When the Heart Falls(106)

"Thanks," says Jenifer. "We'd love some company."

We most certainly would not love some company, but I don't want to make even more of a scene than we already have.

The waiter comes to take our order and saunters off with a healthy arrogance lacking in American servers. I remember hearing that France does not have a 'customer is always right' philosophy and that the servers are paid well and make a career out of their choice to work in restaurants.

The Italian sweeps his eyes over us both. "I'm Rocco, from Italy. I study at the Sorbonne. You ladies are American, no?"

"Yes," Jenifer says, nodding. "We're staying at the Cité International in the USA house."

He smiles, his teeth white against his tan skin and full lips. With his thick head of hair and delicately sculpted face, he looks like a Calvin Klein model, the Italian version. Very different from the strong, rugged look of Cade. "Me too," he says. "Italy House."

I'm no longer paying much attention to them as I dig into my dinner, which looks and smells amazing. One bite of the chicken, and I groan. Tender, seasoned just right. People aren't lying about the quality of French cuisine.

Rocco slaps his hands onto the table, shaking the water glasses and startling me to the point of choking on my food. "Hands on the table, please," he says, eyes bulging.

I sip my water and swallow, dislodging the stuck food. "What?"

"I need to see both hands on the table." He lays his hands on the table to demonstrate. He picks up his fork to eat with one, while leaving the other visible.

Did I miss an important piece of the conversation? "Why?"

"So I know you have no weapons." He says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I roll my eyes at Jenifer, who doesn't look quite as confident about our dining partner. "We don't have any weapons," I assure him.

"I don't know that," he says. "You might have a switchblade or American handgun, I don't know. I hear stories of the weapons in America, how much you love your guns."

"We don't have any handguns." I try to hide my exasperation.

"What about rifle?" He frowns.

I wait for him to crack a smile to show he's joking, but he stays serious.

I gesture to my sundress and sandals, a small handbag to carry my money and identification. "Where the hell would I keep a rifle?"

"I don't know. You don't have any weapons? Then put both hands on the table, please."

Jenifer mouths, "Just do it."

So I do, because I just want the dinner to end.

As we finish our food, Rocco pulls something out from a bag he'd been carrying that I hadn't noticed until now. He hands each of us a flaky pastry with a crème filling. "You try this. Best desert."

I hesitate, but Jenifer shoves it into her mouth. "Ooohh this is yummy," she says. "Try it, Winter."

The custard initially tastes a bit sour, but once it combines with the buttery crust and a surprise burst of berry in the center, it's actually pretty good.

Rocco leans against his hands and smiles at me. "I would very much like to see you ladies again."

I'm not sure why he's directing this toward me, since Jenifer has been the one fawning over him the whole evening.

"That would be fun," Jenifer says, looking at me. "Winter, how about you give him your phone number."

Resisting the urge to smack her, I jerk my head side to side, but she ignores me.

"Yes," Rocco says. "Let's exchange information."

I stand, placing my cloth napkin on the table. "Just a moment. I need to use the restroom." I grab Jenifer's arm and pull her with me, as she reaches for her purse. The moment the door to the bathroom closes I punch her shoulder. "What the hell are you thinking? This guy is weird. And what was that about keeping our hands on the table because we might be armed?"

She rubs her shoulder, then admires herself in the mirror and fusses with her hair. "Hey now. They have different customs where he's from. We have to respect that."

"Yeah, I don't think so." I cross my arms over my chest, unwilling to budge on this.

"You're in Paris now." Jenifer digs in her purse for her lipstick and smears a bright pink over her lips. "You're surrounded by people with different customs. Just, give him a chance."

"No."

Smacking her lips, she eyes my reflection in the mirror. "Come on. This will help you with your book. A date with a hot, mysterious, slightly odd Italian guy. It’s perfect material."

While it's true that I'm stuck in a rut with the rewrites on my book, I can't imagine that a night out with that guy will actually help, good looks notwithstanding.

"Come on," she says. "Just get his number. What's the worst that can happen? You don't have to call him if you don't want to." She snaps her purse shut and walks out the door, expecting me to follow.

My silence must have been implied consent, because when I reach the table Rocco passes me a napkin. "Here's my number. Call me, no? And, please, don't take too long." And with that not-at-all-bossy last line, he stands and walks out.

A tall man, elegantly dressed in a pin-striped suit and tie, walks up to our table holding the check. "Bonjour. Avez-vous apprécié votre d?ner?"