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It shouldn’t, but Kate’s question takes me by surprise. I anticipated this night would be all about her, but of course my best friend wants to know about me, too. I grab a canapé off a passing tray to stall for a few seconds, wracking my brain for something to say that won’t be a lie but won’t exactly be the whole truth.
“Mmmm. This is amazing. So tasty,” I say, enthusiastically nodding my head and trying to disguise my think-of-something-to-say face with a my-taste-buds-are-exalting face. (It isn’t too hard; my taste buds are doing a happy dance. Kate is a damn good chef.)
“Similar to you,” I begin. “After a year of waitressing I’ve gone into business for myself.”
Kate is smiling at me. I’m smiling back. Her eyes search mine. Shoot. I guess she was expecting more details.
“It’ll be getting off the ground in the next few months. It’s a new…” I’m saying when Marie-Lore sweeps over to us and to my rescue.
“Weav-aire,” she says in her adorable accent. “It’s so wonderful to see you. I’m sorry but I must steal Kate from you. A petit emergency in the kitchen.”
“Of course,” I say, relief washing over me. Kate and I are close but I’m not exactly comfortable telling her about my new venture. At least not in the middle of this restaurant.
“Merci. But we will have time together tomorrow, right?” she asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Go be fabulous restaurateurs. I’ll catch up with you again.”
The three of us are leaving Paris the next morning to spend a few days in Southern France. Kate insisted I couldn’t come all the way to France without devoting a few days to travel and one-on-one time with her. She and Marie are taking the time to recharge after the soft-opening and before the excitement of their public opening. Kate told me she didn’t anticipate a single day off in the year after they opened.
The mood in L’Arc-en-Ciel is perfect, and I feel myself start to relax. I help myself to another glass of champagne and load up a plate with a selection of the most exquisite looking appetizers. I find a seat in the corner at the front of the restaurant, right next to the windows so I can enjoy the view of the Parisian street, now glittering in the streetlights from a light rain falling. This is so Parisian I can hardly stand it.
A small bell over the door keeps ringing at intervals, as more and more guests, mostly friends and family, come inside. I’m happy I’ll be getting some time alone with Kate tomorrow because it’s clear we won’t have much time to catch up tonight. She’s like a whirling dervish of small plates, glasses, and French as she says her hellos and keeps the waiters organized. That’s okay, I’m as content as I’ve ever been. The past thirty-six hours in Paris have been a dream. I’ve spent hours in cafés people watching, visited a couple of museums, ate fresh baguettes more times than I care to admit, and walked for miles. I’m not sure when I’ll have another opportunity to travel. I maxxed out the last of my credit cards on airfare, and the next year I’ve promised myself I’ll stay on a tight budget, earn as much as I can and pay down my debts. I’m going to make the most of this time in Paris. All the hustle and bustle and stress of the trip have faded into the background, except for one thing. Chris. Handsome, friendly, fucking sexy Metro Chris. He’s stayed on my mind; I’d be lying if I say I haven’t been looking for him on the Metro, hoping to run into him again. I know the odds of that are against me, but it’s a sexy little daydream I’ve been harboring.
In fact, I’m imagining him standing in front of me in Kate’s restaurant, smiling down at me, saying my name.
“Weaver. It’s Chris. Do you remember me?” he would say.
Wait. This isn’t in my imagination. Let’s hit rewind.
“Weaver. It’s Chris. Do you remember me?” he says.
It’s him. It is definitely him. Same gorgeous smile, his thick dark hair stylishly swept back over his forehead. He’s dressed differently, more formal in an expensive looking suit, but there is no hiding the perfect body beneath.
“Of course I remember you,” I say, quickly gathering my wits. “You didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d stalk a lady for a twenty, yet here you are.”
A waiter passes by and offers Chris a glass. He takes it, and slides into the booth across from me.
“Of all the gin joints,” he starts to say with a laugh before he takes a sip from his glass.
“It’s quite a coincidence, I’ll give you that,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”
“Marie-Lore is a friend of my sister-in-law’s, so my brother passed on the details for tonight since I was in town. What about you?”
