Little does he know. ‘I like this version of you.’
‘Thisversion?’
‘Oui. Who knew there was a practical comforting side to you? Usually you’re glowering and grunting and shooting me glares.’
He folds his arms across the wide expanse of his chest. ‘Is that so?’
‘Here we go. Tell me I’m wrong.’
‘You’re wrong.’
I arch a brow.
‘I might be a little testy occasionally but that’s because I’m constantly being interrupted when I’m trying to write.’
‘Not this again!’
‘It’s true. I’m writing a novel and I’m easily distracted, and then I lose the thread and it all feels so hopeless.’
‘What’s your book about?’
‘An anonymous matchmaker in Paris.’
I grin. ‘It is not.’
‘Non. It’s a coming-of-age story, but I’m doubting my ability to finish it. I can’t seem to concentrate since I moved here.’
‘All those scented candles and my obnoxious laughter?’
‘Exactly.’
We lapse into a comfortable silence. Who knew that Pascale had literary ambitions?
‘So the big move disrupted your writing mojo?’ And that’s why he’s stomped around like a tyrant?
‘Oui. I’ve been… distracted by other things and now I can’t connect to the book. It’s frustrating.’
‘Have you always wanted to write?’ Is it Pascale who has the soul of a poet, and not Benoit, like I presumed just from the way they looked? Have I judged him too harshly?
‘I’ve been bashing out words ever since I was a teenager. I’ve got lots of half-finished drafts, many abandoned projects. This time I promised myself I’d get to the end. And yet here I am stuck in the middle again.’
‘What’s stopping you though?’
‘Writer’s block? Stubbornness. Fear of failure. Imposter syndrome.’
I can’t help but scoff. ‘I just can’t see you being plagued with doubt. You exude confidence. You’re like a superhero stomping around all over the place, bellowing down your phone or ignoring customers.’
He tilts his head. ‘Me?’
Is he serious? ‘Yes, you!’
‘Well, I guess I don’t see myself that way.’
‘How do you see yourself?’
‘Usually through a lens of crippling self-doubt.’
‘Oui, youarea writer!’
