Page 16 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
Because really, when I thought about it, he could have just sent me on my way last night. For heaven’s sake, it’s not like I’d been so charming he’d been unable to resist me. I’d been pretty bitchy, actually.
A little breathless from the climb, I reached the top and stepped into the wind, pulling my sweater tighter around me. Carefully, I approached the edge and took in the panoramic view. But rather than the Eiffel Tower or Louvre or La Défense, my eye immediately sought the café where Lucas was waiting for me, and I thought I saw him there, but I couldn’t be certain. I pulled out my camera and took a few pictures before heading back down the steps, through the underground walkway, and back up to the café. Lucas was right where I’d left him, an empty coffee cup on the table. He’d been checking his phone, but quickly tucked it into his pocket when he saw me, something else Tucker would never have done. He was glued to that thing.
“So? How was it?” Lucas pulled the chair on the other side of the table out for me.
“It was amazing. It was breathtaking. It was…” I lowered myself into the chair and pumped my fists in the air. “Triumphant.”
Lucas laughed and raised his hand for the waiter. “That good, huh?”
“Well, I didn’t see anyone kissing or getting eng
aged, which automatically makes it better than my visit to the Eiffel Tower yesterday.”
“Good. Would you like coffee?” he asked as the waiter approached.
“Sure, thanks.”
Lucas held up two fingers. “Deux cafés.” The waiter picked up the empty cup and retreated, and I leaned forward onto my elbows.
“So, Lucas...wait, what’s your last name?”
“Fournier.”
“So, Lucas Fournier. You majored in psych and music, you’re a bartender, and you’re scared of heights. Tell me something else about you.”
“I didn’t say I was scared of heights.”
I blinked. “Yes, you did.”
“I said I wasn’t fond of them. There’s a difference.”
A smile tugged at one corner of my mouth. “Of course. Pardonnez-moi.”
“And I’m not really a bartender. The Beaver belongs to my brother Gilles, and I just fill in there sometimes when I’m in Paris.”
“What do you normally do?”
“I teach intro psych at NYU. I’m just here through the summer visiting my mother and doing a little research.”
“In psychology?” I asked before taking a sip.
“In music, actually.”
“What are you researching?”
“The traditional folk music of Romani guitarists. I’d like to write a book about it.”
I tilted my head at the unfamiliar word. “Romani, what’s that?”
“Well, a lot of people refer to them as gypsies, but that term sounds a little harsh these days.”
“Aha. And do you play guitar as well?”
He smiled. “I do.”
Intrigued, I set my cup down. “Can I hear you play?”
“Did you bring a guitar?”
