Page 50 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
I clapped my hands. “Do it! Please?”
“OK. But don’t compare me to this guy.” Lucas tapped Stefan on the shoulder.
“He is very good guitarist,” Stefan said to me in heavily accented English.
“I believe it.” But I was nervous for Lucas, watching him sit in Stefan’s chair and loop the strap of the guitar over his head. He chatted with the rhythm guitarists for a moment, counted off the song in French, and they began strumming that chung-chung-chung-chung pattern with alarming speed. My insides knotted up. Ugh, I hope he isn’t going to try to show off with something he can’t do.
I shouldn’t have worried. Lucas played with graceful dexterity, his fingers whisking confidently over the strings, embellishing the melody of the tune without filling up all the space with showy runs or a million extra notes.
I was mesmerized.
My favorite part was how happy he looked the entire time, whether smiling at me or at the other guitarists or just watching his hands on the guitar. God, he was so fucking cute. And talented and smart and sweet.
What the hell? There had to be something wrong with him.
He lives in France. That’s what’s wrong with him.
Only sometimes.
Yeah, like right now. And he’s leaving Paris tomorrow.
At the recollection that our time together was running out, my stomach twisted painfully. I pushed back against the unease building in my gut and tried to stay in the moment.
Right here, right now.
But when the song ended, Lucas said something to the other guitarists and counted off another tune. And as soon as he played the opening notes of La Vie En Rose, I sucked in my breath.
In fact, I don’t think I breathed through the entire song. He didn’t sing or anything, but he played the melody so beautifully that it brought tears to my eyes. The room, which had buzzed with noise before, was hushed and still as he played, and when the song finished, everyone there applauded. Lucas lifted the guitar strap over his head, gave it back to Stefan with a nod of thanks, and returned to me at the table.
“Well? What’d you think?”
I had to swallow hard before speaking. “That was beautiful. Thank you for playing the song for me. It…meant a lot.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll always think of you now when I hear it.”
My mouth opened, but I didn’t know what to say. We stared at each other, and I realized something had changed between us—he’d acknowledged, in a way, that our time together was limited, that goodbye was near. And honestly, he didn’t look too happy about it either.
He sat down and cleared his throat. “Did you get enough to
eat? Do you want another glass of wine?”
“No. I mean, yes, I got enough to eat, but no more wine, I guess.” For the first time, I felt tongue-tied around Lucas. I didn’t want the night to end, but I didn’t feel right inviting myself back to his apartment. And I couldn’t invite him back to my room either.
Shit. Is this it? I looked over one shoulder toward the door in an effort to conceal the tears forming in my eyes.
“Well…I guess we can go, then. Let me just pay the bill.”
“No.” I put my hand over it on the table and dragged it toward me. “This one’s mine. It’s the least I can do for all the time you’ve spent with me.”
“Spent? Are you done with me now?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
I shrugged. “Well, you’re leaving, right? Didn’t you say last night that you had to go out of town tomorrow?”
“Oh, that’s right. Fuck. Tomorrow’s Thursday?” He tugged at a strand of hair that had escaped my bun. “You made me forget what day it was.”
I had to laugh. “Good.”
“I do have to leave Paris tomorrow. I have to go to Vaucluse for my brother’s engagement party. My family is all meeting there.”
