“Then I guess he’d retire.”
“What if he can’t? What if he’s broke?”
“Then—”
I cut myself off when I realize how hard she’s gripping the edge of the table. For me, this is a conversation, a debate about the nature of business. For her, it’s clearly something else, and I was too caught up in making my point to notice.
Your head is too big, and your heart is too small.
“Monroe,” I try in a softer voice, “I understand what you’re saying. I’m used to thinking like a business owner, and sometimes I have to take personal concerns out of the equation when I’m making decisions. I’m used to being calculating. It’s a necessary skill, but...”
Now I just sound pedantic, and her expression clearly says she thinks the same.
“I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. Let’s discuss something else.”
She lets me change the subject, and it isn’t long before we manage to regain a sense of ease. I grab us another round once our first beers are done, and somehow we make it to the bottom of those and start on a third before it feels like any time has passed at all.
We talk about all sorts of things. Monroe wants to know what it was like to grow up on a winery. I fill her in on my life after Cambridge, how I killed some time waiting tables in Paris before taking a restaurant management course that promptedPapato request I take over the winery’s dining options. I leave out the details about meeting Fleur in Paris.
She tells me about growing up in the suburbs of Ottawa and how she’s always been a bit of a book nerd. No surprises there; she speaks like someone who reads. It’s one of the first things I noticed about her. The way she puts sentences together is straight out of a Cambridge lecturer’s mouth—although hers is much more alluring.
Far too alluring. I’m not as much of a Yeti as she thinks when it comes to alcohol; halfway through the third beer, the background sounds of the bar start to blur. The warmth of her leg so close to mine gets harder and harder to ignore. I start to focus on the swoop of her eyelashes, the play of the lights on her hair.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she asks after I’ve been staring a few seconds too long.
I know I’m no longer sober when I start contemplating just how many of history’s great love affairs have started with those very words.
“I’ll get the bill.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say with a smile as I get up to head for the bar.
I look down at myself and realize I completely forgot I’m dressed like an asshole who doesn’t own anything not fit for the gym. It’s no wonder Kevin gives me a shifty-eyed once-over before sliding the bill across the bar. I let Monroe know I’m heading to the washroom before we leave, no doubt giving Kevin an opportunity to tell her how much better she can do.
The night is milder than I expected, and we walk several blocks without any real plan in mind, heading up Saint-Catherine Street as the neon lights of late night businesses and the shadows of closed up storefronts play across our skin. The sidewalks are busy, packed with people who’ve spent too many winter months stuck indoors.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask when the glow of the Berri-UQUAM metro stop comes into view up ahead. We’ve almost walked the length of downtown, keeping our easy chat from the bar going all the way.
“I thought you were leading the way.”
“This evening is clearly in your hands.”
“Well...” She tugs at the sleeves of her coat, and her hesitation sparks a flare of anticipation in me as I wait for what she’ll say next. “I really should be getting back home because who knows what’s going to happen with work tomorrow, but...we’re not that far from the Old Port now. I made you drink beer. I’m sure you could find us a fancy place to make me drink wine. Then again, you are dressed like a frat boy.”
Truth be told, we passed my self-imposed curfew an hour ago, but I’m not in any mind to say no to a night cap with the most fascinating woman I’ve met in longer than I can remember.
“Sadly, the best wine collection in Old Montreal seems to be my own. There is one decent wine bar, but you’re right; they won’t let me anywhere near most places in the Old Port looking like this. My building’s not far. I could stop in and put some real pants on.”
She twists her hair around her finger, and I can’t tell if she’s actually nervous about what she’s going to say or just playing coy. “Or we could just...sample some of the best wine collection in Old Montreal?”
The image of her lounging on my couch with a glass of cabernet fills my head in an instant—only she’s wearing considerably less clothing in that image than she is now. As the Québécois would say:câlice de criss.
“I wouldn’t say no to that.”
I try to play cool as I start leading us to my building, but my chest is thumping like a teenage boy about to pull the old stretch-and-put-your-arm-back-down-on-her-shoulders move for the very first time. I’m going to have to take it slow on the wine if I don’t actually want to be idiotic enough to pull that move tonight.
If Monroe has any comments about the opulence of the lobby, she keeps them to herself as we cross to the elevators, only speaking once I push the button for my floor.