I stopped walking, and he rolled down his window. “Need a ride home?”
“No,” I said grumpily. I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth. It was another few blocks to the Métro, then, after I got off the train at the closest stop to our apartment, I’d still have to walk all the way home, which meant crossing the Pont de’lAlma and walking halfway up Avenue Bosquet—a good half mile. I’d surely have to have my feet amputated. But I was in no mood to need anyone—particularly Gabe—so I started walking again, pretending to ignore him. Better to go through the rest of my life without sensation in my feet, right?
“Okay,” Gabe said cheerfully. I expected him to speed up and drive off, leaving me and my aching feet in the dust, but instead, as I walked and stared straight ahead, I could sense his car beside me, creeping slowly along, keeping pace.
Ignore him, I told myself. It’s like he’s not even there. Don’t look.
That worked for a block. But when I turned left onto Boulevard Péreire and Gabe turned with me and continued inching along beside me, I’d finally had enough.
“Stop following me!” I snapped, halting in my tracks and turning to face him.
“Oh, you’re still there?” Gabe feigned surprise. He stopped his car. “I hadn’t noticed.”
I glared at him.
“Oh, come on, Emma,” Gabe said after a moment of smiling at me. His face looked serious now. “Just get in the car, already. I know your feet hurt in those shoes.”
“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
“No, you’re not,” Gabe said simply. “Stop being proud and just get in. I’m going to your neighborhood anyhow.”
I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic in reply, but what was the point? My feet were killing me.
“Fine,” I grumbled. I marched over to his car like I was doing him a favor, yanked the door open, and slammed it behind me after I’d flopped into his passenger’s seat.
“Um, you appear to have shut your dress in the door, Emma,” Gabe said. I glanced at him and was perturbed to see that he appeared to be hiding a smile.
I looked down and realized that in all my righteous indignation, I had, in fact, managed to shut the hem of my dress into the car door. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I opened the door, pulled in my dress, and slammed the door again, fervently hoping that my cheeks hadn’t turned too red.
Gabe pulled away from the curb, and I looked out the window, trying to ignore him—admittedly difficult when I was sitting two feet away from him. We drove in silence for a few moments.
“So really, Emma, are you okay?” Gabe asked finally.
I glanced at him and nodded. “Yeah.”
“I meant what I said back there,” he said. “That was really brave.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised.
“And really foolish,” he continued.
I made a face. I should have known his apparent kindness was too good to be true.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I snapped.
“Guillaume would have come down eventually on his own,” Gabe said softly.
“You don’t know that,” I protested. “Maybe I saved his life.”
Gabe was quiet for a moment. “You know, he’s not as crazy as he looks,” he said finally. “He just enjoys the attention.”
I ignored him and looked out the window. What was he, Guillaume’s psychiatrist?
“So, how was that date of yours tonight?” Gabe asked casually as we entered the roundabout that circled the Arc de Triomphe.
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks again. I blinked a few times. “None of your business,” I muttered. After all, what was I going to do, admit to him that it had been a horrible failure? That I had thought Edouard was perfect until his chauvinistic resentment came pouring out? I glanced up at the Arc, which loomed, big, glowing, and impressive, over the street, casting its pools of light every which way. I tried to ignore Gabe.
“No, I suppose it’s not my business.” Gabe paused and glanced at me as we pulled out of the roundabout and up to a stop sign. “But you do look really pretty in that dress.”
I looked at him in surprise. Of course he was being sarcastic, right? “Um, thanks,” I mumbled, feeling like I was on the outside of some inside joke.
“I mean it,” he said softly.
“Oh,” I said awkwardly, not quite knowing what to make of him.
We drove in silence down the crowded Champs-élysées, and Gabe didn’t talk again until he was on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, heading toward the Seine.
“So how about that interview with Guillaume, Emma?” he asked just as the Eiffel Tower came into view on the horizon, off to the right. “Can you help me out?”
Ah. So that was it. That was why he was giving me a ride and pretending he thought I was pretty. Typical. As if I’d be stupid enough to eat up his compliments and respond by giving him carte blanche to harass my client.