass. Probably just as well. Although our family is in the wine industry, we produce mostly lower-priced table wines as opposed to the fine wines produced by Steel Vineyards.

Dave takes the glass, swirls the liquid, and then sticks his nose inside, just like I've seen my father do countless times. Then he takes a sip, swishing it around in his mouth. He swallows, and then seems to contemplate it for a moment.

"Excellent," he says.

"Very good, monsieur." The sommelier fills my glass and then Dave's. He bows and leaves us.

Dave lifts his glass. "To a nice evening."

"To a nice evening." I clink my glass to his and take a sip.

The aroma of ripe red cherries mingles with the flavor of darker fruit. The tannins are mild, and the wine is slightly acidic, which means it will pair well with food.

"An excellent choice," I say.

Dave smiles. "It's delicious, but I can't take credit. The sommelier chose it for me. I don't have Uncle Ryan's or Dale's nose when it comes to wine."

"It's perfect." And I mean it. Even if it sucks with the pigeon, which it won't, this evening is already perfect in my book.

The meal is delicious—Dave was right, the pigeon tastes like dark chicken meat—and when Giselle comes with our cheese course, which includes more baguette drizzled with local honey, I can't eat another bite.

"Try a little," Dave says. "And then of course there's dessert."

"I'm not sure I have room." But to appease him, I take a bite of brie on one of the baguette pieces. The honey melds into the creaminess of the cheese, and it's wonderful. I end up trying the Roquefort as well, but I stay away from the chèvre. Not a goat cheese fan.

Dessert turns out to be Grand Marnier soufflé served hot from the oven with crème anglaise. The aroma alone opens up a tiny corner of my stomach. I've got to try this.

It's decadent, with orange liqueur as the primary flavor, but egg yolks and vanilla flavor are also apparent, and the crème anglaise brings it all together. Giselle brings a digestif of Calvados, pear brandy from Normandy, that perfectly ends the meal.

I'm truly mesmerized, and my tummy is full of gastronomic delights by the time Dave pays the check—or l'addition, as they call it here.

The limo picks us up and drives us back to the Narcisse Blanc.

I float on air as we ascend in the elevator and then get to our respective rooms.

Dave stands next to me and takes my key card, opening my door.

"Maddie, I?—"

But I grab his arm and pull him into my room.