at least—to the maître d’. Regardless of how busy the quaint little café appeared to be, authority radiated off him and we were quickly seated at a table for two out on the patio beside the bustling sidewalk. It was a perfect spot for people-watching. Ben pulled out my chair and I lowered myself in a ladylike fashion while he gently pushed it closer to the table. We had a view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, lit up and glowing with brilliant yellow lights. It was spectacular. I loved everything about this date so far and it’d barely begun.
Ben’s small, knowing smile remained in place as he passed me a drinks menu. “Thirsty, beautiful?”
I merely nodded and flipped open the menu. Crap! Everything was in French.
“Shall we order a bottle?” Ben asked. “And I should’ve asked earlier, are you hungry?”
First, there was no way I was eating in front of him. Second, bottle? Yes, please. I would need a couple of glasses to calm my nerves. “A bottle sounds good. Were you thinking white or red?”
“Red, but I can do either.”
“Red is fine.”
“The Château Saint Pierre is good—medium-bodied, creamy finish, and just a touch of sweetness.”
“Sounds great.” Note to self—this man knows his wine. That little fact only added to his hotness.
He smiled and folded his menu, setting his smartphone on the table in front of him. I couldn’t help but notice the little blue light that flashed to indicate he had a new message. Ben ignored it, though, and when the waiter came back he spoke in the most mouthwateringly beautiful French and placed our order. Moments later, the waiter appeared to open our wine and fill two glasses. Just having something in my hands set me at ease.
Ben crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned back. The stem of his wineglass remained between his fingers and he thoughtfully swirled the ruby-colored liquid within the glass. His gaze met mine and that devilish, boyish charm that melted my resolve to stay away from him flashed in his eyes. “To our adventures in Paris.”
“Yes.” I met his glass with mine, a satisfying clink piercing the night air.
“So.” His mouth turned up a playful smirk. “Tell me everything there is to know about Miss Emmy Clarke.”
“Uh.” I fumbled with the drinks menu, clumsily rearranging it on the table in front of us. “Let’s see. I’ve been working for Fiona for a couple of weeks. I’m from Tennessee originally. Pretty standard stuff. What do you want to know?”
He shrugged.
I swallowed and shifted in my seat. Okay. Taking a deep breath, I continued, “In college I double majored in communications and fashion design.”
A flicker of interest in his eyes revealed that he was impressed.
“I have a younger brother and two parents who are still very much in love.” Someone shut me up. God, was I trying to put him to sleep? “Nothing really that exciting. Tell me more about you.”
“What do you want to know?” His smile was playful, like he almost expected that I’d Googled him and assumed that I knew everything there was to know.
I did know a lot. His mom was retired supermodel Dakota Shaw, rumored to be quite a swinger. His dad appeared to be a mystery; possibly a politician or a rock star. But it didn’t seem right to try to probe him for answers now. Instead, I simply asked, “Where did you grow up?”
His eyes drifted to his glass of wine, which he’d stopped swirling. I briefly wondered if I’d touched on a topic he didn’t care to discuss. “All over, really. New York City, London, Barcelona, Prague, Rome, Brazil, everywhere. I want to hear more about you, though. Normal family. Tennessee. What else?” He grinned, taking a sip of his wine and licking those full lips.
The wine had started to get to me already, and it seemed surreal that Ben Shaw was sitting across from me. What was he even doing here with me? Was this a date? Two friends? Coworkers? My head was a wreck. I needed answers.
I set my
Ben’s small, knowing smile remained in place as he passed me a drinks menu. “Thirsty, beautiful?”
I merely nodded and flipped open the menu. Crap! Everything was in French.
“Shall we order a bottle?” Ben asked. “And I should’ve asked earlier, are you hungry?”
First, there was no way I was eating in front of him. Second, bottle? Yes, please. I would need a couple of glasses to calm my nerves. “A bottle sounds good. Were you thinking white or red?”
“Red, but I can do either.”
“Red is fine.”
“The Château Saint Pierre is good—medium-bodied, creamy finish, and just a touch of sweetness.”
“Sounds great.” Note to self—this man knows his wine. That little fact only added to his hotness.
He smiled and folded his menu, setting his smartphone on the table in front of him. I couldn’t help but notice the little blue light that flashed to indicate he had a new message. Ben ignored it, though, and when the waiter came back he spoke in the most mouthwateringly beautiful French and placed our order. Moments later, the waiter appeared to open our wine and fill two glasses. Just having something in my hands set me at ease.
Ben crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned back. The stem of his wineglass remained between his fingers and he thoughtfully swirled the ruby-colored liquid within the glass. His gaze met mine and that devilish, boyish charm that melted my resolve to stay away from him flashed in his eyes. “To our adventures in Paris.”
“Yes.” I met his glass with mine, a satisfying clink piercing the night air.
“So.” His mouth turned up a playful smirk. “Tell me everything there is to know about Miss Emmy Clarke.”
“Uh.” I fumbled with the drinks menu, clumsily rearranging it on the table in front of us. “Let’s see. I’ve been working for Fiona for a couple of weeks. I’m from Tennessee originally. Pretty standard stuff. What do you want to know?”
He shrugged.
I swallowed and shifted in my seat. Okay. Taking a deep breath, I continued, “In college I double majored in communications and fashion design.”
A flicker of interest in his eyes revealed that he was impressed.
“I have a younger brother and two parents who are still very much in love.” Someone shut me up. God, was I trying to put him to sleep? “Nothing really that exciting. Tell me more about you.”
“What do you want to know?” His smile was playful, like he almost expected that I’d Googled him and assumed that I knew everything there was to know.
I did know a lot. His mom was retired supermodel Dakota Shaw, rumored to be quite a swinger. His dad appeared to be a mystery; possibly a politician or a rock star. But it didn’t seem right to try to probe him for answers now. Instead, I simply asked, “Where did you grow up?”
His eyes drifted to his glass of wine, which he’d stopped swirling. I briefly wondered if I’d touched on a topic he didn’t care to discuss. “All over, really. New York City, London, Barcelona, Prague, Rome, Brazil, everywhere. I want to hear more about you, though. Normal family. Tennessee. What else?” He grinned, taking a sip of his wine and licking those full lips.
The wine had started to get to me already, and it seemed surreal that Ben Shaw was sitting across from me. What was he even doing here with me? Was this a date? Two friends? Coworkers? My head was a wreck. I needed answers.
I set my
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