I glared at him. Guillaume laughed.
“You’ve always been so skeptical, Gabe,” he said, raising a finger and moving it side-to-side in a tsk-tsk motion. I glanced between the two of them.
“You already know each other?” I asked. Somehow I had expected that Gabe knew Guillaume only from afar, or perhaps from a few brief interviews during the past year. But they were behaving as if they had met many times in the past.
“Let’s just say we go way back,” Gabe said drily, shaking his head. He sat down in the chair between Guillaume and me and ordered a kir royale from the waiter.
“Ah, drinking in the afternoon, are we?” Guillaume said, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his café au lait with disdain. He grinned at Gabe. “A man after my own heart.”
“Says the alcoholic,” Gabe muttered.
“He is not an alcoholic,” I said quickly, “and I would appreciate you not joking about such a serious matter.” I was already getting a headache. I shot him a withering look.
“Right,” Guillaume said stiffly. I could tell he was fighting back a grin. “I am not an alcoholic. Everything that has happened has been a—what did you call it, Emma?—a misunderstanding.”
I glared at him. “It was a misunderstanding,” I said through gritted teeth.
Gabe stared at me for a long moment. Then, thankfully, he switched gears. “So, Guillaume,” he began, looking away from me and focusing on Guillaume, his pen poised over a pad of paper. “Tell me about your debut single, ‘City of Light,’ and why it’s the ideal record to cross over to English-speaking listeners.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as Guillaume started rattling off the perfect answer, describing how love is the universal language and how the song is, at its core, about falling in love, no matter where it takes place, or in what language. His answer was so perfect, in fact, that I was a bit transfixed myself, even though I knew Poppy and I had practically spoon-fed him the words.
Gabe took Guillaume through several questions about the album, his appeal to English-speaking audiences, and his music career.
The questions were surprisingly innocuous, and I was just starting to get comfortable when Gabe rapidly switched tracks.
“So these three recent incidents—the H?tel Jeremie, the Eiffel Tower, your little high-wire act over Rue Banville—you claim they were all innocent mistakes?” Gabe asked, leaning forward. I cleared my throat loudly in an attempt to remind him not to press too hard.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Guillaume said, shooting me a look. “You journalists are always getting it wrong.”
Gabe, clearly sensing a challenge, arched an eyebrow and went in for the kill.
“Oh, so we’re the ones getting it wrong?” he asked, looking half amused, half pissed off. Uh-oh. “So I suppose it’s relatively commonplace to get locked in the Eiffel Tower without your clothes. Or to get caught in a hotel room with a bunch of naked girls. Or to get drunk or high or whatever and convince yourself that it’s just a fantastic idea to hang upside down over a city street fifteen stories up.”
“It was thirteen stories,” Guillaume said, waving a hand dismissively. “And things aren’t always what they appear.” I looked back and forth between them nervously. So far, Guillaume seemed to be doing fine. His answers were nonchalant, nondefensive. Perfect. Then he glanced at me. “Besides,” he added. “I have the beautiful Emma here to always come to my rescue.” He smirked at Gabe.
I turned toward Guillaume and fixed him with a glare. What was he doing?
“Yeah, well, maybe if you could control yourself, she wouldn’t have to keep disrupting her life to help you,” Gabe snapped immediately.
“Who says it’s a disruption?” Guillaume shot back.
“Guillame—” I started.
“Well, I’d say that making a woman risk her life to come get you down from a stupid high-wire act is a disruption,” Gabe said.
“Gabe!” I interrupted hastily. Guillaume was still smirking, and Gabe looked peeved. “That’s my job. Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, Gabe. We were singing a duet!” Guillaume said. “Emma loved it! Why are you so uptight? Is it because you haven’t had a girl to sing a duet with in years? Are you jealous?”
Gabe’s eyes flashed angrily, and he said something to Guillaume in rapid French. Guillaume laughed and answered. Whatever he said made Gabe look even angrier, and he barked another few unintelligible phrases at my annoying pop star.
“Guys?” I interjected. “Could we switch back to English?”
“Sorry, Emma,” Guillaume said. “I was just telling Gabe here that I do respect you.”