“I should get home.”
The response comes out like a reflex, an innate defense in the face of imminent danger. Being alone in a booth with Julien Valois at this hour of the night has to be the definition of imminent danger.
“I probably should too,” he tells me, “but...”
His fingers brush over his chin like he can tell exactly what he does to me, like he’s charging his facial hair up with its mystical beard powers.
“...Iwouldreally like to get a drink with you.”
Say no. Do it. Just grab your dolly and walk out of here like a boss.
But then again, he does have information I could use, and he seems to be in the mood to give it. If he’s planning to start hiring in June, I’m going to have to work a lot faster than I thought to convince Fournier I can turn things around. Even if Julien doesn’t seek him out, Fournier will no doubt present him with an offer to sell if I don’t get my ass in gear first. I need to be prepared for anything. I need to know exactly what’s going on next door.
I tell myself that’s why I’m agreeing as I hold up a finger and answer, “One drink.”
Five
Julien
FINISH: The impressions of flavour and texture left by a wine after consumption
“I don’t thinkI’m dressed nice enough to go in there.”
I turn to where Monroe has paused at the top of the stairs. She started leading us to a pub back on Avenue Mont-Royal, but I had other plans and ordered a car to take us down to the Old Port. I walk back up the few steps that lead to the basement bar and meet her on the cobblestones.
“You lookravissant.”
“Don’t mock me.”
I reach for her arm and pause just before I touch her, giving her a chance to pull away. She doesn’t. I tuck her hand in my elbow and lead her reluctant procession down the stairs, concentrating on keeping us from falling as the pressure of her gloved fingers seems to send warmth shooting all the way up my arm.
I’m too old for butterflies.
I’m too old for any of this: the flirting, the drinks, themauditShakespeare, the staying out late with a girl when I should be checking on my businesses and trying to fit in a few hours of sleep before doing it all again tomorrow. My work is my life. It has been for a long time. My alarm goes off at six seven days a week, and I haven’t been able to put my phone on silent since the day I opened my first restaurant.
If there’s a flood at one in the morning, I’m there. If someone accidentally sets half the kitchen on fire during a dinner rush, I’m there. If a delivery company fucks up and dumps a load of expensive tiles off when there’s no one around to receive it, I’m there. There’s no time for my life to be anythingbutwork.
And yet here I am, hoping against hope that my phone will stay quiet for just one single hour as I try to figure out why the woman on my arm has been hanging around my head like a line in a poem I can’t quite figure out. She’s a brilliant metaphor I’m not smart enough to understand. She’s a simile that slips out of my grasp every time I think I’ve caught the silver flash of its scales between my fingers.
I don’t even know her. I can’t even tell if shelikesme, but I feel that same compulsion I did a few days ago when I saw her standing outside my property’s door. She’s a test, and I don’t want to fail her again.
I’ve failed far too many people in my life.
“I’m not mocking you,” I tell Monroe. “I’d let you into my Michelin star restaurant without hesitation.”
She pauses on the stairs, making me stop too. “Now Iknowyou’re mocking me. You don’t own a Michelin star restaurant.”
I stare her down. Her brow creases.
“...Do you?” she finally squawks.
I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. She’s impossibly cute—even more so as she pulls her arm out from under mine and smacks my shoulder.
“Call another Uber. I’m going home.”
“Attends, attends. Wait, wait.” I move so we’re standing on the same step. She has to tilt her head back almost as far as it goes to look at me. For some reason, that gesture makes my chest tighten. “I meant it, Monroe. You are...You are not someone who is easy to stop looking at.”
I expect her to smack me again. I’d probably deserve it. I’m doing worse at this than a stuttering sixteen year-old boy out on his very first date.
