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But we have reservations, so I restrain myself to a few minutes of hungrily making out with her, rumpling the sheets on the carefully-made bed. I give her a few minutes to fix her mussed-up hair before we leave the room.
Our driver takes us across town, and I sit closer to Sophie this time, pointing out the sights through her window.
“We’re on Champs-Elysees right now,” I murmur to her, indicating the wide, tree-lined boulevard. “In a few minutes, you’ll be able to see the Arc de Triomphe. You can’t miss it.”
Sophie cranes her neck, trying to peer over rows of traffic, which isn’t necessary—the arch is unmistakable, a huge, geometric shape rising out of the center of the traffic circle ahead. She gasps as it comes into view, starry-eyed.
It’s getting late, and the sky is dark. Around us, streets and alleyways glitter with string lights and candle-lit patios. It’s close to nine by the time we arrive at the restaurant—an upscale, haute cuisine establishment that I’ve been to once before, to celebrate a merger with some international clients.
The car pulls up outside the door, and our driver turns on the hazards. He runs into the restaurant ahead of us to ensure that all is well with our reservation. Only when he comes out and gives me a discreet thumbs-up do Sophie and I leave the vehicle.
Inside, the lights are low, and soft music filters through the air from a string quartet in the corner. It’s a small restaurant, no more than a thousand square feet of dining area—a bit of a hole in the wall, but undeniably luxurious, with the live musicians and the modern art on the walls.
In the corner, behind a curtain, a table is set for two. The area is scattered with rose petals, and there are twin candles sitting atop the wine-red tablecloth, flickering in tandem.
“This is you, Monsieur Wright,” says the host, drawing back the curtain to let us through. “Private, like you requested.”
“Merci de vous être dérangé,” I say to the man, the French flowing off my tongue. Sophie’s head snaps around in surprise. “C’est parfait.”
The host’s welcoming grin widens. “Ah, ton francais est magnifique. A server will be with you shortly. In the meantime, please, enjoy.”
We sit down opposite each other, and the host returns the curtain to its undisturbed state, leaving us alone in the candlelight.
“What do you think?” I ask Sophie, who is looking appreciatively at two matching, abstract paintings on the wall beside us.
“I think,” she says, “that you never mentioned you could speak French.”
“Well, I’ve traveled a lot. A lot of my work has been international.” I reach for the middle of the table, where a basket of fresh bread awaits us.
“I’ll say.” She laughs. “But that doesn’t explain being fluent. Doesn’t everyone here speak English?”
I flash her a cocky grin. “Not as well as I speak French.”
“Makes sense,” she teases. “It’s the language of love.”
I unwrap the napkin from the basket, then hand it over to her. “Try the bread,” I invite her. “After all, we’re in France.”
The meal is already pre-planned by the chef, a master of his craft, so we won’t have to do any ordering.
The only decision we have to make for the evening is on a bottle of wine. The restaurant’s sommelier precedes the waiter, bringing me a list of reds to peruse. I select an aged Pinot while Sophie munches on a slice of baguette.
“Oh my god,” she says as the sommelier leaves. “This is good.”
I chuckle. “If you’re that impressed by the bread, wait until you try the entree.”
“Oh, believe me,” she says, a little bit of heat in her gaze, “I can’t wait for the entree.”
The server brings us our wine and pours the traditional centimeter into my glass. I swirl it, breathing in the notes of oak and blackberry, then take a small sip. Delicious. I nod to the server, who pours us two glasses and leaves the bottle between us.
Our first course is soup—lobster bisque, with a light dusting of pepper. As we start to eat, I ask Sophie, “So, what do you think? Pretty good birthday?”
“Declan,” she sighs between bites of soup. “This isn’t just the best birthday I’ve ever had, it’s probably the best day I’ve ever had. I mean, what? I wake up in the morning, then you whisk me off to a private jet and make me come—three times—at thirty thousand feet, and that’s before all the shopping and the fancy restaurant?”
“Well, I told you I was going to make a big deal.”
She chuckles. “I forgot that a big deal is a bigger deal with you. I thought you meant that you were just gonna get me a cake and a nice champagne or something.”
“I don’t do things halfway,” I remind her, amused. After all the time we’ve known each other, and all the times she’s seen me shift into overdrive, she really thought I was going to throw her a surprise party and call it a day?
