by S. L. Scott
“I always thought it was my parents’ easy way out. Do we name her December or Winter?” She does this funny mock voice and then laughs at herself.
“You were born in December?”
“Guess we’re getting personal, after all.”
The gray clouds part enough to see the sunset sneak through just before it drops below the horizon of the buildings. We reach an intersection, and when I look right, the Eiffel Tower reaches to the sky nearby. “Look.”
When she looks, her expression lights up. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that sight.” With an eyebrow raised, she gets a devious glint in her eyes. “Have you seen it at night?”
“No. It’s my first time in Paris.”
“Wait until you see how magical it is at night. You’ll always remember it.”
“I have no doubt I’ll ever forget . . .” My gaze goes from her and extends over her shoulder to the monument. We start walking again. “Winter is a beautiful name.”
A small smile that hasn’t left while she talks grows, a blush spreading like wildfire across her cheeks. She clears her throat, and then asks, “Since you know mine, what is your first name?”
“Bennett.”
“Bennett,” she repeats softly, then glances at me. “That’s a very nice name, Mr. Everest.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass the compliment along to my mother.”
An unexpected giggle escapes before a more longing version of my name rolls from her pink lips. “Bennett Everest.” When her eyes trail over to me again, she lingers on my face, seeming to take me in as much as she can before the remaining light descends into darkness. “Sounds like a politician’s name.”
The thought makes me laugh. “Not with my past.”
“We’ve all done something we’re not proud of. Would it keep you from taking the oath of office?”
“Politics is not a path I’d choose.”
She spins, her arms flying like a bird gliding through the air. “It’s also a movie star’s name. I just figured it would go to your head if I led with that one.”
“It’s like you know me already.”
I like her laughter. It comes naturally as if I caught her off guard. “You look like one too,” she says, keeping her voice quieter but focusing her eyes on me. “Tall. Dark hair. A face that’s easy to appreciate and a voice that could hold the audience’s attention for a few hours in a theater . . .” Winter doesn’t stop, but she seems to divert to another thought she keeps to herself.
Trying to bring her back to me, I tease, “Only a few hours?”
“Maybe longer.” She winks and puts her focus on the avenue ahead until we reach the next block. Turning toward me, she clasps her hands in front of her. Suddenly it’s like we’re on a first date and neither of us knows what to do—say goodbye or kiss instead? “This is me.”
“You live here?” I ask, referencing at the classically French building across the street.
“No, but this is where we should part ways.”
“For safety, I can walk you home if you like.” Though the offer is absolutely true and well intentioned, I can’t deny that I’d like to spend more time with her.
Glancing over her shoulder and then back at me, she sighs. “This has been quite an interesting . . . walk, but I should go. Enjoy Paris, Mr. Everest, and make sure to see Le Tour Eiffel at night. It’s a sight—”
“I’ll never forget. Like . . . this walk.”
That brings her sweet smile back, erasing the worry. “Yes, like tonight.”
When she takes a step away, I say, “Maybe we can see it together?”
“What is that?”
“The Eiffel Tower.” It’s hidden behind buildings, and I have no idea the distance, but I still point as if it’s right there. She steals a glimpse in the same direction.
A debate whips through her eyes like the leaves that wave in the breeze. “I’m sorry. I’ve given you the wrong impression. I said I wasn’t available. I shouldn’t have even walked the three blocks with you that I did.”
“Why did you?”
“If I recall correctly, you followed me.”
“I recall it differently. Somewhere along the street, we started walking together, talking and getting to know each other. That’s the version I’d like to remember.”
“It’s a good version, much more interesting than mine. Either way, I say adieu.” This time, she hurries to cross the cobblestone street just as the lights on either side brighten for the night, her magic extending around her. Cupping her hand to the side of her mouth, she says, “‘Dream a Little Dream of Me.’”
“What?” I ask. She wants me to dream about her?
“My favorite song. It’s ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’ by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong.”
I don’t know the song, but satisfaction washes through me because she’s shared one of her secrets. A Mini Cooper and a scooter drive by. When the street between us clears again, she asks, “What’s your favorite song, movie star?”
“‘Just Breathe’ off Pearl Jam’s Backspacer album.”
“A classic in a different way. Bonsoir, Bennett Everest.”
“Bonsoir, Winter,” I say, pausing before I tack on her last name. I don’t want to ruin the night by speaking a name I shouldn’t know. I lean against the lamppost to watch her continue one of the longest goodbyes I’ve had the pleasure of being a part of.
A lip bite and eyes that share her inner delight can’t hide how happy she is. I want to ask her where she’s heading instead of going my own way. I want to ask her if it’s normal for her to have such instant rapport with a stranger because I’ve never experienced anything like the past thirty minutes in my life. It was . . . easy. Her quick wit and the effortless sparring.
I give her a wave when she starts moving backward. She returns it and then walks away. When she peeks back, I nod once before she turns and disappears down the little avenue. It’s not until she’s out of sight that I realize I didn’t accomplish my mission.
Pulling my phone from the inside pocket of my coat, I text my oldest brother: This isn’t going to be as easy I predicted.
Hutton: It never is. Where do things stand?
To answer him bluntly, I’m a little disappointed she had to leave, encouraged that I might get to see her again, but standing alone on a street corner as of right now.
Me: I’ll fill you in tomorrow. I’m exhausted. Heading to the hotel to crash.
Hutton: Call tomorrow.
Me: Will do.
I pull my earbuds from my pocket and insert them before I scroll through my music app. When I find the song, I buy it and listen while walking back toward the bistro where I can catch a taxi back to the hotel.
Lying on my bed an hour later, jet lag has set in, and I close my eyes as “Dream a Little Dream of Me” plays on repeat. It’s an old song, one that I’ve never heard before, but as I listen, I catch the lyrics and see why the romance of it draws a woman who holds so much inside.
I can still see her so clearly when freedom caught up with her and she twirled right there on the sidewalk, blissfully unaware of the audience she had on the other side of the street. She didn’t see the smiles on that elderly couple’s faces or how I watched breathless while taking her in.
The more I think about tonight and how I didn’t tell her who I was or that her father wanted to hear from her, I know what I did was wrong. But how do I take a rose and tell her not to bloom, to wait another day to breathe in the sunlight? To not breathe the freedom as she knows it?
My muscles relax and my body sinks into the mattress with images of pink—lips, sweater, shoes—tangled with blue eyes and hair spun of the finest silky strands. Maybe it’s Paris, but damn, I’ve become a romantic. I’ll blame the city and not the girl for the change in me.
Anyway, it will all change tomorrow when I expose the truth I kept from her tonight in the light of the day.
3
Bennett
Waiting for the sun to
start setting, I occupy most of my day on the phone and handling emails. It’s not the best way to spend a day in Paris, especially since it’s my first visit, but with several large accounts recently signed, I refuse to drop the ball. Staying on top of my accounts is the secret to my success. It also keeps my brothers off my back.
I’ve earned trust from them and my clients. Word about Everest Media has gotten out. I used to handle all the accounts, but now I only have time for five million dollars or more, but when the Nobleman deal closes, that will go up to ten million. Being busy means business is booming and I love being a part of that boom.
A low ring trills from my phone. I tap the button to dismiss the alarm. When I stand, I stretch. Not getting a run in this morning because of the jet lag makes my muscles feel tight after a day of working.
I pull on a navy blue jacket that matches my pants. The stark contrast between the midnight blue of the suit and the pressed white dress shirt looks sharp. I opt to not wear a tie, but I still want to look good for Winter . . . What the hell? Did I just admit I want to look good for a woman I just met, a woman I have no business thinking about in any way other than a client’s daughter?
Despite questioning my sanity, Winter is all class, so she should appreciate the effort. Fuck, she’s messing with me, causing me to throw my common sense out the window.
Grabbing my wallet and room key, I tuck them in my pocket, keeping my phone in hand. I text my oldest brother while in the taxi. I didn’t call Hutton like I was supposed to. What would I say? We walked three blocks and then said good night. I don’t want to be peppered with questions I can’t answer. The truth is, I don’t know why I didn’t tell Winter who I really am and why I’m here.
It didn’t feel like the right time . . .
I’m attracted to her, which is understandable. She’s a beautiful woman. But that’s as far as it goes. I reach up to loosen the tie around my neck, but I’m not wearing one. Is it hot in here? I crack the window and take a deep breath of fumes.
Rolling the window back up, I hack up the exhaust fumes I inhaled from an old Peugeot that’s rattling while trying to keep up with us. My driver seems hell-bent on winning this race when I just hope to survive the ride.
The taxi takes a sharp right, cutting the corner and causing me to tilt with it. “Fuck. We’re not in that big of a hurry.” Well, kind of . . . at least not for professional reasons. Stay focused on this deal, Everest.
When I see her, I’ll tell her.
What if she’s not there? What if I don’t see her? Not tonight? Or ever again?
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror but says nothing. One tight corner later and the car comes to an abrupt halt. Thank fuck. I pay the fare and hop out, trying to steady myself. I’m not sure if it’s the car ride or the attraction I have for a woman with a million secrets that are stirring up my insides.
I bet it’s the food. It’s rich here. Buttered bread, cheese, and sauces seem to be on everything. I move to the corner but stop before I round it. What is my problem? She’s a woman. A normal woman. Nothing more. A means to a signature on a contract I want to end my banner sales year on.
Fuck this.
I start walking.
And then I’m smiling.
Like a fucking fool.
The day had more clouds that seem to clear when I set my sights on her. Winter’s hair is in a high ponytail with the ends swept to one side tonight.
Mindlessly dragging a pendant along a chain that dips to her chest, she has her head tilted down, her attention on the cream-colored pages of a paperback as she reads. A black sweater is wrapped around her this evening, and I start to wonder if the colors she chooses reflect her mood.
I hope not.
“Bonjour, ma chérie.”
She looks up, a delicate smile already on her lips. “Bonjour, Monsieur Everest.” Closing the book, she angles toward the entrance and waves for the waiter. “Please join me . . . if you can stay.”
If I can stay? The invite surprises me, but I have no intention of walking away. Hope makes the blue of her eyes brighten in the last rays of the sunlight that streak down this street. It looks stunning on her—the sun and the hope. “I can stay.”
“Très bon.”
It’s kind of cute how she flips between French and English. Probably not so much when I do it, though I try when the waiter arrives tableside. “Café, s'il vous plâit.”
“Très bien.”
Winter holds her hand up. “Non,” and continues speaking too fast for me to catch the rest. As soon as he leaves us again, she leans forward and whispers, “Do you drink wine?”
Typically, I don’t. “Of course I drink wine. You know, it relates back to that whole being housebroken part.”
She rolls her eyes, but the slightest shake of her head and squeezed lids reveals mortification. “I should apologize for my assumptions about you last night. I heard sports, and I unfairly lumped you in with a macho asshole I once dated. It’s sort of a defense mechanism when I hear guys talk about sports.”
I shouldn’t like that she’s been thinking about me as much as she has, but here I am enjoying every second of it. “I can admit that guys are generally assholes when it comes to sports, but I try not to be. I enjoy art, but that won’t change the fact that I get into a good game and appreciate a beautiful woman. I drink wine when the occasion calls for it, playing sports, and working out.” Her eyes dip from my face to my chest and lower. She’s coy, a blush coloring her cheeks to match the sunset streaking the sky. “I also like when the same beautiful woman appreciates that I work out.”
She drops her head into her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so embarrassed.” Peeking over her fingers, she says, “I just got busted, didn’t I?” Slinking down in the chair, she shakes her hands. “Please don’t answer that.”
The waiter sets two glasses of wine down on the table, and she proclaims “Perfecto!”
“Okay, now that’s a word I do know. I took Spanish in high school.”
The confession makes her laugh. Picking up her glass, she holds it between us. “To high school Spanish, men who like sports, and exercising so women can appreciate all that hard work.”
My glass is tapped, and then we drink, our gazes locked together. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask. Did you love the Eiffel Tower last night?”
I’m not sure what to make of Winter tonight. She’s completely different. Any reservations or hesitations she had last night are gone as if she’s drunk, but she’s not. From her eyes and her body, she appears sober. As for her thought process, I think I’m getting a peek into something unique. She’s entertaining, to say the least.
I reply, “Unfortunately, jet lag won.”
She gasps. “Oh, no. That’s a shame. Well, hopefully, you’re rested, and you’ll see it tonight.”
“Hopefully.” I take another sip, my insides knotting in my chest. I’m not sure why—is it the truth burning me inside or that I’m starting to enjoy this lie of a life a little too much? “Are you hungry?”
“They have a wonderful pâté and tapenade plate.”
“I’m thinking french fries.”
I don’t know why that amuses her so much, but it seems to. “They have great fries, too. Maybe I’ll join you.”
The order is placed, the wine refilled, and the sun goes down. “So tell me, do you come here every night?”
“No, but it is one of my favorite bistros in this part of the city.”
I can’t help wanting to know everything about her. She’s a breath of fresh air and makes my heart beat faster. Although I think it’s wiser if I pretend it was the taxi ride. “You must know the city quite well.”
“I’m learning.”
Any tidbit she’s willing to give, I’ll eat it up like it’s the last morsel I’ll ever swallow. I ask like I don’t already know. “Is your family here?”
A long pause fills the space and then her right eyebrow lifts just enough to guess I’m probably pushing my luck. “My family i
s in the States.”
“Do you always travel alone?” I really don’t have anything to lose since our time is running out anyway.
“Who said I’m traveling alone?”
And then I remember. “Ah. That’s right. You’re unavailable.”
That doesn’t seem to warrant a response. I’d love to know more about that unavailability since she seems to not only take me flirting with her in stride but she also flirts right back. Her head tilts to the side, and she looks into my eyes as if she’s reading me like a book. “What brought you back to the bistro, Mr. Everest?”
“You.” This time I’m not lying, but I’m worried that telling the truth will make her leave.
“Are you always this forward?” By her inquisitive eyes and body language—leaning in, enough to show interest—she doesn’t seem offended.
“Often.”
“You gave that answer last night.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I do. Flirtation, forwardness. Same thing. Same answer. Tell me, Mr. Everest, do women ever turn you down?”
“With these movie star good looks?”
“Funny.”
“Quippy. I believe that’s the word you used.”
“So you do remember. What else do you remember about our short time together?”
The space is small for my large frame, so I shift a chair to my right and move in closer so the table is the only thing keeping us apart, and whisper, “I remember that asshole hitting on you—”
I’m not sure if it’s relief or disappointment that washes through her, but she laughs. “He was an asshole, but I didn’t expect you to say that.”
“Oh, yeah?” I glance up as the fries are set down. When we’re alone again, I move in. “I remember how the skies opened up for us long enough to watch the night set in. I remember the way your gaze lingered, and a sadness came over you when you stared at the Eiffel Tower, despite how much you seem to love the sight of it.” Her lips part, and I lick my lower one in response before adding, “I remember watching you walk away until I could no longer see you and being worried that I should have insisted on walking you home.”
