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“It’s nothing, no big deal.” I wave them off. “I just happen to have a massive opportunity, the biggest one I've had since coming to Paris.” A series of oooohs break out and they lean in. “My boss’s boss is coming to town tomorrow. And I intend to impress the socks off him.”
This smile is making my cheeks hurt. I am absolutely going to woo Olivier Dubois into believing I am the greatest thing since baguettes and brie having single-handedly saved the restaurant from sure destruction by Manny Trinken today. That could mean a promotion or a raise.
But one thing at a time.
“Wait,” Annelise says, sitting up on the sofa. “You don’t mean Olivier Dubois is coming to your restaurant tomorrow?”
“He is the heir to the whole chain, so yeah. That’s him.”
“Olivier Dubois,” her jaw drops, “one of France’s most eligible bachelors?” She thrusts her magazine into my face so close I can’t see anything. I hold it back and see what she’s talking about.
Fate steps in again, just as I needed to know more about the boss man, here he is.
OLIVIER DUBOIS, it says over a picture of a man that I have to assume is him. The caption under the photo says: Olivier Dubois, homme très désiré.
So he’s a ‘well-desired’ man, huh? And no wonder…
Check out that picture.
He's laughing, his head thrown back like he's just heard the funniest thing in his life. With that chiseled jaw and million-dollar smile and tousled dark hair, it's no wonder the country is drooling over him. His top button is undone, revealing a line of muscle that descends down his chest. He fills out the shirt, chest muscles threatening to burst but his figure is lean. A suit jacket hangs over his arm.
Olivier Dubois is the closest thing to a Greek god I have ever seen.
Something about him looks familiar, but maybe it’s just that I've seen him on the cover of magazines, albeit never quite like this. There are news vendor kiosks with magazine covers posted on the sides, but I don’t read them. Ever since I got here, all I've read are culinary publications and my books on how to be French.
Annelise swipes back her magazine with a raised eyebrow and the rest of us get ready for bed in our scheduled turn. Six women and one bathroom demands excellent organization and a very prettily decorated corkboard schedule.
Thoughts of Olivier dominate my evening. The stakes for tomorrow just got much higher.
I accept your challenge, cosmic destiny, and I raise you by one really darn positive go-get-em attitude.
If only I could sleep.
Chrissy and Jess snore away on the other side of the room while I sleep on the bunk under Gina. As sweet as she is, she tosses and turns like she’s fighting a gorilla in the night.
Those ripples of chest muscles dance behind my closed eyelids.
What are you like, Olivier Dubois?
I’ll find out soon enough.
* * *
My stomach is in knots.
Today just might be the first day of the rest of my life, and the walk to work feels extra long. Thank goodness on Sundays there’s only one lunch service and afterward I can decompress in the French way—with cheese.
I know what will calm me down. I keep my Rulebook for being French in my handbag for moments such as this.
“Rule #35 - Take care of your appearance.”
Well, that's a good fit for today. I am decked out in my best French designer outfit. It is absolutely not this year's collection, and it's probably not even last year's or the year before’s, either. I was lucky to find it at the “Fripe,” as the French call it, which is the cutest name for a secondhand shop I've ever heard. It glowed in the window like a miracle, perfectly in my size. There's no way I'd ever be able to afford it otherwise.
I feel like a million bucks. A million bucks… with a nervous stomach.
Maybe if I stop and smell the roses, like yesterday's rule said, maybe then I can find some of that classy and cool French demeanor.
The roses in this urban garden are in full bloom. I take in a deep breath… hold it for two, release it for four… Nothing like some yoga breathing to calm the mind and tummy.
