Perfect Strangers

He takes me to a lovely restaurant overlooking the Seine. It’s quiet, candlelit, and cozy, the view of the river breathtaking as it sparkles under the glow of the rising moon. Like the rest of Paris, it’s a spot perfectly designed for romance.

I feel sorry for anyone who dares to be single in this city.

We’re seated in a corner of the room by an immaculate maître d’. He and James exchange a few words in French, then the waiter disappears. We’re left gazing at each other across the table as the elegant notes of a jazz trio wafts over from another room.

James says, “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

No. I’m wound so tight I could snap.

He takes a moment to examine my expression. “Let’s try that again. And this time tell me the truth.”

I flatten my clammy hands on the linen tablecloth on either side of my plate. I draw a breath, let it out, then say, “I originally thought not jumping into bed with you right away would enhance things—you know, heighten desire and whatnot—but now I’m thinking I underestimated the effect you have on my nervous system.”

When he simply sits there, waiting for me to continue, I admit sheepishly, “I could be in danger of passing out.”

His eyes burn, but he keeps his tone light. “If you fall face first into your entrée, I promise to rescue you.”

“You won’t let me aspirate my bouillabaisse or choke on my coq au vin?”

His lips twitch as he tries to suppress a smile. “No, I won’t. And if you require CPR to dislodge a chicken bone that might fly down your throat when your face hits the plate, I’m your man.”

I smile a little. It’s much easier to do this when we’re being silly. “But are you certified in CPR? I don’t want anyone with such bulky muscles as yours bashing away at my sternum like it’s a bongo drum. You could crack something.”

His smile breaks through in all its dazzling glory. “I think we’ve already established that I’m going to be careful with you.”

When I swallow hard, he chuckles. Then, eyes twinkling, he reaches across the table, squeezes my hand, and lets me off the hook by changing the subject.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered us cocktails. I know you’re a modern woman, but a gentleman does like to make some things easier for a lady.”

His hand is big, warm, and rough—exactly how I imagined it would be when I masturbated to the thought of him.

It’s a good thing I recently had a complete physical that showed I was in perfect health, because otherwise I’d be convinced this feeling I’m experiencing is either a stroke or some obscure variety of seizure where you appear normal on the outside, but inside every muscle has clenched to stone.

“As long as you don’t go overboard and try to order my dinner for me,” I manage to say. “There’s a fine line between being gentlemanly and being domineering.”

His gaze holding mine and his tone serious, James replies, “That’s a line I love to walk.”

Stroke. Seizure. Acute aortic catastrophe. Through it all, somehow my lungs continue to work. “Now you’re deliberately baiting me.”

“It’s just nerves. You’ve been through worse.”

The way he says it—and the similarity to what Kelly said earlier on the phone—startles me. It’s as if already knows me, as if he knows everything there is to know about me, where all my deepest scars and wounds are hidden, where every black hole of anguish lies.

My mind starts to whir.

Did Estelle tell Edmond why I came to Paris? Did Edmond then tell James about me? Does he know?

A waiter arrives with two bourbons in cut crystal glasses and sets them on the table in front of us. I release James’s hand. The waiter begins to speak in English, but I’m tuned out, listening instead to my churning thoughts.

What if he looked me up online? There were articles in the paper. He knows I’m a writer, all he’d need to do is type in my name—

“Olivia?”

I jerk back into the present to find James and the waiter looking at me. Waiting for an answer to a question I missed.

“I’m sorry, what were you asking?”

Patiently, the waiter repeats the evening’s specials. I feel the weight of James’s stare, but I don’t look at him.

“The scallops sound lovely, thank you.”

“Anything to start?”

I realize I must’ve missed that part of his speech, too. “Um, whatever you suggest.”

He beams. “The foie gras is incredible.”

“Anything but that.”

He blinks at my disgusted tone, then offers, “Perhaps the phyllo-wrapped brie with fig preserves?”

“Yes. Perfect. Thank you.”

James orders filet mignon and a green salad, the waiter departs, and then we’re left alone with my blossoming anxiety.

James takes me in for a while in silence. “I’ve said something wrong.”

Crap. If he’s going to be this damn observant all the time, this will never work.

“No, not wrong. Just…” I glance up to find him staring at me with his signature intensity, all smoldering masculinity and hungry eyes. “I was wondering if you spoke to Edmond about me.”

He leans back in his chair. Without breaking our gazes, he says evenly, “Yes. I asked him to tell me everything he knew about you.”

My heart does a painful flip beneath my breastbone. “And what did he say?”

“That you were a friend of Estelle’s, staying in her unit. A writer on holiday from America.”

I study him. Is he holding something back? “What else?”

“That you seemed very bright and charming, but you had the saddest eyes of anyone he’d ever met.”

Our locked gazes feel like a physical connection, fingers interlaced and squeezing, a live wire conducting heat and electricity between us across empty space.

I say, “The next person who tells me I have sad eyes is going to get a fork stuck into one of his own.”

“I know,” comes the soft response. “You don’t want to talk about anything personal, and I’ll respect that. But you did ask.”

His tone is both gentle and intimate, as if we’re already lovers. The sheer tenderness of it makes a lump form in my throat. I haven’t had tenderness from a man in forever. I haven’t had this kind of undivided attention in forever, either, and the worst thing about it is…I don’t deserve it.

I don’t deserve to be sitting here living and breathing when the only reason I had to live is six feet underground.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

I’m horrified to discover my eyes are watering.

Desperate to escape his searing eyes, I tear my gaze from his and stand. “Excuse me for a moment, please. I need to use the ladies’ room.”

Without waiting for an answer, I turn from the table and walk at a breakneck pace across the restaurant to the double doors near the foyer we passed on the way in.

I burst into the restroom and collapse against the opposite wall as the door closes behind me. I stand there trembling, wondering how the hell he makes me feel stripped so raw when all I’ve felt the past two years is entombed.

He melted me with his first look. His first searching, seeing look.

I drop my face into my hands and groan.

This was a stupid idea. I’m obviously not ready for this. It’s naïve to think emotions won’t get involved if I can’t even sit at a table with him without bolting in a panic.

It’s not like this is the first time it’s happened, either. Every time I talk to the man, I end up running away. If I slept with him I’d probably unravel completely!

I picture myself curled naked in a sobbing ball on his bed as he looks on helplessly, wondering which mental institution to call first.

“Olivia.”

I look up and emit a peep of terror. James stands across from me inside the ladies’ room door, materialized as soundlessly as a ghost.

I open my mouth to stammer some mortified excuse for why I’m acting like such a lunatic, but before I can speak, James closes the distance between us and gathers me into his arms.

All my distress instantly quiets. I descend straight from the frantic chaos of my head to the real and grounding presence of his body.

Oh Lord. Oh holy…

If I thought I were melted before by his eyes, his big, warm, solid frame against mine proves to be an entirely different form of liquefication. Parts of me I didn’t even know I had are thawing and beginning to burn.

“Just breathe,” he says quietly, his mouth close to my ear. “Just feel me and breathe.”

Seven more beautiful words have never been spoken.

The way I sag against him in relief, it’s as if a spell has been cast. I wind my arms around his shoulders, bury my face into his neck, and inhale a breath scented of his skin. When I let it out, I’m almost groggy with desire.

Against my breasts, his heart hammers as madly as mine does.

He presses his cheek against mine. He twines a hand into my hair, cradling my head in his palm. He curves around me, protecting me from—what? My own fear, I suppose. My imagination. My past and all its baggage.

Myself.

Someone pushes open the door and proceeds toward the stalls as if we’re invisible. She uses the toilet, washes her hands, and leaves without a word, as if two lovers entwined in the entry of a restroom is completely unremarkable, a thing so commonplace it doesn’t even merit a look.

Maybe it is. It’s Paris, after all. Entwined lovers are as common a sight as street lamps.

“Better?” James whispers, his rough jaw tickling my cheek.

“So much better,” I whisper back, burrowing closer to him. “Do you have a side gig taming wild animals, by chance? Because if not, you’d be really good at it.”

His chuckle is a low rumbling vibration against my face. It’s ridiculous how much I like the sound. I want to record it and play it back when I’m stressed out, let it soothe me like the hypnotic chanting of a thousand gathered Buddhist monks.

Yeah, I tried group chanting with monks. I’ve tried everything. Grief sends people in desperate search of any kind of relief.

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a veterinarian,” says James, withdrawing slightly to smile down into my eyes. “Does that count?”

“So you’re an animal lover along with everything else. Great.”

“Why do you sound disappointed?”

“I’m trying to find a fatal flaw for insurance.”

“Insurance? Against what?”

I open my mouth but stop myself before blurting, Against falling in love with you. Instead I give him a mysterious smile.

“I forgot,” he says, examining my face. “We’re not getting personal.”

“Although you made an oopsie a second ago by telling me you wanted to be a vet as a kid.”

“We better talk terms over dinner so I don’t put my foot in my mouth again. I need to know what the ground rules are.” His gaze drops to my mouth.

When he just keeps staring at my lips, I start to get self-conscious. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about fruit-to-body-part comparisons right now.”

He says gruffly, “I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you, and how much I also don’t want the first time we kiss to be ten steps away from a toilet.”

That sends a little thrill straight through me. I love how he says what’s on his mind without any attempt to hide it or dress it up.

This man is very good for my ego. Very good, indeed.

Smiling and much calmer than before, I flatten my hands over his hard pecs. “Hold that thought until we get through dinner. If I don’t get something to eat soon, you won’t be able to kiss me at all because I’ll be hauled away to jail for gnawing on all the furniture.”

His eyes warm and his smile indulgent, James brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “And here I thought I was the reason you were feeling light headed.”

I grin at him. “Nope. Hypoglycemia is the culprit, my friend.”

We both conveniently ignore the fact that I told him not even ten minutes ago about his effect on my nervous system.

He turns and leads me by the hand out of the restroom, holding it tight even after we’re sitting down at the table and have started on our drinks.