and my band mates are the only ones I know in America who speak French with me.”
“How long have you been here for? Despite all the time we spent together in Mexico, I don’t know anything about you.” I realized that with sadness. How could I have spent such an endless week with such fascinating people and know so little about them?
“And I, you.”
My gaze snapped to his and something locked in place with an almost audible click. It was a comforting thing and I recognized it immediately as friendship.
Leaning across the table, Cage took my hand between his two large ones. “Sinclair is like a brother to me. I have known him through everything and he will always be family. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have room for a friend.”
The waitress arrived with the bottle of Burgundy we had ordered and I grinned, ignoring her hostility, as I raised my glass. “I can cheers to that.”
A bottle and a half later, Cage and I were still sitting at the table, swinging from French to English and back as we imbued more of the heady French wine. The chef had even come out to see the faces of the couple that had ordered two main courses each, leaving it to him to decide what they were given. He was entirely too young and handsome to head up a successful restaurant and I told him as much when he finally agreed to sit down for a moment.
“Ah, well, I was blessed with good luck,” Chef Devereaux, or Dev as he had encouraged us to call him, said in an accent as thick as Cage’s. “And even richer friends.”
I laughed. “And rich friends make great investors.”
He tilted his head in agreement. “But I have to say, I prefer the beautiful friends over the rich ones.”
“Is that true?” I grinned behind my wine glass. “Then you and Cage should get along just fine.”
The two men laughed too loudly, not caring who heard them and I felt a pang of homesickness for the beautiful country I had fled. Though I loved Italy, it was France that had fostered my soul and turned me into a person I could be proud of.
My nostalgia got lodged in my throat when I dragged in a startlingly familiar smoky scent. I barely had time to swallow my mouthful of wine before I felt his presence behind me.
“It’s good to know where I stand with you, Devereaux.”
His voice ran its fingers down the back of my neck, feathering along my spine like a light caress. I shuddered almost violently and nearly spilled my drink. Cage’s heavily booted foot found my heeled one under the table, pushing against it lightly in a subtle show of support.
“Ah, but Sinclair, if it is any consolation your date is both beautiful and rich and for whatever reason, she chooses to associate herself with you so,” Dev shrugged charmingly, “that is something, uh?”
I looked up at them as everyone laughed, at least, everyone but Sinclair. He was standing beside his companion, a gorgeously dressed Elena, with his eyes on me, hot and overexposed. Simultaneously, I wanted to tell him to quit being so obvious and lay myself out on the table before him, naked in offering.
I shuddered again.
“Giselle.” My sister obstructed our gaze as she leaned down to brush her lips against my cheek, eschewing the Italian custom of kissing both. “What a lovely surprise.”
She spoke like that, my sister. It had taken her longer to master the English language than she cared to admit, and she was determined to put her vocabulary and etiquette to good use. No trace of her accent remained and though her tones were smooth and dulcet, they were missing softness.
In fact, as she stepped away from the kiss, I noticed the lack of softness anywhere on Elena. Her limbs were taut, honed by hours spent running and dancing, and her features were harder than mine, pinched further by a discontent that had plagued her for years. She was only twenty-six years old, a whopping thirteen months older than me, but she carried herself like a woman who covered her grey hairs and wore
“How long have you been here for? Despite all the time we spent together in Mexico, I don’t know anything about you.” I realized that with sadness. How could I have spent such an endless week with such fascinating people and know so little about them?
“And I, you.”
My gaze snapped to his and something locked in place with an almost audible click. It was a comforting thing and I recognized it immediately as friendship.
Leaning across the table, Cage took my hand between his two large ones. “Sinclair is like a brother to me. I have known him through everything and he will always be family. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have room for a friend.”
The waitress arrived with the bottle of Burgundy we had ordered and I grinned, ignoring her hostility, as I raised my glass. “I can cheers to that.”
A bottle and a half later, Cage and I were still sitting at the table, swinging from French to English and back as we imbued more of the heady French wine. The chef had even come out to see the faces of the couple that had ordered two main courses each, leaving it to him to decide what they were given. He was entirely too young and handsome to head up a successful restaurant and I told him as much when he finally agreed to sit down for a moment.
“Ah, well, I was blessed with good luck,” Chef Devereaux, or Dev as he had encouraged us to call him, said in an accent as thick as Cage’s. “And even richer friends.”
I laughed. “And rich friends make great investors.”
He tilted his head in agreement. “But I have to say, I prefer the beautiful friends over the rich ones.”
“Is that true?” I grinned behind my wine glass. “Then you and Cage should get along just fine.”
The two men laughed too loudly, not caring who heard them and I felt a pang of homesickness for the beautiful country I had fled. Though I loved Italy, it was France that had fostered my soul and turned me into a person I could be proud of.
My nostalgia got lodged in my throat when I dragged in a startlingly familiar smoky scent. I barely had time to swallow my mouthful of wine before I felt his presence behind me.
“It’s good to know where I stand with you, Devereaux.”
His voice ran its fingers down the back of my neck, feathering along my spine like a light caress. I shuddered almost violently and nearly spilled my drink. Cage’s heavily booted foot found my heeled one under the table, pushing against it lightly in a subtle show of support.
“Ah, but Sinclair, if it is any consolation your date is both beautiful and rich and for whatever reason, she chooses to associate herself with you so,” Dev shrugged charmingly, “that is something, uh?”
I looked up at them as everyone laughed, at least, everyone but Sinclair. He was standing beside his companion, a gorgeously dressed Elena, with his eyes on me, hot and overexposed. Simultaneously, I wanted to tell him to quit being so obvious and lay myself out on the table before him, naked in offering.
I shuddered again.
“Giselle.” My sister obstructed our gaze as she leaned down to brush her lips against my cheek, eschewing the Italian custom of kissing both. “What a lovely surprise.”
She spoke like that, my sister. It had taken her longer to master the English language than she cared to admit, and she was determined to put her vocabulary and etiquette to good use. No trace of her accent remained and though her tones were smooth and dulcet, they were missing softness.
In fact, as she stepped away from the kiss, I noticed the lack of softness anywhere on Elena. Her limbs were taut, honed by hours spent running and dancing, and her features were harder than mine, pinched further by a discontent that had plagued her for years. She was only twenty-six years old, a whopping thirteen months older than me, but she carried herself like a woman who covered her grey hairs and wore
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