by Scott, S. L.
That innocent pink sweater never fooled me. She remains indifferent, but she does ask, “Then what are you interested in?”
“Baseball that starts in the spring, camping in the fall, snowboarding in the winter, and boating in the summer.” She rolls her eyes and sits back. I ask, “Why the eye roll?”
“Sports for every season. Typical male. When is the last time you spent time in a museum? Or maybe you never have? When’s the last time you drank a cup of coffee out of a cup and saucer and enjoyed the scenery instead of getting everything to go?”
The waiter finally comes over, and I point at her drink. “I’ll have what she’s having. Coffee.”
She says to him, “Café, s'il vous plâit.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Monsieur,” he replies.
When we’re alone again, I say, “I like hiking and cold beers on a hot day.”
“You like physical ways to occupy your time.”
I take that as an invitation to readjust and sit a little closer. The way these tables are packed in here, it doesn’t take much maneuvering. “I like being physical and hands on.”
“Look, Mister . . .?”
“Everest.” I hold out my hand.
“For real?”
“Very much for real.”
With my hand wrapped around hers, she says, “I’m not available if that’s the bush you’re beating around.”
“Available is a fascinating word to use.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a fascinating woman.”
“You sure are. You’re clearly an American as well, so why are you in Paris?”
“People come to France to lose themselves in the culture, the slower pace, the joie de vivre of the city. Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s why I’m here.”
“To escape real life.”
“That’s quite the assumption coming from practically a stranger.”
“You know my name, so I think we’re past stranger and ‘practically’ gets us one degree closer to friends.” I wink, and she rolls her eyes again. The waiter sets my coffee down, and I add, “See how cultured I can be? Believe it or not, I’m even housebroken. So maybe I’m not the pig you make me out to be.”
“You know what they say about first impressions?”
“What do they say?”
“Never trust them.”
“And here I would have thought the opposite.”
“Guess it’s all in the way you look at things.”
She triggers my sarcasm. “Glass half full or, in your case, half empty.”
Pulling a few coins and bills from her purse, she sets them down on the table, and says, “It wasn’t the coffee that told me who you were by first impression. It was your mouth.” After snapping her purse shut, she says, “Bonsoir, Monsieur Everest.”
2
Bennett
Winter doesn’t make it twenty steps past the bistro before I toss money on the table and dash after her. She seemed serene in pink, but the woman has some bite to her bark. I like it.
It’s easy to be distracted by her, but I’m here for a reason.
One reason only—to get her home so her dad will sign the media contract—but watching her walk down the avenue like she has no intention of leaving Paris anytime soon really makes me wonder again why he’s alarmed.
Dressed in fitted black pants, she whips around on pink flats and plants her hand on her hip. “Are you following me?”
I stop with a good ten feet between us. Looking around, I reply, “I assume I’m free to walk wherever I want in France like I am in the States?”
“You are.”
“Awesome.” I close the gap and stand next to her.
“But you can’t follow me.”
“All right.”
“Good,” she says with a curt nod of her head. When she starts walking, I do too. Then she stops and glares at me. “I said you can’t follow me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing, Mr. Everest?”
“Walking with you.”
“I don’t want you walking with me.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Fine.” She starts walking, and I keep pace next to her. Her arms fly out, and she yells, “What are you doing?”
“Walking beside you.”
Her hands ball at her sides and she starts what sounds like swearing up a storm in French. Feisty. “Can you walk . . . not beside me?”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
“That’s what I’d like.”
“Okay, but only if you tell me what the title of your favorite song is.”
“You don’t even know my name, and you want to know my favorite song?”
“Yes, I do.” I push my hands into the pockets of my pants.
“Why?”
“I think knowing a person’s favorite song, or movie, or even dessert tells more about them than their name. It’s more intimate.”
“So Everest doesn’t represent the man? It represents your ego instead?”
Her quick wit has me grinning. “My ego aside, my surname represents me in many ways, but it doesn’t make up the whole of me.”
She begins a slow stroll, and this time, she doesn’t seem bothered by my presence. “Winter.” Turning to glance back at me, she slows as if she wants me to catch up, so I do. Then we continue walking side by side.
“Winter,” I repeat for no other reason than I want to hear how it sounds in the evening air.
“That’s my name.”
My attention darts her way, her words a reminder that she doesn’t know who I am. I’m not sure what to say. I hate lying and, more so, starting in a place that could only lead to regret. I stop walking, pulling my hands from my pockets. “Winter?”
She turns back, her expression softening with a smile. “Yes, Mr. Everest?”
I should tell her.
I need to tell her.
I can’t lie to her.
I shouldn’t.
There’s such an innocence about this moment we’re sharing that I don’t want to ruin it. Her smile grows as her blue eyes narrow in question. “Are you coming?” she asks.
“I thought you didn’t want me to follow you?”
“I don’t, but I haven’t minded your silent company next to me.”
Something is so captivating about this woman that I’m willing to play the role of her quiet companion to steal more time alone with her. I have a feeling the mention of her father’s wish for her return won’t go over as well as when I told him I would help make it happen.
Tucking my hands back in my pockets, I start walking again. The pinch between her questioning eyes releases, and a satisfied grin appears as we stroll together. “Winter is unique.”
“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, t
hen 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 appreciat
e 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.
