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The petals tickle my cheek, the edges moist with morning dew. I’m already feeling better. More relaxed, relieved… and wet?
There’s a drop on my cheek. And I don’t think that is morning dew. Tell me it’s not rain.
And then another drop.
I checked the forecast. No rain today. Sure, it’s April in Paris, but I checked. Maybe it’s just a couple drops, maybe it’ll pass by without causing any—
A big old rain drop hits me right smack in the middle of my nose.
I should have been prepared with an umbrella, but it seems I left my Girl Scout attitude back in Texas.
I’m still at least ten minutes from the restaurant. I could make a break for it, but—
Yep, a full-on rainstorm. Down it all comes, a deluge already overflowing the curb in the streets. No chance of making it to the restaurant now.
In the ten seconds it takes me to run into the archway of an office building, I’m already soaked. Super-smart me wearing my cream-colored designer suit. The slacks of which are now showing off all the cute little flowers on my underwear. What classy French lady buys underwear with flowers on them? I hold my handbag in front of my panty line as a man ducks into the archway with me.
“Il pleut,” he says in the French statement of the obvious. It’s raining.
“Oui,” I reply with a meek smile, backing against the wall to hide the little lilacs since water is dripping down my back.
This isn’t how I anticipated starting my day with Olivier Dubois, but at least my fancy outfit is still in good shape. The crepe has held up well, despite the whole transparency issue.
Now if only the downpour would let up.
It's not. I'm just going to have to go for it. As it is, I'm barely going to be on time. The moment has come to make a break for it. Three, two, one… run.
“Au revoir!” the man in the archway calls out over the boom of thunder.
I yank open the front door to the restaurant and rush in, praying that nobody has gathered yet so I can use the hand dryer in the washroom to blow myself a bit. At least for my hair. It’s all stuck to my face I can barely see a thing.
Lock by lock, I get these tresses back under control—and find that everyone is staring at me. Everyone. The whole staff stands there, even though the bells are only just now ringing out the eight dongs.
“Hello, everyone.” My smile is weak, but it’s my go-to in situations like this.
“So you must be Natalie,” teases a deep voice, lulling with a gentle French accent.
I turn slowly. That voice must belong to him.
“Yes, sir?” I say it as a question because suddenly I'm wishing I was somebody else. Anyone but Natalie. I raise my eyes to meet his, feigning confidence as best I can.
Hold the phone. Tell me this isn’t happening.
“You…” is the only word that comes out of my mouth as my jaw drops all the way to the floor.
It’s Olivier Dubois alright. And sure enough, I know him already.
Just yesterday, I made him three coffees.
CHAPTER 5
Natalie
He cocks his head and crosses his arms. “So, the American hostess can't make coffee. Camille,” he purses his full lips while continuing to look at me, “I expect you to make sure that everyone who works in this restaurant knows how to make a proper cup of coffee.”
Camille gives me a look that could kill, so I purposely avoid her eyes.
“As for you,” Olivier nods at me, “I expect everyone to be on time. That means five minutes early. You barely arrived on the hour.”
