When the Heart Falls

"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?"

Jenifer looks to me for help in translating.

"Yes, thank you," I say. "Dinner was wonderful."

He smiles, pleased with the compliment, or maybe it's my over-enthusiastic reply, because, well, the food really is that good. "Bien," he says. "That is good to hear. I have brought you your check as your server had to leave. A family emergency."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I look at the check before passing it to Jenifer and frown, adding up the dinners. "Lovely."

Jenifer looks at it and scowls. "That mother fucker."

The man still standing by our table frowns and runs a hand through his thick brown hair. "Is there something wrong?"

About to lash out, I temper my anger. "Not anything that's your fault. There was a guy who invited himself to our table to eat with us. I didn't even want him here, and I thought he paid for his own meal, but— "

"He didn't." Jenifer says, still staring at the check with her jaw dropped.

I saw the price, and though I'm not strong on converting currency, it wasn't a cheap dinner.

"I… whatever." I point at Jenifer. "This one's on you."

Jenifer looks at the bill again, then her purse. "Umm, looks like I forgot my credit card. I have… " she pulls out some change. "Ten euros?"

Good Lord, could this night get any worse? Grateful for the cash my dad slipped me, I reach for the wad of money in my purse, but the server holds up his hand in protest. "Do not trouble yourself with it. I am Vincent Allaire, the owner here, and I am happy to offer this dinner to you at no cost."

My hand stops digging. He looks too young to be the owner, not much older than us, and his hazel eyes are kind. "Are you sure?" I ask. "It really wasn't your fault."

"But of course." He smiles again, and it turns his average, though not unpleasant looks, into something more attractive. "Two lovely American women such as yourself, I cannot hear of taking your money for what must have been an unpleasant experience. And if I can ever be of service to you again, please do not hesitate to ask it of me."

He half bows and rips up the check, leaving us both speechless.

Finding my tongue, I thank him. "The food really was magnifique. I look forward to coming back."

He reaches for my hand, and I think he's going to shake it, but he brings it up to his lips and kisses it so gently it feels like butterfly wings. "It will be my pleasure to serve you myself when you come again, Mademoiselle… ?"

"Winter. I'm Winter Deveaux."

He releases my hand, smiling. "A French name. You have family here?"

"I'm not sure anymore, but my great-grandparents came from France to America after they were married."

Jenifer, who is already at the door, turns and waves me to join her. "Come on! I want to get out of here."

Her voice carries through the restaurant, and I cringe as more people stare. "Sorry about my friend. She's very… enthusiastic."

"Do not worry. Have a safe evening, Mademoiselle Winter. I look forward to seeing you again soon."





CADE SAVAGE





CHAPTER 4





A RESTLESS ENERGY builds in me as I unpack my bags and settle in to my private room. The second bed, empty and bare of sheets, makes the space seem sad. Maybe I should have agreed to a roommate, at least then I wouldn't be stuck in my head right now, mulling over problems that aren't mine to worry about.

I’d packed light—a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts, flannels, socks, boxers, a jacket, my laptop and a few books on architecture. None of this should remind me of home, but it does. These are the clothes of a rancher, not an architect. My jacket still smells of hay and horses. An unexpected longing stirs in my gut, and for the first time I fear my chosen path.

Paris—the city of artists and dreamers. Being here is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. So why do I still feel so out of place?