Hotelles by Emma Mars Page B

gallant enough to respect my schedule. Meanwhile, every second of his time was worth a few hundredths of a point on the stock exchange. He had been so attentive the past few weeks: so considerate, sensitive, and full of surprises. Everything was so enchanting and refined with David. He also knew how much I loved scallops and lobster cooked in salted butter. His choice of restaurant wasn’t random. It was a sign of his budding love.
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    THE EXTRAORDINARY HAD BECOME MY ordinary, with exquisite meals at Michelin-starred restaurants. But I hadn’t become jaded to luxury. I was too familiar with the other side of the coin, I thought, when I spotted the restaurant, whose blue awning was visible from quite a distance.
    â€œGood evening, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Barlet is waiting at his table.”
    The maître d’ carried out David’s instructions with zeal, and had not failed to recognize me immediately at the entrance. I followed him through the hushed room, which was occupied by a handful of graying diners and a few celebrities and politicians whose names escaped me at the time. I was distracted by the thought of the man I was about to meet.
    David was sitting at the table in front of a bottle of white wine on ice. His contemplative gaze rested on the lobster tank and its unsuspecting inhabitants. My appearance roused him from his rare stupor. His spontaneous smile was genuinely beguiling.
    â€œDarling!”
    He wasn’t one to use terms of endearment. I took it as a sign that tonight wasn’t just another dinner. The scent of his custom-made cologne had grown stronger after a day of activity, and I could smell him as I reached the table. It was like a familiar welcoming committee.
    â€œThis place is fantastic.”
    â€œYes, it will do,” he said indifferently. His mood brightened as he kissed me.
    â€œDon’t play innocent. You know exactly why we’re here,” I said, my head gesturing toward the lobsters tied up with blue bands.
    His Hollywood smile suddenly froze. He looked like he was in pain, as though he were afraid I would find out who he really was. No, Sophia, David Barlet had not yet given me an earth-shattering orgasm, the kind of erotic roller coaster you rode every night of the week—or practically—with a different partner. But his face was always so open and frank, so charmingly young—like the actor whom nature had modeled him after—that any girl in my place would have followed him to the end of the world.
    First course: “A whole blue lobster,” the waiter announced, carrying two artistically arranged plates.
    He fished David’s crustacean from its juices. My eyes shone, and I could not suppress my childish excitement. This variation on my favorite dish was so thoughtful of him. David was always finding ways to please me, but this meal went above and beyond all our other forays into Parisian gastronomy.
    â€œMmm . . . It’s gorgeous!”
    â€œLobster served room temperature, Jerusalem artichoke, and beet fries,” described the man in the black vest, an immaculate towel draped over his arm. “Bon appétit, Madame. Bon appétit, Monsieur.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Don’t worry, I’m not that rough around the edges. I know you’re not supposed to thank the staff in that kind of restaurant. You’re not supposed to let them think you’re on the same level. But I didn’t care. I felt carefree in my little black dress—Rebecca had suggested it for “a night when you want to end up in his arms.” It was probably much too tight and much too short for this kind of establishment. I figured that was why the other guests kept stealing looks at us between bites of sweet potato. Or were they surprised to see Paris’s most eligible bachelor with such an ordinary creature as myself? David dismissed this kind of assessment, but it was a critique I had overheard on prior outings