Page 10 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
Bristling a little, I dropped my hands and squared my shoulders. “No, I am not looking for anyone.”
“Oh. The way you were scavenging the crowd with those big eyes, I thought maybe you were here to catch your boyfriend with somebody else.”
“I do not have a boyfriend!”
He held up his hands. “Sorry. Or girlfriend, whatever. I just meant you looked like you knew what you came in for, but it wasn’t a good time.”
“For your information, that is exactly what I came in for.” I marched over to the closest barstool and sat down with a huff. “And no, I don’t have a girlfriend either. I’m alone. Alone,” I repeated even louder, drawing stares from the few patrons sitting at the bar. One got up and moved to the next stool down, farther away from me. “Is that OK with you?”
“Love, it’s all OK with me. Why don’t you tell me what you want to drink?”
“Don’t use that word.”
“What word?”
“Love,” I spat.
“Sorry, I just haven’t learned your name yet.”
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t care what you call me, I just don’t want to hear any more about love tonight, or see it, or smell it in the goddamn air.”
He nodded. “That bad, huh?”
“Yes. That’s what I was doing when I came in, making sure there were no obvious couples in love in here. They’re fucking everywh
ere in this city. You can’t even walk down the street without seeing people hanging all over each other, kissing and hugging and being fucking happy together. It’s like a crime to walk down the street alone.”
“There’s plenty of people alone here.”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
He shrugged. “Well, Paris is a romantic place.”
“Paris can kiss my ass.”
“Why don’t I get you a drink, um…”
“Mia.”
“I’m Lucas.” He offered his hand across the bar, and I shook it. ”So what’s your pleasure, Mia?” He smiled and called a greeting in French to some people entering the bar behind me.
“A plane ticket back to Detroit. I want to go home.”
“Well. Can’t help you there, but I bet you can grab a flight tomorrow. And since it’s your last night in Paris, let me pour you a glass of wine.”
“It’s my first night in Paris,” I said miserably. “And my last.”
His brown eyes went wide. “In that case, the wine’s on me. Hang on.”
Moving to the far end of the bar, he pulled a wine bottle off a shelf and poured a glass. I watched as he filled a few drink orders for other people, and noticed he spoke French with everyone but me. Although my ear wasn’t expert by any means, he sounded like a native speaker. And yet he also spoke English with a pretty good American accent. I had to admit I was a little curious about him.
Propping my chin in my hand, I looked him over more carefully. He wasn’t tall or built like Tucker, but he was slender and possibly muscular in a less obvious way. He had a trim waist and a cute butt, shown off nicely in gray pants worn more fitted than Tucker wore his. Too bad he was such a mess above the shoulders, though—that scraggly hair probably hadn’t been washed in days, and even though he had nice full lips, you could barely see them with all the scruff on his face. I thought he could be handsome if he’d invest in a razor and a good haircut.
My taste in guys is clean-shaven and neatly coiffed with a pretty face, which was Tucker Branch to a T. He was as vain as any woman I knew, worked out daily and spent hours in front of a mirror, but it never bothered me. His careful attention to his appearance meant he cared what I thought; he wanted to look good for me. As the memory of his hard, cut body underneath his gorgeous custom suits infiltrated my brain, I experienced a pang of regret. God, he’s just so good-looking. Those blue eyes. The sculpted abs. The smell of his neck when he’d cover my body with his.
“Here you go.” Lucas set down a glass of red wine, generously poured. I liked how the outside corners of his brown eyes got a little crinkly when he smiled, but he was no Tucker Branch. I’ll bet he doesn’t smell as good either. But Coco might have liked Lucas; he was more her type. I wondered if he had any tattoos.
“Thanks.” I offered a small, tight-lipped smile, and he winced.
