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He is at once arrogant and presumptuous, but I could swear there's a smile in his eyes. An impish glimmer like this is all a just a joke—and I'm the butt of it.
He takes a sip, his eyes not leaving mine. His chiseled jaw lifts toward the morning sun. My heart beats extra fast, and everything inside me melts. If it weren't for the fact that he's driving me up the wall and terrifying me all at once, I could almost declare my undying love for him right here and now.
All time is suspended as he licks his lips.
“This…” he says, his lips parted and his breath making steam in the spring air, “…is awful.”
“Awful?” I grab my head. “How can it be awful?”
If he really wanted such a great cup of coffee, he could have gone to the café I recommended in the first place.
Get it together, Natalie. Remember Gram, make her proud, God rest her soul.
“Monsieur, I am very sorry you don’t like it. I am doing everything to make you happy, but I don't know what else you want from me.”
“Did you use fresh grounds?”
“The ones that were there, yes.”
“You didn't grind them fresh?”
“No, I didn't grind them fresh.”
“Well, there we have the problem.” He gestures like it was obvious all along and I’m a nincompoop for not having seen it coming.
I take a deep breath and steady my stance. Southern hospitality is sure being tested today. “Sir, I don't know where the coffee beans are. I don't know where the grinder is. I have never made an espresso before in my life. I'm doing everything I can to satisfy you, but I don't know how to fix this.”
Hold back the tears, Natalie. No need to make a scene this early in the morning.
He tilts his head at me, the corner of his mouth curling into… a smile? He leans back into the chair as if he just won a battle and lifts the offending coffee as though to toast. “I suppose it's not that bad.” He takes another sip. “Just not what I would have expected from one of Paris's finest establishments.”
He then downs the coffee in one noisy gulp, setting the cup loudly back on the table. Just like that, he folds up his newspaper and marches off.
My mouth ceases to work as his fine backside marches away until I realize something.
“Monsieur!” I call after him.
He turns around, sunglasses on and lips set in a straight line.
“You forgot to pay.” I say it with a smile, because that’s customer service. But I won’t lie; there’s a challenge in it. Nobody can stiff the Bouchon Noir.
He grins, an infuriatingly smug grin.
“It's already in your pocket.”
“In my…” Sure enough, in my back pocket is a crisp five euro bill. “How did you—”
He’s already walking away but lifts the newspaper in what I have to assume is a grumpy Frenchman’s way of saying goodbye.
Well, I never.
CHAPTER 3
Natalie
The lunchtime pressure is on now at the Bouchon Noir and I've all but forgotten Mr. Love-Me-Forever-But-After-Coffee.
The restaurant is packed with two lunch services and my job is the seating plan. Every single table is booked. I've got to get this right or else there's a good chance a diplomat or foreign movie star might not get their table.
