When the Heart Falls(14)

Jenifer winks at him. "Yummy, right?"

I shrug and return to the breadsticks the waiter brought. "I suppose." The first bite sends me to heaven. Garlic and butter and perfectly baked dough, so yum.

"You suppose? Don't go all Ice Queen on me now. That guy is hot."

Lovely. Like I want that nickname trailing me around the world. "Sure."

"How?" She throws her hands up in the air. "How does a prime specimen like that not even intrigue you?"

"I'm just not interested." I take another bite, chew and swallow. "Now, let's talk about something other than my sex life." I hold up a breadstick. "Like these. Have you tasted these? So freaking delicious. I wonder if I can smuggle them back to the US." I think back to the question about food items during customs and now I understand, it's not the pineapples they're worried about. It's the carbs.

Jenifer shakes her head then raises her hand and waves to the Italian. "Hi."

I groan and sink into my seat.

"Ciao," he says, his Italian accent thick.

Jenifer makes an 'eep' sound. "Did you hear that? He said 'Ciao.' So sexy."

"Sure, whatever."

She ignores me and goes back to her conversation across the restaurant as other guests stare at us in shock. This is why people hate Americans. We're annoying.

"Do you come here often?" asks Jenifer. "My friend and I need help on deciding on what to order."

"You want a tasty meal, I can show you the best," he says from behind me.

Jenifer holds up her menu. "Really?"

I feel him approaching and squirm in my seat, wishing I'd stayed asleep after all.

He pulls out the chair between us. "I sit with you and amaze you. The chicken is very good."

Jenifer doesn't seem to think it odd that he just invited himself to our table, but my arm prickles with goose bumps in warning.

"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."