Ava Fodor, a slightly plump, frizzy-haired nineteen-year-old American au pair in Paris struggles with being less than perfect. Jean-Michel is Ava's fussy, exacting first French boyfriend whose provincialism drives her up the wall yet who educates he...
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"Ava," a voice rang out behind me.
I turned. Arnaud looked taller than he had at the party, perhaps a shade under six feet. His wavy, auburn hair flowed down on his shoulders like some sort of medieval troubadour's. He wore a dark purple shirt with a Nehru collar.
"Arnaud?" Just saying his name was like singing.
"Did you just get here?" He sounded out of breath.
"Yes. What about you?"
"Thought I wouldn't make it on time." His gaze roved over my dress. "I was in meetings all afternoon."
"Did you accomplish anything?"
"Next assignment." He stepped closer – his scent woodsy, a trace of spice. "Ready for a drink?"
"Sure. What about here?" I gestured to the terrace of the café we stood next to.
"Let's go somewhere quieter."
"Fine." I fell into step beside him. In another five minutes, he stopped in front of a tranquil side street café with three tables out front. It was more amenable to conversation than Café de la Bastille would have been, directly on a busy traffic roundabout.
We sat at a table outside.
"What would you like to drink?" he asked.
"You already know."
His blue green eyes twinkled, a half smile playing across his lips. As if on cue, a waiter materialized, and Arnaud ordered two glasses of sangria, while I studied his mouth. It was wide, with a noticeably curved upper lip – one I could imagine belonging to Tiberius or another of the especially cruel Roman emperors. Warning bells should have been going off in my head, but something else was instead, further south.
"So where are we going for dinner?" I asked.
"Dinner is for later," he said mischievously. "Let's be here now."
I nodded. There was nowhere I'd rather be. Sitting back, I pretended to survey the passersby in the street. At the same time, I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
"When's your performance?" he asked after a minute. "At that place you mentioned – The Blue Cactus?"
"I thought you wanted to be here now," I teased. Had I told him about my upcoming gig? Then, I remembered. It had been in the kitchen while we'd sipped white Rhine wine at the party.
"I do, but I also want to be there when you're singing or whatever it is you do."
"Well, it's a week from tomorrow. I start at eight, finish around midnight." It seemed like a year from whenever. My mind hadn't been on music since the previous Tuesday afternoon when he'd called.
"I'll drop by." His voice was low, intimate. The arrogant, self-dramatizing man I'd met at the party was nowhere in sight.
"That'd be great. It's near here. We can walk by it later."
