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It’s Adonis. That’s right. Adonis has risen from the grave and recreated himself as a twenty-something Frenchman, and he’s standing in front of me right now.
Don’t drool, Natalie. It’s not polite.
“Are you American?” he asks.
We say nothing. Clearly his superpower is shutting up a group of chatty girls with just one look. Someone elbows me.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “American, we are.” Because now I speak English like Yoda.
“Ahh, I am so glad to hear it. You see my friends and I”—he gestures to a group of equally stunning men— “we are learning English for a big trip to America.”
“You don’t say,” Laura jumps in. “Well then, you better just join us over here on our picnic blanket, huh? Set your little selves down and let’s chaw the rag.”
He looks confused. I better save him.
“I’m sorry. She was talking Texan, but we promise to only speak English with you and your friends. Come on over.”
It’s like seven brothers for six brides. A guy with dark clean-cut hair sits beside me.
“I am sorry,” he says. “My English no is so good.” He smiles in embarrassment, and my heart melts a little. Yes, this was one of the other reasons that I’ve come to France. Annie found her great love, why shouldn’t I? Eiffel Tower, beautiful day, fabulous friends—and more cute men with French accents than I can count.
“Hey, Natalie,” Annelise calls from across the blanket. “Michel here is curious about your rulebook.”
“Is he now?” I lift an eyebrow in his direction.
“Is true,” Michel replies in a thick accent and poor grammar. “All I want to know is how is the next rule. Because we must abide it.” His eyes sparkle almost as much as his smile.
“Well, Michel,” I say, pulling out my book from my satchel, “Let’s have a look.”
I clear my throat and dramatically flip to the page. “Rule number thirty-six. Only drink wine at set hours of the day.”
“This is perfect,” Michel declares. “Right now is the set hour of the day!”
I slam the book closed without reading another line. “Well, that is perfect. Cheers, everybody.”
“Cheers!” they all reply, raising their little plastic glasses of excellent, inexpensive rosé in the air.
CHAPTER 8
Olivier
The peacefulness of Mondays, the only day of the week we’re closed, gives me space to breathe. It’s easy to forget the pace of Paris after spending a couple of days in the countryside. My studies in advanced hospitality management and the brief internship at the Cordon Bleu have set me up to succeed in this breakneck business. The problem is that the business is changing, and the classic approach of French luxury restaurants has to keep up.
If I could only take that vacation to America I’ve been planning for two years…
And here I go again, thoughts drifting back to the wet American girl running through the rain.
I usually love this quiet time, but not today. The restaurant is too quiet.
The ping of my phone interrupts that unhelpful train of thought, particularly since I know who it is.
I flip the phone over so I can pretend I didn’t see it. Camille, the only other person besides the chef here this day of the week, heads over and drops a magazine loudly on the table in front of me.
“Voilà,” is all she says with pursed lips.
Staring up at me from the cover of the magazine is my own face. A long sigh escapes my lips in spite of myself.
I don’t have to read it to know what it says. The life of a playboy, a modern culinary prince. Days filled with limo rides to important gatherings. Nights full of parties, champagne, and caviar. The paparazzi love it when I lean close to a woman to have a conversation, setting alight rumors of who Olivier Dubois’s lover might be.
