by Karen Ferry
There’s a sudden shyness to her demeanour when she thanks me and takes off her coat. I grab it from her and push her chair a little as she sits down. I put the jacket over the back of the chair, before I sit down next to her. I shuffle my bag in-between my legs and sit back, watching her closely. Whereas she wasn’t nervous or held herself back out on the street, she now appears anxious. She fidgets in her seat, looking everywhere but at me as she twists her small, silver cuff on her wrist around and around.
I don’t like that she’s uncomfortable, but I also have a job to do, and I can’t avoid approaching the big elephant in the room any longer.
I have a feeling this girl is full of contradictions, and I can’t wait to peel back all the layers of them to reveal the real woman. Why does she hide from the world? Where did she come from?
And, most importantly, why does her family want to tell the world about her now when they’ve been hiding her for most of her life?
So many questions…
I let out a small sigh, reminding myself to tread careful. “
So, Amelie Winters…what’s your favourite food?”
5
Amelie
He wants to know what my favourite dish is? Really?
“Really?” I don’t hide my disbelief. “You want to talk about food?”
His lips tip up in the corner, but his eyes are sharp, alert.
“I’m just making small-talk.”
I don’t believe him.
“A journalist never asks a question he can’t use against someone at a later date.”
He blinks, and I cross my arms in front of my chest.
“What do you have against journalists? Or, is it just me you dislike?”
I wet my lips, unnerved by his direct gaze. It takes me longer to suppress the need to squirm in my seat, but years of disciplining myself come in handy, so I sit still.
“I don’t know you, Finlay, thus I can’t dislike you.”
“But,” he leans forward in his seat, resting his arms on the table, “you don’t like me, either?”
I sigh and shake my head.
“Like I just said, you’re a stranger, and I haven’t decided yet.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get the chance to reply because Gavin’s wife, Maggie, appears next to our table.
“Amelie, dear.” She smiles down at me and places a hand lightly on my shoulder. “How lovely to see you, dear. How are you?”
Some of the tension I’ve been feeling ever since I found Finlay waiting for me back at the dance studio leaves my body, and I smile up at her friendly face.
“I’m well, thank you. And you?”
Her eyes dart curiously between us as she squeezes me fondly. “Oh, I’m good. Same old,” she laughs. “Now, what can I tempt you and your friend with tonight? It’s late, though, so I don’t have much to offer. If I’d known you’d stop by, I’d have saved you a piece of pie.”
“Please don’t apologise.” I rest my hand on hers to reassure her. “Do you have any soup left?”
She nods. “That I have, dear. Your favourite, too.”
My mouth waters and my belly rumbles.
“You know I can’t say no to that,” I smile up at her. “Then I’ll have that, please.”
Maggie winks at me and takes a step back, looking down at Finlay, and I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing when her smile vanishes at once as she takes him in.
“And what about you, lad?”
He smiles politely at her and juts his chin in my direction.
“The same for me, please.”
“Right. Drinks?”
“Just water for me,” I tell her.
“A pint of whatever you’ve got on tap,” Finlay says and leans back. I’m finding it hard to concentrate when we’re no longer out on the street and among other people, but I have to be sharp tonight.
Maggie frowns down at him.
“Okay, well, I’ll be back with your food soon, then.”
She pats my shoulder again and then leaves us to ourselves. I breathe deeply, my eyes following her retreating back, until Finlay clears his throat.
“Soup is your favourite food?” he asks.
I want to laugh at the skeptical question.
“Only Maggie’s soup.” My mouth waters again. “It is out of this world good.”
His lips twitches in amusement, drawing my gaze back to them, but I don’t let myself to be dragged in by his charm.
“I see.”
“Finlay, why are we here?” I have to know why he won’t just let me alone.
“Because we’re both hungry, and I hate eating alone.”
I shake my head, still not convinced.
“I meant what I said this morning: I’m a private person. My whole family try to keep away from the media, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Evidently, someone in your family believes different.”
Frowning, I think back on the text from Maman this morning, and the mere thought of my dad hiring a newspaper to run a story about me makes me seethe. And then there’s the mysterious phone call Finlay told me about earlier this evening I can’t wrap my head around; but it doesn’t take a degree in criminology to work out who this Mr. Smith was.
“It would appear so, but that doesn’t mean I want to…”
“Before you refuse, please hear me out.”
Annoyed by his tendency to interrupt while I’m talking, I scrunch my nose.
“Fine.” I tap my finger against my chin. “But on one condition.”
He raises his arms to his side, as if he wants me to see he’s open and honest.
“Name it.”
“Everything we talk about is off the record.” It takes a lot for me do, but I harden my gaze, never tearing it away from his. “Do we have a deal?”
He nods, a serious expression mirrored back at me.
“Deal.”
Almost instantly, the last of the tension between my shoulder blades dissipates, and I glance down at my fingers playing with the hem of my shirt, but it’s as if an invisible string ties us together, because soon after, I find myself captured by his sharp eyes once again. I can’t relax, not when I’m with him. I can’t let his captivating smile get to me, but it’s practically impossible when he keeps staring at me. The intensity is wreaking havoc with my insides, reminding me of how deeply his good looks affect me.
Merde.
“Okay, then.”
The smile he aims at me makes my heart do somersaults in my chest, and the pounding is so loud in my ears, it’s embarrassing.
Gosh, I hope my tongue won’t get tied up in knots tonight.
He opens his mouth but is interrupted once more when a young woman sets a tray down on the table with our drinks. I try to be surreptitious about it when I peek up at his profile underneath my eyelashes – he looks just as gorgeous from that angle – but once she turns to walk away, there it is again: those brown, intense eyes directed completely at me.
“I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Amelie. I don’t usually write these types of stories. In fact, when my editor assigned this feature on me, I was furious. I even considered quitting my job.”
His honesty surprises me, almost making me forget my nerves around him.
“Then what do you usually write?”
“I’m an investigative journalist, Amelie. I don’t do the high society pages – I think they’re a waste of my time.”
“Wow.” I lean towards him, now almost eager to know why he’s here.
There’s no sign of mirth in eyes now.
“Yes, wow.”
“Why didn’t you quit if you hate having to do it so much?”
He rakes a hand through his hair and leans away from me.
“Something happened during the last story I chased, and so, this is my punishment.”
I tilt my head at him.
“Punishment
?”
“Well, that’s how it felt at the time, but now…”
My heart skips another beat as he runs a hand over the scruff on his chin.
“You intrigue me, Amelie.”
Alarm bells go off inside my head, his words a stark reminder of his line of work.
“I see.”
“Now that I’ve seen you dance – witnessed your passion and drive – I want to share your story with the world.”
He speaks with both words and body, his hands and arms gesturing this way and that, and I admire that kind of drive, I really do. I know he thinks his sincerity should make me happy, but the effect is the exact opposite: dread settles in the pit of my stomach, and I wonder if I’ll even be able to eat now.
“Why me?”
I try to drag it out, but the earnest way he looks at me is weakening my resolve minute by minute. Coupled with his good looks, I can literally feel all my protests vaporising into the thin air, and that is most definitely not good.
It’s horrible.
He runs his hand against the scruff on his chin and I watch his brow deepen. I’m fascinated by the speculation in his amber-coloured eyes.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
Hid admission throws me, causing me to lean forward in my seat.
“That’s an odd thing to say. Don’t journalists usually know why they’re chasing a story?”
His lips pull down as he nods, displeasure written all over that handsome face.
“True. But, in my case, I’m afraid I don’t really have a choice. Either I get you to agree to let me interview you, or my career is shot to pieces.”
I raise my eyes, not believing my own ears.
“What? Really? But that’s absurd.”
“Tell that to my editor.” He grins at me, but there’s no mirth in his eyes. Not even a hint of amusement. Even though he’s virtually a stranger, I don’t like seeing him like this - unhappy and defeated don’t suit this bloke one tiny bit.
I move my head to the side but gasp softly at the twinge blaring through my neck, and my hand shoots up to massage it.
“Are you okay?” Finlay asks, frowning at my movements.
I give him a grim smile.
“I’m just a little sore. Too much tension makes my muscles cramp up. I’ll be fine.”
His lips tighten into a hard line.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s not a big deal.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
The silence hangs in the air, making the atmosphere slightly awkward, but I’m too preoccupied with his proposition to care.
“I need to think about this.”
The grim set to his mouth vanishes entirely, and instead a confident smile takes over. He steeples his fingers under his chin, elbows resting on the table.
I hold up a finger in warning.
“It doesn’t mean I’ll agree, Finlay. I’ll need some more details from you first.”
“Of course. I’m not the paparazzi, Amelie. I don’t write dirt on people for the sake of it. I always seek the truth – please believe that.”
There he goes again with the charm and transparency. It makes my head spin.
“I’ll need more than your word.” I try to muster up my inner strength, hoping he won’t balk at this.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
I take a deep breath.
“I need you to send me your finished piece before it’s printed. If I read anything that I deem too private for the public eye, you’ll have to remove it.”
He sits back, and a thoughtful look enters his eyes, but as hard as it is to hold it, I won’t back down.
“That’s unusual, but not unheard of.”
I nod, breathing a small smile in relief. satisfied that he’s not trying to dissuade me.
“That’s my only term. If you can accept that, we have a deal.”
“Hmm, okay.” He turns in his chair and rests his chin on his hand, his elbow resting on the soft leather armrest, as he mulls over everything I’ve just said. “How about this? I’ll have the newspaper’s legal department draw up a contract for you, have it sent over to your flat in a day or two.”
The air I didn’t even realise I’ve been holding inside flutters between my lips, and grateful, I nod.
“Sounds perfect.”
He grins back at me.
“What kind of interview do you have in mind?” I try my hardest not to look at his mouth again and so glance away quickly. Never before has a white napkin looked as interesting as it does now. I almost roll my eyes at my own silliness, but I don’t want him to think I’m even more of a turd than I believe myself to be already. Squaring my shoulders, I meet his curious gaze once more.
“I mean, is this going to be all about my professional career, or will it include funny or peculiar information about me?”
“Such as what?”
Ï tilt my head as I try to come up with a silly detail about me.
“Such as what my star sign is, and that I spend my Saturday evenings watching reruns of Midsummer Murder?”
He throws his head back and laughs, the sound loud and carefree in the quiet pub. I stare in wonder at him as the warm, rough timbre of it reverberates in the air, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps when his head tips back to me. His amused eyes strike right into mine.
Gosh, he’s even cuter when he laughs. Life’s unfair.
Before I get the chance to ask him why he’s laughing like a maniac at me, Maggie returns to our table with our dinner.
“So sorry, dear,” she apologises in a tuft of air as she places the huge bowls in front of us. “We ran out of bread, so just had to grab the dough and bake a fresh loaf.”
“Oh, Maggie, that wasn’t necessary,” I start, but she waves me off and dries her hand on her apron.
“Fiddlesticks, of course it was. Can’t bring you soup without my garlic bread, can I?” She gives Finlay the side-eye and pats my hand. “Enjoy your meal, dear.”
Then she’s off again, and I shake my head in wonder at her big heart. The scent of the leek and broccoli soup tease my nose, and my mouth waters. Quickly, I take the plate with perfectly crispy bacon strips and tear them into smaller pieces, drizzling them down in the heavenly soup.
“What are we having?” Finlay asks as he takes his napkin and unfolds it, placing it in his lap.
I don’t answer until I’ve added a third of the cheese next to the plate of bacon into the aromatic dish and look up at him as I tear off a piece of my bread. I dunk it as I explain.
“My favourite food – leek and broccoli soup.” I take my spoon and stir the soup, giving the cheese time to melt a little before I push the spoon away and up, blowing lightly at it so I don’t burn my tongue. “It reminds me of home.”
“Where is home, exactly?” he asks and mirrors my careful ministrations.
I hesitate for a beat but shrug. It can’t hurt to give him what he wants now, can it?
“Avignon in Provence is one of my homes – the other is London. I grew up in both countries, really.”
“You’re part French.”
I incline my head.
“Yup.”
He hums as he takes his first taste of our dinner, making me smile widely atop the rim of my spoon. But when the sound of his low moan reverberates from his mouth, my smile freezes, and I become lost in him. Oh, my…the hum isn’t drawn out, but it’s enough to cause heat to rise to my cheeks. My focus is entirely on his closed eyes and air of appreciation that washes over his features.
In romance novels, this only ever happens to the hero as he watches the object of his desires find an inordinately amount of pleasure in her food, but now the exact same thing is happening to me. It’s so absurd – laughable, even – yet here I am, gawking at a man whose only reason to seek me out tonight was because of his bloody story.
Just my rotten luck.
I’m so drawn to this man, it isn’t funny. The strongest urge to lean across the
table, run my nose along his neck, and physically feel his moan against my skin courses through me, but I daren't move from my chair. I'm not that bold.
The trouble is I wouldn't have the first clue how to seduce this guy if I had the courage to actually go through with it.
I'm pathetic.
He's temptation personified, luring me in, and if he only felt the same way, I'd be more than willing to hand him my virginity on a silver platter.
If only...
I feel like the world is spinning, and there’s not a single thing I can do to make it slow down a bit. Obviously, I could turn him down – and there’s still a fair chance I will – but the primal part of me who isn’t this shy hot mess when she’s around a man she fancies wants to spend more time in his company.
I want to get to know Finlay. I want him to see me…the real me, and not the cold, aloof dancer.
Maybe this is the only chance I’ll get, and I should grab it?
Perhaps this is what my horoscope meant?
Argh.
“What’s wrong?” Finlay’s voice breaks my arguing with myself, and I shake my head.
“Just thinking.”
“Sorry I laughed at you, by the way.” His smile is sincere, which I appreciate. “You surprised me, that’s all.”
“It’s okay.”
“Thanks.” He wipes his mouth in his napkin before he takes an item out of his pocket and extends it to me. Frowning, I reach for it and look down at his mobile resting in my hand. Then I look back at him.
“What’s this?”
He lets out a prolonged sigh, laughter dancing in his eyes.
“Funny thing, that.” His eyes widen, making my lips twitch. “It’s a device that lets people communicate with each other over long distances.”
I can’t hold back an unladylike snort at his antics.
“Don’t mock,” he ticks at me. “What’s even more incredible is that you can write messages to another person, and they instantly let out a sound or vibrate when said messages reach you.”
“Har-har-har.” I roll my eyes.
He smirks as he reaches across the table and swipe the screen to unlock it.
“Can you please save your contact information? Mobile number, email, etc. That way, I won’t have to spend fifteen minutes getting them from you before I say goodnight to you at your doorstep.”
