This was an all or nothing moment. I had nothing to gain by holding back and nothing to lose by being forward. At four o’clock, I’d board my train back to Manchester and the handsome French man would slip into the same vault of memories that I kept all my favourite stories.
“Do you know any really posh restaurants?” I asked hopefully.
I had sixty quid burning a hole in my pocket. A fancy lunch seemed like the perfect way to spend some of it.
He dropped his head, smiling down at the ground. “I might know a few.”
“Really posh?” I quizzed. “I’m talking silver trays and crystal glasses. The whole kit and caboodle.”
He straightened up and folded his arms. “Are you always this forthright and direct?”
I was, and I suddenly felt very foolish because of it. I was acting like a half-wit, and wasn’t sure how to rein myself in.
“What’s your name?” I quietly asked.
“Jean-Luc Décarie,” he replied. “And you are?”
“A pushy little cow from Denton,” I mumbled.
His deep laugh was wonderful. “What’s your name, mademoiselle?”
To prove I wasn’t totally void of manners, I extended my hand. “Fiona Black.”
I would never have predicted his next move. Jean-Luc kissed the back of my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Fiona,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to take you to lunch.”
He couldn’t possibly have been telling the truth, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe, which was a wonderful turn of events. It meant that for the first time in my life, I was giddy.
Getting into cars with strangers is never a good idea, but when Jean-Luc flagged down a passing cab, I didn’t hesitate to get in. Perhaps it was because he held the door open for me – a chivalrous gesture that I’d never experienced before.
“The Grand Chancellor restaurant please, driver,” he instructed.
When we arrived just a few minutes later, he handed the cabbie a tenner and told him to keep the change. I’d never experienced that before either.
Just as we got to the door, I grabbed Jean-Luc’s arm and pulled him aside. “Do you think I’m underdressed?” It seemed like a fair question. The woman who walked in ahead of us was wearing four inch heels and a lace blouse. “I don’t want people to stare.”
“People will stare, Fiona,” he smoothly replied. “But it will be for the right reasons.”
“Right, then.” I sucked in my stomach and smoothed my hands over my hips. “Let’s do this.”
When Jean-Luc offered his arm, I gratefully accepted, hooking my arm through his as if I needed the support.
I frequented places like the Grand Chancellor Restaurant all the time while reading, but being there in real life was something else. I wasn’t sure how to carry myself, but Jean-Luc didn’t seem to share my nervousness.
As we approached the man standing behind the tall wooden podium near the door, he asked for a table for two. “Something quiet,” he requested.
“Of course, sir.” The man grabbed two menus. “Right this way.”
My accidental date couldn’t have been much older than me. Referring to him as ‘sir’ seemed awfully strange, but nothing about the last hour had been normal.
I paid little attention to where I was walking as we were shown to our table. I was too busy checking the place out. No detail was too small or insignificant. I’d likely never set foot in there again and I wanted to remember everything.
The dark wood panelling, emerald coloured drapes and low hanging chandeliers gave it an old world feel. Every immaculately set table had a lit candle in the centre, and the mood lighting made it impossible to tell whether it was day or night outside.
I got through the formality of having the waiter pull my chair out for me, and bluffed my way through the process of having a napkin laid across my lap. But when he handed me a wine list and started prattling off his list of recommendations, my bravado began to slip.
Lunch at the Grand Chancellor was shaping up to be an ordeal, and something in my expression alerted Jean-Luc to the fact that I wasn’t handling it well.
“A bottle of Pinot Grigio, please,” he announced, snapping the wine list shut.
The waiter dipped his head. “Very good, sir.”
Jean-Luc barely acknowledged him as he backed away from the table. His warm brown eyes were fixed firmly on me. “Do you like wine, Fiona?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m more of a cider kind of girl.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered for both of us.” He smiled, but I detected no hint of condescension behind it. “Would you like me to order something different?”
“Not at all.” My eyes drifted down to the open menu in front of me. “I’d like you to order my food for me too. I have no flippin’ idea what any of this is.”
I was used to chips and eggs. From what I could tell, chips weren’t even on the menu.
Jean-Luc let out a quiet chuckle. “I can do that,” he offered. “Tell me what you like.”
Most of it was gobbledygook, but something caught my eye. I’d eaten cod a million times – never with a honey reduction or a courgette flower beignet – but I was prepared to give it a try. “The fish looks okay.”
He closed his menu and placed it on the table. “I hope it’s wonderful,” he said.
I lifted my head, studying his handsome face for much too long. “You must think I’m very strange,” I mused. “Why did you agree to this?”
A bright smile swept his face. “I find you beguiling,” he said. “In a good way, of course.”
Perhaps beguiling was French for strange, but I wasn’t sure so I didn’t pass comment. Instead, I hit him with more questions.
“What do you do, Jean-Luc?”
“I’m a struggling law student,” he replied. “I’m in my second year at King’s College.”
Clearly the struggle wasn’t financial. Even I knew that King’s is a very exclusive school. Attending students drink Pinot Grigio and wear designer shirts.
“Are you failing?”
It was a bold question to ask, but there’s a certain level of confidence that comes with knowing that you’re never going to see someone again. There was no need to be coy and reserved, and based on Jean-Luc’s ensuing reply, I could only assume that he felt the same way.
“Almost,” he admitted. “My English leaves a lot to be desired, and my written essays are suffering because of it.”
I huffed out a sharp laugh. “Your English is better than mine.”
He shook his head. “Not when I write.”
I could see his frustration, and felt the sudden need to offer some encouragement. “That doesn’t mean you’re thick, Jean-Luc,” I assured him. “I know plenty of thickos so I’m qualified to judge.”
He laughed, and his whole demeanour changed. “I’m not thick, I’m just French,” he said. “That’s the crux of the problem.”
I didn’t consider it to be a problem at all. He had a dead gorgeous accent that matched his dead gorgeous face.
“I was supposed to meet with a tutor today,” he revealed, pinning me with a thoughtful stare. “But I was presented with a better offer.”
I smiled down at the tablecloth. “Well, I was supposed to be meeting with the Queen today,” I embellished. “She’s probably wondering where I am.”
When the waiter returned to our table, he was armed with a bottle of wine and a fancy silver bucket filled with ice. He poured our glasses, took note of our food orders and slipped away as quietly as he’d arrived.
Jean-Luc charged his glass. “What shall we drink to?” he asked.
I barely needed time to think about it. “Short but memorable adventures,” I announced, clinking my glass against his.
It should’ve been a prelude to wonderful conversation, but after taking a slow sip of wine, silence set in. I didn’t take it to heart. We were complete strangers, and changing that woul
d take much more time than we had.
“Do you like to read?” I asked extraneously. “Reading will improve your grammar no end. I read all the time – romance mostly.” I was babbling now and couldn’t seem to stop. “My grammar is ace.”
I wasn’t offended by his doubtful expression. My rough vocabulary gave no hint of the talent I possessed when it came to the written word. I’d been an A student all through school, but the prospect of furthering my education with college or university had never appealed.
“Perhaps you should tutor me,” Jean-Luc suggested. “It could be the perfect arrangement.”
I grinned. “And what would you do for me in return?”
In a move as smooth as he was, he rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “I’m sure I’d find a way to make it up to you.”
I sat up straight, smoothing the napkin on my lap with both hands. “Well, if you’re stuck for ideas, I love diamonds and perfume and champagne.”
His lovely smile was bright. “You like champagne? We can order champagne.”
I was shaking my head before he finished his sentence. “I don’t know nowt about champagne,” I confessed. “It’d be wasted on me.”
Jean-Luc brought his glass to his lips. “Some people deserve to experience the finer things in life, Fiona,” he said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
It was hard to believe that his syntax skills were lacking. The bloke looked young, but spoke like a middle-aged English professor.
“How old are you?” I quizzed.
“I just turned twenty-three.”
“Do you live with your parents?”
He shook his head, telling me no. “My mother passed away when I was young but my father is around,” he replied.
“I’m so sorry,” I uttered, mentally kicking myself for asking the intrusive question.
He let me off the foot-in-mouth hook with a bright smile. “Don’t be,” he replied. “Over the years, I’ve had three stepmothers to bridge the gap.”
His light tone led me to believe that it wasn’t a sore subject, but the embarrassment I felt was a sharp reminder that prying is never a good idea. In a bid to stop any more accidental brain snaps, I took a long sip of wine.
Jean-Luc must’ve realised that I’d reined myself in, and that it was left to him to continue the conversation. He volunteered an extraordinary amount of information in a short space of time – and I soaked in every word as if he was a real life novel.
Even though he was struggling, he enjoyed the intense workload that came with studying for a law degree.
“I’m also on the rowing team,” he revealed. “We’re doing quite well this year.”
“I can tell.”
He frowned. “How?”
Yet again, my refined brain lost out to my blunt mouth. “You have lovely broad shoulders.”
His skin flushed pink all the way down to his neck, but he artfully escaped the chagrin by changing the subject.
I kept my eyes locked on his, doing little to hide the fact that I was hanging on every word.
During the university semesters, Jean-Luc lived in Holburn, in a place called Lincoln Fields. From what I could tell, it was a very posh area, but his flat, and the two roommates he lived with were not.
“They’re odd fellows,” he explained. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
I set my glass down on the table. “I don’t think you’re a beggar,” I noted. “Beggars don’t wear Pierre Cardin.”
He dropped his head and looked down at his shirt. “You might be right,” he conceded with a smile. “But money can’t buy you decent flatmates.”
It can, however, buy you honey glazed cod.
I could hardly tear my eyes from my plate as the waiter set it down in front of me. The elaborate presentation made the humble fillet of fish look like a gallery exhibit.
“Is something wrong?” asked Jean-Luc.
Maybe I looked as confused as I felt. “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “It looks like they’ve battered the flower instead of the fish.”
A low chuckle escaped him. “Beignet de fleur de courgette,” he announced. “Fried zucchini flowers.”
I swallowed hard, trying to quash the giddiness that was threatening to overtake me. This man was storybook perfect, and I couldn’t have conjured up a dreamier bloke if I’d written him myself.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I teased.
He gifted me a crooked grin. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said that to anyone.”
I put my hand to my heart in an exaggerated show of excitement. “You mean, I’m your first?”
“Yes, my darling,” he replied, hamming it up. “You are my first fried zucchini flower.”
I speculated that the easy conversation could’ve continued indefinitely, but it was an impossible theory to test because time wasn’t on our side.
When it was time to leave, Jean-Luc insisted on accompanying me to Euston station.
I spent the cab ride solemnly gazing out the window, catching a final view of London as I racked my brain for something to say. Jean-Luc didn’t have much to say either.
“I wish you had let me pay for lunch,” I said finally.
“Stay for dinner and I’ll let you pay.”
His demeanour didn’t match the bold suggestion. His voice was weak and his frown was strong.
“Are you worried that I’ll say yes or no?”
“I’m not an impulsive person, Fiona,” he replied. “I’m usually far more controlled when it comes to making life altering decisions.”
“Life altering? Wow, Jean- Luc.” It was impossible not to smile. “The dinner you’re planning must really be something.”
“It could be,” he hinted. “The company alone would be phenomenal.”
I had no experience when it came to accepting compliments. Flirty innuendo was new to me too – but at least I recognised it.
I held his gaze. “I’d miss the last train.”
“You could stay with me,” he shot back.
In a tell-tale sign that highlighted my inexperience, my cheeks flushed with heat. “That would definitely be a life altering decision,” I mumbled.
Jean-Luc had no idea he was flirting with a career virgin, and that wasn’t his fault. I’d purposefully steered most of the conversation, making sure that the focus stayed on him.
He was worldly, confident and posh. Ordinarily, a man like that wouldn’t give me the time of day, and I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by pretending otherwise.
Jean-Luc reached for my hand. “I’d like to get to know you better, Fiona.”
His face fell as I gently broke his hold. “I think you’d be disappointed,” I replied.
As if on cue, the taxi pulled into the parking bay outside the station. Dreading an awkward goodbye, I threw open the door and scrambled out. Jean-Luc tossed some money to the driver and quickly followed suit.
“Don’t you think I should decide for myself?” He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”
I couldn’t deny that his persistent streak was good for morale. I’d never been pursued before (except by the cats that lurk near the fish and chip shop) but still, I couldn’t give in.
A week ago, I had been engaged to be married, and it had all ended in a hail of frozen poultry. There was just no way of explaining it without looking a fool.
I reached, lightly touching his arm. “I’ll remember this day forever, Jean-Luc,” I told him. “Good luck with law school.”
To my own ears it sounded banal and inadequate, but he was even more unimpressed.
“I am French, Fiona.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
I must be crazy, I thought.
Jean-Luc Décarie ticked boxes that I didn’t even know existed before now. In a few short minutes, he’d be gone forever – and my parting gesture was a pat on the arm.
Drawing on the only experience I h
ad, I ripped off the plot of every romance novel I’ve ever read. I lurched forward, threw my arms around his neck and kissed him for all I was worth.
If it caught him by surprise, Jean-Luc didn’t let on. He reciprocated, wrapping his arms tightly around me and holding me close.
Until then, I had no idea that a kiss could feel that flippin’ tremendous.
Just like Angelica in A Recipe for Romance, a tidal wave of molten lava had burnt my heart to a cinder.
I was content to kiss him until I passed out, but Jean-Luc eventually called time. He took a step back, but his hold on me never wavered. “Are you sure you’re not French, Mademoiselle?” he teased.
At that moment, I realised that I could be whoever I wanted to be. In my heart, I was royalty, and I’d finally met a boy who was treating me accordingly.
“Oh, sod it,” I muttered, breaking free.
Jean-Luc looked as anxious as I felt, but he patiently waited while I rummaged around in my bag. My nerves were so shot that my hands shook, but I managed to find what I was looking for – my beloved diary.
I thumped it against his chest. “I want you to read this – every last word.”
Ignoring my obnoxious tone, he asked what it was.
I couldn’t blame him for being clueless. The tattered, dog-eared notebook gave no hint of the secrets it held.
“It’s the last two years of my life,” I nervously explained. “If you read it, you’ll know everything about me. Good, bad and ugly, it’s all there.”
He smiled down at the book in his hands, slowly running his finger along the edge of the worn binding. “And if I like what I read?”
I dipped my head, chasing his brown eyes. “Come and find me,” I told him. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
* * *
The End
Coming Soon
Silk Queen – Book Two
Available April 30, 2017
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