The Paris Game by Alyssa Linn Palmer

passerby. He took his time approaching her. As he came up beside her, he leaned in to glance at her half-done sketch of the church.
    “Bonjour, mademoiselle Sophie,” he said, his voice low. Sophie started, her pencil slipping from her grasp and clattering on the cobblestones. He picked it up and handed it back to her. “I’m sorry to have startled you,” he said, making sure their fingers brushed as she took her pencil from him. Her cheeks flushed pink and Marc knew that he was going to enjoy seducing this young woman. Winning the wager would be the icing on the cake.
    “It’s not your fault,” Sophie replied. “I get caught up so easily.” He smiled and saw her relax a fraction. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and he followed the motion of her hand down and over the collar of her delicate pale blouse, noting where the thin fabric clung to her curves.
    “Could I see your work?” He held out a hand and she gave him her sketchbook. The piece wasn’t near to being finished, but he could see in a moment that she had skill. “Sera was right, you’re very talented.”
    Sophie ducked her head shyly. “That’s very kind of you, monsieur. And Sera.”
    “I don’t give compliments like that out of kindness.” And it was true. For all that he would lie to a woman about her attractiveness, he saw no reason to coddle someone with no talent. He’d seen enough middling artists and appreciated those with real skill.
    “I’m not used to it. I was hardly even the best artist in my classes.”
    “How many of your classmates have come to Paris and have been following in the footsteps of their favourite artists?”
    Sophie gave him a grateful look. This wager would be easy to win if all he had to do was give her a few compliments. Sera had misread her.
    “Just me. I’ve wanted to visit Paris for years.”
    “Then I should leave you to your work.” Marc took a slow, calculated step away. Sophie glanced at her sketch and back at him.
    “No, I think it’s better left unfinished. My memory can fill in the details. Besides, I was going to go to d’Orsay this afternoon, and you’ve kept me from being too late.”
    “You’re braver than I,” he remarked. He took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and lit a cigarette.
    “Brave?” Sophie echoed.
    “Saturday afternoons at d’Orsay mean that every tourist this side of the Seine will be there. Better to go midweek, or when they have free admission for students.”
    Sophie considered for a moment. “I’m sure I can find something else to do.”
    “Do you like books?”
    “I haven’t gone book shopping yet. I can’t read French as well as I’d like.”
    “Then we should go to Shakespeare and Company.”
    “They sell English books?” Sophie raised a brow, looking doubtful.
    “Thousands. And it’s a strange little building. I think you’ll like it.” Marc gestured towards the street. “Come with me, mademoiselle.”
    He took her down the rue Saint-Sulpice and back to the boulevard St. Germain. The increased crowds made the route slow-going but neither of them minded. They squeezed through a queue of people waiting to buy a crepe from a sidewalk stand and Marc took the opportunity to lay a hand on the small of her back. He let it drop when the sidewalk widened, noting her disappointed glance.
    “Have you always lived in Paris, monsieur?”
    “Born and raised, though I travel a great deal.” He recalled their conversation from the other night. “Is Ottawa your home?”
    “Yeah, for nearly my entire life. But I was born on the west coast. We moved when I was young.” Sophie didn’t elaborate, but her smile had faded. It wouldn’t do to remind her of her past. Marc changed the subject as they turned up the rue Boutbrie, heading towards St. Severin church, which stood imposingly behind an iron fence. Sophie craned her neck to look up at the bell tower and the graceful stone arches.
    “I didn’t even know this was here,” she said.