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What she doesn’t know is that it’s only going to get better. Marcial makes the turn toward the town center.
She plasters her face against the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s about to open the door and jump out.
“It’s so… medieval. I’ve never seen anything so old.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she stiffens again, sitting up straight and folding her hands in her lap. “It’s very nice.”
“Hold on.” I lower the window. “Now you can see better.” She relaxes at the sight. Her leg is pressed against mine despite the space in the back seat. I shift closer to her and point out the window. “Do you see the church?”
“Wow. How old is this place?”
“Very old.”
“The beginning of civilization…”
“Not quite that old.”
She turns to me so fast I’m the one who gets whiplash. “Is this where you’re taking me for my special project?”
“Goodness, no.” She has no idea. “We are far from arriving.”
“Shucks.” She stiffens again. “I mean, what a shame.”
‘What a shame’ is an understatement. She doesn’t know what’s coming. Without realizing, I find myself forgetting the fact that we are on a journey toward a professional arrangement and am instead beginning to just enjoy her company.
“Let’s stop for a coffee.” I tap Marcial again and he sighs. He knows as well as I do that at this rate, our trip is going to take a very long time.
But how can I deny her the chance to see one of France’s most appreciated historic sights? That’s what I tell myself, anyhow. If only I could convince myself that it wasn’t just for the sake of having more time with her.
We stroll through the town center. We’re surrounded by structures made of stone with wooden beams running through them, structures that have withstood the test of time, wars, rainstorms, and snow. Narrow and dark, the sunshine bursts between the peaks of roofs, just enough to set Natalie’s eyes alight.
“Un cappuccino,” she orders as we find a café in the main square.
“You should find a more French coffee to drink,” I chastise. “Je voudrais un espresso,” I order.
She crosses her arms and cocks her head. “Tell me how an espresso is more French than a cappuccino.”
“Touché.”
“We say that in English, too.” She scrunches up her nose in that cute way that only Americans can do. “Confession. I don’t really get why being touched is such a deal.”
“It means you scored a point for having touched me.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Not like that. It’s a fencing term.” I laugh in spite of myself. A nervous laugh. Because now I’m imagining her touching me. Her hand on my arm, her fingertips on my cheek, her body pressed—
Whoa. I have to end that train of thought right there.
We sip our coffee in comfortable silence. It is, in fact, the most comfortable silence I have ever known. Usually silence is charged with some desire—a desire to speak, to broach a hard subject, or even just to break the awkwardness.
Not with Natalie.
She takes in deep breaths, each one a little longer than the last.
But there’s a question that’s been burning in my mind.
“Natalie?”
“Mmm?” Her eyes are turned up to the buildings and the soft clouds that float overhead like baby sheep.
