“You’re . . .” Her voice failed her, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re Christién.” Of course she recognized him. He had been the male equivalent of a supermodel, and to find him here, practically in her backyard, was just surreal.
“Ah oui. I am. And who are you, ma petite?” His French accent was so sexy. He was Congolese, she remembered reading that somewhere. She wondered how he had wound up in this tiny corner of Africa. She would have expected him to live in Paris or Milan or somewhere equally cosmopolitan.
“I’m, uh . . . I . . .”
“This is Daisy McGregor.”
“You’re as pretty and fresh as the flower you are named after, ma belle.” Daisy giggled like a giddy teen. The sound was so bubbly and adolescent it completely threw her, and a self-conscious hand flew up to her mouth as if to force the foolish sound back in. Mason’s face was completely unreadable. Nothing there, not even the constant little amused smirk that he usually wore around her. He always looked like he found her endlessly entertaining. She hadn’t really known that until she now noticed its absence.
“Mason, it’s been months, nearly a year, if memory serves.” He then launched into some excitable French, and Mason completely stunned Daisy by responding in the same language. She hadn’t known that he was multilingual. Then again, there was so much that was still a mystery about the man, and for all his seemingly laid-back attitude around her, she didn’t think he’d be very forthcoming about his private life and past. Not with her. Their relationship wasn’t the kind to inspire confidences from him.
“But we are being rude. Forgive us, ma petite.” Christién suddenly switched back to English, and taking Daisy by complete surprise, he placed his hands on her shoulders and tugged her toward him to plant a kiss on each cheek.
Whoa! He smelled almost as good as Mason.
“This is the way of friends who have not seen each other for many months. But I have a new friend now. Oui? Come, sit. You must eat. You have the glorious look of a woman who enjoys her food very much, non?” The observation, coming from anybody else, would have been considered an insult. But Christién said it in such an overtly admiring voice that it couldn’t be construed as anything other than a compliment.
The place was empty, which was unsurprising, considering how far away from everything it was. And since it wasn’t advertised anywhere that Daisy knew of, she immediately worried about the economic viability of Christién’s business.
He ushered them to a gorgeously crafted round wooden table, with padded spindly-legged chairs. The place was beautifully furnished. All the woodwork was stunning and obviously bespoke. More people should know about this place.
As she sat down, she reached for the beautifully bound menu, but Christién snatched it away.
“Non. You will eat a special meal. Nothing you can find on this common menu.” She doubted very much that there was anything remotely common on that menu, but she allowed him to take the decision from her. Mason was watching her keenly, that inscrutable expression still on his face, and his intense stare was starting to make her uncomfortable. Christién ensured that they were warm, promised to be back with something to drink, and left them abruptly alone.
“I love it here.” She sighed, breaking the long and awkward silence that had descended over their table. Mason made a noncommittal sound and toyed with the place settings.
Daisy’s fingers absently traced over the detailed scrollwork carved into the wood, and his eyes dropped to watch the movement, his gaze disturbingly intense.
“So your buddy is pretty famous,” she observed, her voice laced with amusement, and Mason shrugged.
“You seem a little starstruck.”
“Well. The guy’s a supermodel. Wasn’t he voted the sexiest man alive like three years in a row? And he modeled for Calvin Klein, Alexander McQ—”
“I’m aware of his résumé,” Mason interrupted. “I just didn’t think it was the type of thing you’d be conversant with.”
“Why? Because I’m not a fashion plate and outstanding beauty like my sisters?” The words were defensive, and Mason sighed.
“No. Because it’s a lifestyle I figured you’d find frivolous and beneath you.”
What?
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re an educated woman, you have a proper career. I just thought you had weightier things to think about than models and stuff.” The last word trailed off self-consciously as Daisy gaped at him in absolute astonishment. “Daisy, you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever dated. You’re not like the others, who would get giddy over shallow shit like this.”
“We’re not dating,” she said, a little astounded that she had to actually remind him of that fact.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not entirely sure I do.”
Mason wasn’t sure he knew what he meant either. He had just been weirdly disappointed when Daisy had not only immediately recognized Chris but had instantly started fangirling over him. It didn’t fit with his image of her. She was the brainy girl; she was supposed to be better than that. She shouldn’t care about superficial crap like this, and yet she’d been nearly speechless at the sight of Chris. He definitely didn’t like the way she had gone gaga over the other guy. Mason liked how slightly in awe of him Daisy always seemed. He thought back to the obvious little crush she seemed to have on him that first night before she had discovered the truth. He’d enjoyed her fascination, even though he had known it wasn’t something he could encourage. Still, to now see some of that infatuation transferred onto Chris stung . . . more than a little. He wanted her attention and focus on him alone.
“Never mind,” he dismissed, his voice rough, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “It’s not important.”