His fingertip trails down the side of my face. He traces my jaw until he lands on the tip of my chin. Making little circles, he lets out a sexy laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Campari is an acquired taste.”
“I’ll get used to it,” I say and bravely take another sip. The liquor courses down my throat and into my bloodstream, warming me. You know what? It’s not so bad after all.
Antoine brings us two menus. Brandon orders for the both of us, choosing the house special—fresh mussels meuniere and a side of frites (which I learn are French Fries) plus a bottle of wine—a local Rosé from Provence. I take a few more sips of the Campari cocktail, the potent alcohol loosening me up.
“The view is spectacular,” I quip.
“It is,” agrees Brandon, eyeing my cleavage, which is prominently displayed by the body-hugging bodice of my dress. I cross my legs under the table and pretend I don’t notice.
“Who do all those boats belong to?” While we passed monstrous yachts docked outside the majestic Palais des Festivals where MIP is taking place, the vessels here are much smaller and hardly pretentious.
Brandon finishes his Americano and sets the apéritif glass down. “Those are fisherman boats. Before Cannes became a center for Hollywood glitz and glamour, it used to be a small fishing village. Fishermen still make a living here. Many sell to local restaurateurs, including Antoine, who I’m sure got the mussels we ordered straight off a boat today.”
I take another hit of the Campari cocktail. “Have you ever gone swimming in the Mediterranean?”
He smiles. “Dozens of times. The water is incredible. If we have time, I want to take you swimming.”
A frisson of anxiety curls in my gut. Not only am I afraid of swimming in the sea, but I also sure as hell don’t want Brandon to see me in a bathing suit again.
“I don’t think so. You know, I’m still afraid of the ocean.”
He laughs. “The Mediterranean isn’t an ocean. It’s a sea. And technically, the part here in Cannes is a bay. So, the water is very calm. Barely a wave.”
“B-but I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” The truth. I never even thought of bringing one since I packed so hastily.
He laughs again and unnerves me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy you a bikini.”
I gulp. A bikini—the last thing I want to be caught dead in! Especially with Brandon. As I envision the worst, he continues.
“There’s probably a boutique right in the hotel.” He regards me coyly. “You may only need a bottom. Most women here sun and swim topless.”
I gulp again. The ring of Brandon’s phone saves me from responding. Thank God, because I’m at a loss for words.
My eyes stay on him as he pulls out his cell from his jeans pocket and glances down at the caller ID. His lips twist and his brows furrow. Katrina? The phone continues to ring while I anxiously circle the rim of my glass with my fingertip. To my relief, he doesn’t answer it, and, in fact, turns it off. “f*ck
it,” he mumbles under his breath. His frown morphs into a smile when Antoine personally brings us our meal along with the bottle of wine.
“Bon appetit,” says the jovial man, setting our order down.
The tantalizing, garlicky aroma of the mussels wafts up my nose. My appetite is aroused.
“Antoine makes the best mussels meuniere in all of the Riviera,” Brandon tells me.
Antoine smiles proudly. He uncorks the wine and pours Brandon a bit. Brandon takes a sip and nods approvingly. “C’est parfait.”
It’s perfect. He’s perfect. We share the big bowl of mussels and the crispy fries, sensuously feeding helpings to one another and imbibing the refreshing pink wine between bites. Moans escape my mouth. Not only are the mussels divine, but their tender meat is also charging me with sexual energy. Mussels must be some kind of aphrodisiac. But actually, everything is turning me on. The food, the wine, the setting. And most of all, the mouth-watering man sitting across from me. My eyes don’t waver from him as I feed him the last mussel. His luscious lips clamp down on the edible part and then he sucks on it.
“Mmm,” he moans, closing his eyes as he does. Every ounce of me is buzzing and there’s a wet fire inside my panties. He swallows and licks his upper lip. Another gush of wetness and a rush of hot tingles besiege me. He re-opens his eyes and meets my gaze, holding it fiercely. Before either of us can say word, a staunch, swarthy woman appears on the terrace. Holding an accordion, she heads our way. Once at our table, she stretches out the instrument and starts to serenade us.
“Inoubliable…”
Oh my God! In one word, the song is instantly recognizable. “Unforgettable.” Mama’s favorite song…sung in French. With the husky voice of a fallen angel, the songstress’s moving rendition pulls at my heartstrings. Tears flood my eyes.
“Why are you crying?” Brandon asks, tenderly brushing my unstoppable tears away.