be at Buddha Bar. I think you’re making it up.”
Gabriel looked a little troubled. “Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He glanced at Poppy and then turned his attention back to me.
“Emma,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Officially, anyhow.”
He extended his hand. I reluctantly slipped my hand into his, noticing immediately how warm and big it was. I expected a handshake, but instead, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
“Ladies,” he said, nodding at us as he lowered my hand slowly. He hadn’t broken eye contact, and I was startled to feel my heart beating more rapidly. My hand still tingled where he had kissed it. “I’m sure I will be seeing you again soon.
Au revoir.
”
With that, he backed out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Jerk,” Poppy muttered once the door was shut.
“Yeah,” I said, absently holding my hand up to examine the spot where it had just been kissed. “What a jerk.”
Poppy took me to dinner after work that night to celebrate the fact that I had saved her from getting fired the night before—at least temporarily. After first courses of escargots and green salads with a Dijon dressing, I had coq au vin and noodles while Poppy had a steaming bowl of cassoulet—a French stew of beans, sausages, chicken, duck, and tomatoes. We split a bottle of house red and shared a crème brûlée for dessert.
“That’s the best chicken I’ve ever had,” I said in awe, patting my full stomach as we left.
Poppy grinned at me. “This isn’t even a particularly good restaurant,” she said. “I suspect you’re going to like France very much, dear Emma.”
I was tired after dinner, but Poppy insisted that we go out again.
“You’re never really going to get over Brett, are you, if we sit around the flat moping?” she asked, linking her arm through mine and pulling me along the street. “Besides, it’s a Friday night! The perfect night to go meet guys!”
“How do you figure?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“According to
Take Control of Your Lover’s Soul
, Fridays are
the
night that men are most psychologically primed to meet women,” Poppy said. “It’s something about the negative endorphins in their bodies after a long day of work as well as the positive endorphins in their bodies because they know they have two days of relaxation coming up.”
I rolled my eyes. She had a theory for everything.
Against my dwindling protests, we wound up at another English-language pub, the Frog & Princess, a microbrewery tucked away in a back alley in the sixth arrondissement near Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
“So what’s the deal with Guillaume?” I asked as we settled into seats at the bar, each of us clutching a glass of Maison Blanche, one of the Frog & Princess’s house brews. Around us, a Justin Timberlake song blared from the speakers, and a handful of college-age blond girls in jeans gyrated on the dance floor, which was ringed with nervous-looking guys clutching beers like lifelines. Again, except for the smoke and plethora of smoking Frenchmen, it felt suspiciously like I was back at a bar in the United States.
“You’ve been dying to ask me that all day, haven’t you?” Poppy said.
I nodded and smiled. “Maybe. So what’s the story? Why does KMG put up with stunts like last night?”
“Because he’s really something special,” Poppy said. Her face softened a bit. “You haven’t seen him perform yet. But don’t worry. You’ll understand when you do.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. Although I had to admit that hearing the “City of Light” single had blown me away.
Poppy shook her head. “No, believe me. You think you hate him now. I know; I felt that way, too. But as soon as you see him perform, trust me, you’ll fall just a little bit in love with him. That’s his charm. That’s why he’s going to sell millions of records all over the world.
Gabriel looked a little troubled. “Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He glanced at Poppy and then turned his attention back to me.
“Emma,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Officially, anyhow.”
He extended his hand. I reluctantly slipped my hand into his, noticing immediately how warm and big it was. I expected a handshake, but instead, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
“Ladies,” he said, nodding at us as he lowered my hand slowly. He hadn’t broken eye contact, and I was startled to feel my heart beating more rapidly. My hand still tingled where he had kissed it. “I’m sure I will be seeing you again soon.
Au revoir.
”
With that, he backed out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Jerk,” Poppy muttered once the door was shut.
“Yeah,” I said, absently holding my hand up to examine the spot where it had just been kissed. “What a jerk.”
Poppy took me to dinner after work that night to celebrate the fact that I had saved her from getting fired the night before—at least temporarily. After first courses of escargots and green salads with a Dijon dressing, I had coq au vin and noodles while Poppy had a steaming bowl of cassoulet—a French stew of beans, sausages, chicken, duck, and tomatoes. We split a bottle of house red and shared a crème brûlée for dessert.
“That’s the best chicken I’ve ever had,” I said in awe, patting my full stomach as we left.
Poppy grinned at me. “This isn’t even a particularly good restaurant,” she said. “I suspect you’re going to like France very much, dear Emma.”
I was tired after dinner, but Poppy insisted that we go out again.
“You’re never really going to get over Brett, are you, if we sit around the flat moping?” she asked, linking her arm through mine and pulling me along the street. “Besides, it’s a Friday night! The perfect night to go meet guys!”
“How do you figure?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“According to
Take Control of Your Lover’s Soul
, Fridays are
the
night that men are most psychologically primed to meet women,” Poppy said. “It’s something about the negative endorphins in their bodies after a long day of work as well as the positive endorphins in their bodies because they know they have two days of relaxation coming up.”
I rolled my eyes. She had a theory for everything.
Against my dwindling protests, we wound up at another English-language pub, the Frog & Princess, a microbrewery tucked away in a back alley in the sixth arrondissement near Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
“So what’s the deal with Guillaume?” I asked as we settled into seats at the bar, each of us clutching a glass of Maison Blanche, one of the Frog & Princess’s house brews. Around us, a Justin Timberlake song blared from the speakers, and a handful of college-age blond girls in jeans gyrated on the dance floor, which was ringed with nervous-looking guys clutching beers like lifelines. Again, except for the smoke and plethora of smoking Frenchmen, it felt suspiciously like I was back at a bar in the United States.
“You’ve been dying to ask me that all day, haven’t you?” Poppy said.
I nodded and smiled. “Maybe. So what’s the story? Why does KMG put up with stunts like last night?”
“Because he’s really something special,” Poppy said. Her face softened a bit. “You haven’t seen him perform yet. But don’t worry. You’ll understand when you do.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. Although I had to admit that hearing the “City of Light” single had blown me away.
Poppy shook her head. “No, believe me. You think you hate him now. I know; I felt that way, too. But as soon as you see him perform, trust me, you’ll fall just a little bit in love with him. That’s his charm. That’s why he’s going to sell millions of records all over the world.
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