“Not ones that speak English.”
“There are plenty of tourists in Paris. You think I couldn’t have sniffed out an American, or an Australian, or a Canadian? I dare say there’re even a few Brits here, too.”
In a moment of perfect simpatico, a couple of men passed our table, talking loudly enough that there was no missing their Australian accent. I lifted my hand in a tada gesture, Laurent unable to hold back his smile.
“Did you pay them?”
“I did not. But it’s clear that the scales of justice are firmly on my side.” I leaned closer to him. “You, Monsieur Dupont, are my first choice of person to spend time with. So either deal with it, or…”
“Or what?”
I shook my head. “Just… give me your address, would you? I don’t have time for you to be this difficult. We’re spending the day together tomorrow and that’s all there is to it.” I clicked my fingers. “Address.”
Laurent pulled a pen out of his pocket, smoothed out the piece of crumpled paper, and on the back of it, in incredibly neat handwriting, wrote something. He finished his drink in a series of controlled swallows so deliberately and painfully slow that I wanted to slap him. Not until his bottle was empty, and he’d stood, did he hand over the piece of paper. “I don’t know why you just couldn’t send it to my phone like a normal person,” I called after him as he walked away.
And then I read it and started laughing.Ask me nicely rather than demanding and I MIGHT give it to you.
“Son of a…” I said to no one in particular, shaking my head. I stared after him, but he was already out of sight. I spent the next ten minutes trying not to be happy that, by writing his brush-off on the same paper as the bartender’s number, he’d inadvertently ruined any chance of calling him.
Later, lying in the guest bed, Cillian not having hidden his smugness at me turning up back there, I wrote and re-wrote the message to send to Laurent until I was happy I’d hit the right note.
Dear Mr. Dupont. Your presence is requested for a day of good food, good chat, and probably (if I’m honest) a bombardment of useless facts from yours truly. If nothing else, I can promise distraction like no other.
If you would be good enough to trust me with the important details of your address, I will turn up with a breakfast fit for a king at a time of your choosing.
Your good friend, Cormac King.
The cursor started flashing immediately.How long did it take you towrite that?
A while.
I bet.
So…?
Ten a.m and not before. I need a lie-in.
I smiled at the victory.Deal.
I get some say in what we do rather than getting swept along on your coat tails.
I won’t even wear a coat.
The next message that came through was an address, and I went to sleep smiling.
Chapter Twelve
At ten on the dot, I was on Laurent’s doorstep with a bulging paper bag. It took knocking three times before he flung the door open. His only attire was a short black bathrobe, his hair stuck up in tufts.
“Good morning, sunshine!” I delivered my greeting with extra cheer, Laurent’s response predictable as he went to close the door. I stuck my foot in it and shouldered my way past him. “Not a morning person, then?”
“And you are, apparently.” He said it with such utter disgust that all I could do was smile.
Locating the kitchen without his help, I upended the bag all over his kitchen counter, croissants, jam, fruit, and pastries all coming tumbling out. “You were the one that said ten.” I got a grunt for that. “You could have named a later time, and like the good boy I am, especially after you made me jump through hoops to get your address, I would have agreed.”
“I thought I’d be up,” Laurent conceded. “Dressed. Showered. Caffeinated. And instead”—he held his hands out to the side, thebathrobe gaping far enough to show a glimpse of nipple?”you get this.”
Tearing my eyes away from the nipple with difficulty, I offered him a wink. “I’ll take it. How about you have a shower while I sort out breakfast with extra strong coffee?”
