The Everest Brothers: Ethan - Hutton - Bennett

by Scott, S. L.

  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 is 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.”

  “I was fine,” she replied, her voice lower, her tone solemn. “Not much scares me these days.”

  “I see.”

  We keep looking at each other, but this time in silence. My heart starts beating in an unfamiliar staccato, and although cars are driving by and other patrons are around us, I wonder if she can hear it.

  Taking a fry, she says, “You should eat them while they’re hot. They’re best that way.” After biting it, she sets the rest down and picks up her book and purse. She seems to wrestle with something on her mind. “I should go.”

  “What? Why? We’re sharing here. You can’t leave in the middle of a plate of fries.”

  Her shoulders sag as a debate wars in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

  “Why did you?”

  “You.”

  I got the answer I was hoping for, but I don’t feel the satisfaction I thought I would, not when she looks sad. “What’s wrong, Winter?”

  Watching her run the pendant along the chain again, I think it’s a sign of anxiety. She says, “I don’t know what I was thinking or what I’m doing. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

  “You didn’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing to lead me on if that’s what worries you.”

&
nbsp; “Being here is leading you on. Sitting here for two hours reading a book in hopes you might come . . . Everything I’ve done is wrong.” She sighs. “I need to go . . . I should go.”

  “I’ll walk with you, not follow, but with you. Give me to the corner to be a quiet companion again.”

  “I don’t want you quiet. I quite like our conversations and the meaning under the pretense of nonsense. That’s why I should leave.”

  “Someone once told me that every day is a new opportunity to take a chance.”

  “A chance at what?”

  “Me.” I was burying myself in this lie to spend more time with her, but the truth kept sneaking out as if she’d see it if I didn’t say it.

  “So if I stay, what happens then?”

  “We talk about the weather, Paris, the book you’re reading. Anything you want to talk about.”

  Leaning back, she seems to carry the world on her shoulders and uses the chair for support. “I don’t even remember how to make conversation anymore.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Look around. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s the loneliest place on earth.”

  “Why do you stay?”

  “Because you asked me to.”

  I shake my head. “No, I mean in Paris.”

  “Ah. That. Well,” she says, watching a couple passing by. “That will take more time than we have.”

  “I have all the time in the world tonight.”

  Her smile returns. “You’re very charming.”

  “See? Now there’s a reason to stay.”

  “No. That’s definitely a reason to leave,” she says, standing up.

  I stand in response, tempted to touch her, to keep her here eating fries and drinking wine as if hours of daylight remain. I reach for my wallet and put money on the table.

  When she glances down, she smiles and picks up a few bills. Handing them back to me, she says, “Do you always overpay?”

  “I have no idea how much these French bills are worth.”

  “You’re a lost cause, movie star.”

  “I am. Maybe you can help me.”

  In a standoff, we stay where we are. Pausing through several heartbeats, she then rolls her eyes. “Fine. Come on. I’ll let you walk with me.”

  Chuckling, I follow her from where we were tucked away at a table. “Thanks for the favor.”

  On the sidewalk, she waits for me. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” So ready.

  4

  Bennett

  It’s not like I don’t date beautiful women. I have a phone full of numbers I can call at any hour—day or night. Yet I can’t remember the last time I actually called one of those numbers.

  Not that this is a date.

  It’s not.

  Nope.

  It’s a stroll. She’s rubbing off on me. Not only do I roll my eyes that I used her word “stroll,” but I rolled my eyes. I glance over at her. A little smile plays on her lips, whisking a shyness that seems to come and go across her delicate features. Even if she was snarky the first time we met, she’s not this evening. As a matter of fact, she’s like a whole other person not only from last night but also from what I expected.

  The beauty has an indescribable appeal. There’s the obvious—her attractive face, great body, and underlying confidence that sparks in a good debate. Magic encircles her, an aura that demands attention. I’m inexplicably drawn to her and it seems she might be feeling the same since she was waiting for me this evening. What the hell has gotten into me?

  She stops a few feet ahead and looks back with concern knitting her brows. “What’s wrong?”

  “Paris.”

  A smile returns, and she comes back. “It has a way of doing that. One minute, you’re strolling along the Seine. The next minute, you’re in love—with the city, the music, the culture . . .” She turns her gaze to follow a car when it passes, and I hear her whisper, “Practically a stranger.” Turning to me, she smiles. “I listened to your song.”

  I don’t want to keep walking. Being with her feels so good despite the ending up ahead. “What’d you think?”

  “I think you’re a romantic at heart, Bennett Everest.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. I haven’t thought about it before.”

  “I’m not normally like this.”

  “What are you normally like?”

  She shifts, and then says, “Unhappy,” before turning away.

  Unhappy? Why is she unhappy? It doesn’t take but two steps for me to fill that companion role again. What do I say to her? How do I delve into her life like I have a right to be a part of it? “I don’t want you unhappy. I enjoy your smile.”

  She smiles for me. “I enjoy yours, too.”

  “Winter?” I realize not knowing the reason she’s here and the reason she hasn’t returned to New York might be more complicated than some superficial, easy out answer.

  “Bennett?” she teases, mimicking me by bumping into my arm.

  “You’re visiting Paris?”

  “No, I’m breaking in Paris.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Waving it off like I’ll let that lie, she says, “You really should see the Eiffel Tower at night. How long will you be here?”

  “Only a few days.” Please don’t ask me why I’m here. I don’t want to lie to you. Omissions are lies. I’m in deep already.

  Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, she turns, pressing her hands on my chest. “You have to see it. You can’t travel all the way from America and not see it at night.”

  She starts to turn away, but I hold her hands to me, wanting her right there. “Show me, Winter. Tonight.”

  Her hands relax in mine, and her bottom lip gets tugged under her teeth. Looking toward the other side of the street like she might find the answer there, she shakes her head. “I can’t.” Striking blues look up at me. “I wish I could. If we had met under different circumstances—”

  “Like at the Louvre or maybe eating croissants along the riverbank? Those types of circumstances? Because I don’t understand how it would be different from meeting each other at a bistro.”

  “No.” Her hands disappear from under mine. “I don’t know what spell we’re under, but it’s a bubble that’s bound to burst. Why do I feel like we’ve known each other longer than we have?” Why do I feel that she keeps reading my mind? This instant attraction . . . it’s not me.

  “I feel the same if that makes a difference.”

  “It does make a difference, but have you ever heard of bad timing?”

  “Is that what you think we have? That’s a bit assumptive.”

  She shrugs with a giggle. “Well, you know me and my assumptions.”

  “So let me get this straight. Even though I’m not asking you out, you’re ending us before I do?”

  “Just saving you the trouble, in case you were thinking about it.”

  Scratching my head, I reply, “I don’t think I’ve ever been shot down before I had time to take off.”

  Keeping her front toward me, she starts walking again. “There’s something so magical about this city. Go see the Tower.”

  “And then what?”

  “Think of me.”

  “Why don’t you show me instead?”

  When I start walking, she puts her hands up. “Because this is our goodbye.”

  “I don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.” My brothers would tell me to let it lie, to let her go. To do my job and not get distracted. My sister-in-law Singer would tell me if it’s meant to be . . . Meant to be? Fuck. Why am I acting like she’s the last woman on earth?

  “Then say au revoir.” Her melodic voice is fitting for the idyllic scenery.

  I should tell her who I am, but I hold back. I may not know what secrets this mysterious woman keeps, but I know enough to not tell her I’m here on her father’s behalf. “Will I see you again?”

  A soft smile graces her lips. “If wishes come true and fate has her way.”

  “F
ate, huh? Hey, Winter?” Although she’s walking away, her feet appear to move slower, fatigue or an equally heavy emotion coming over her. Stopping, she glances over her shoulder. “What book were you reading?”

  Holding it up, she says, “The Resistance.”

  “What’s it about?”

  She laughs, and it’s quite a sight to see her expression so light, and the heaviness gone from her face. “A rock star who meets his match in a clever, and I might add badass, heroine.”

  “Sounds like some other people I know.”

  Catching my eyes, she laughs. “I don’t need to save a rock star.”

  I can’t stop myself. I roll my thumb over my bottom lip, and then ask, “What about a movie star?”

  “Do you need saving, Mr. Everest?”

  “I might if you’re the one doing it. And I’m always happy to return the favor.”

  Her expression wavers between two emotions—intrigued and shy. Both look damn good on her. “I might take you up on that offer.” Just when I think I’ve convinced her to stay, she starts walking away again. “Good night.”

  “Hey, Winter?”

  Jokingly, she throws her arms wide. “What is it, Bennett?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” The promise secures her smile as if it’s permanently in place. “Au revoir.”

  Her hair swings side to side when she turns around, putting her back that is rocking with laughter to me.

  I remain on that sidewalk long after she’s gone. Not because I think she’ll return, but because I can still feel her when I’m here. It’s a good feeling.

  * * *

  I didn’t realize how far I’d traveled to the bistro, but the long walk back to the hotel is good for me. My head is clearer in the cool night air. I stay under the Louvre archways until I’m walking on Rue de Rivoli.

  Inside the swanky hotel, chandeliers hang high from the coffered ceilings. Large planters of flowers stand guard along the walls. Modern art is juxtaposed to the historical elements that remain from the past.

  Needing a strong drink, I detour to the bar, finding a place in a cognac-colored leather chair in the corner to sit and stretch my long legs. It would be nice to have bigger furniture. What’s up with the small tables in this city? I set my phone on the brass top table just as a waitress sets a cocktail napkin down next to it. She dips down, and says, “Bonsoir.”