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“Amandine. Amandine B -”
I don't have the time to say my last name before he interrupts me.
What nice manners!
“Amandine. It's a pretty name, with fruity notes. Just a touch of sweetness. Now Amande – that's French for almond – would be better for you. A hard fruit, with velvety skin, a milky interior, a sweet and bitter flavour. Yes, Amande would fit you like a glove. I'm going to call you that from now on.”
I let out a long sigh.
Who is this arrogant guy running off at the mouth? And where does he get the right to change people's first names? But his gorgeousness subdues me, and I almost forget his oversized ego. I'm surprised by how much I fancy him.
“Are you thinking of what to say, or are you just going to keep staring at me silently? Unless you're sulking, bitter Amande?
“I'd prefer not to say anything. Do you have any other questions?”
“That's a wise choice, sweet Amande. Let's go on to the next question. What type of man do you like?”
“Short, brunette, the Latin type. A guy who dresses simply. Cool, discrete, natural. Very gentle, most importantly. And full of self-deprecating humour.”
Take that.
I take a mischievous pleasure in describing his exact opposite; a tiny smile appears on his lips, and then he laughs out loud. It's the first time that I see him express a sincere and spontaneous emotion. The shell of his cold beauty cracks and reveals a seductive aura. More, he's completely irresistible. He must be aware of this effect since he gets off his horse to stand just a few feet away from me.
“Are you experienced with men, dear Amande?”
“I think that's absolutely none of your business.”
“I think that's not a valid answer to my question.”
“And I think that was a very rude question.”
“And I think you're looking for a way to avoid giving me an answer.”
Touché.
I'm twenty-two years old, I have three ex-boyfriends, only one who was serious, meaning that the relationship lasted longer than six months. Most guys don't interest me and when they're interested in me, I don't even notice. I don't see the signs, I always need a girlfriend to decipher things for me, and at any rate, it's never me who makes the first move. In terms of emotions, I've never experienced huge amounts of passion and when it comes to sex, it's dead calm, nothing outside of the vanilla stuff and never anything transcendental. I simply haven't met the lover who makes me feel like I can really let go. And I don't want to try out twenty before finding one good one. That pretty much sums up my experience, so no, I have nothing to say and no, I don't want to answer that question. Except Mr. Diamonds, the dashing billionaire who no woman can resist, shoots daggers at me from his azure eyes and demands an answer, from the way he's pointing his chin towards me. It doesn't seem like he's going to give up any time soon.
Either out of courage or insanity, I take a step forward and reduce the distance between Gabriel and me, my eyes glued on the most sensual mouth I've ever seen. I softly place my hand on his cheek and bring my lips close to his, feeling his breath mix with mine. Then I feel something move next to me, a presence that unsettles me, and I flinch.
***
I wake up suddenly, quickly closing my gaping mouth, checking out the corner of my eye to make sure no one’s looking and realize that I was dreaming. I'm almost embarrassed. The train pulls into the Angoulême station and everyone around me gets up to collect their bags, a world away from suspecting the inner turmoil boiling inside of me. I imitate them while cursing my gooey romanticism. No, really, a horse? What next? I try to erase the image of Diamonds as a modern-day Prince Charming from my memory, but I have only one motivation now. To get to the Bagnolet estate and meet him in person. And look at his mouth.
2. A thrilling concerto
I think about Gabriel Diamonds non-stop for the duration of the car ride from the Angoulême
“Amandine. Amandine B -”
I don't have the time to say my last name before he interrupts me.
What nice manners!
“Amandine. It's a pretty name, with fruity notes. Just a touch of sweetness. Now Amande – that's French for almond – would be better for you. A hard fruit, with velvety skin, a milky interior, a sweet and bitter flavour. Yes, Amande would fit you like a glove. I'm going to call you that from now on.”
I let out a long sigh.
Who is this arrogant guy running off at the mouth? And where does he get the right to change people's first names? But his gorgeousness subdues me, and I almost forget his oversized ego. I'm surprised by how much I fancy him.
“Are you thinking of what to say, or are you just going to keep staring at me silently? Unless you're sulking, bitter Amande?
“I'd prefer not to say anything. Do you have any other questions?”
“That's a wise choice, sweet Amande. Let's go on to the next question. What type of man do you like?”
“Short, brunette, the Latin type. A guy who dresses simply. Cool, discrete, natural. Very gentle, most importantly. And full of self-deprecating humour.”
Take that.
I take a mischievous pleasure in describing his exact opposite; a tiny smile appears on his lips, and then he laughs out loud. It's the first time that I see him express a sincere and spontaneous emotion. The shell of his cold beauty cracks and reveals a seductive aura. More, he's completely irresistible. He must be aware of this effect since he gets off his horse to stand just a few feet away from me.
“Are you experienced with men, dear Amande?”
“I think that's absolutely none of your business.”
“I think that's not a valid answer to my question.”
“And I think that was a very rude question.”
“And I think you're looking for a way to avoid giving me an answer.”
Touché.
I'm twenty-two years old, I have three ex-boyfriends, only one who was serious, meaning that the relationship lasted longer than six months. Most guys don't interest me and when they're interested in me, I don't even notice. I don't see the signs, I always need a girlfriend to decipher things for me, and at any rate, it's never me who makes the first move. In terms of emotions, I've never experienced huge amounts of passion and when it comes to sex, it's dead calm, nothing outside of the vanilla stuff and never anything transcendental. I simply haven't met the lover who makes me feel like I can really let go. And I don't want to try out twenty before finding one good one. That pretty much sums up my experience, so no, I have nothing to say and no, I don't want to answer that question. Except Mr. Diamonds, the dashing billionaire who no woman can resist, shoots daggers at me from his azure eyes and demands an answer, from the way he's pointing his chin towards me. It doesn't seem like he's going to give up any time soon.
Either out of courage or insanity, I take a step forward and reduce the distance between Gabriel and me, my eyes glued on the most sensual mouth I've ever seen. I softly place my hand on his cheek and bring my lips close to his, feeling his breath mix with mine. Then I feel something move next to me, a presence that unsettles me, and I flinch.
***
I wake up suddenly, quickly closing my gaping mouth, checking out the corner of my eye to make sure no one’s looking and realize that I was dreaming. I'm almost embarrassed. The train pulls into the Angoulême station and everyone around me gets up to collect their bags, a world away from suspecting the inner turmoil boiling inside of me. I imitate them while cursing my gooey romanticism. No, really, a horse? What next? I try to erase the image of Diamonds as a modern-day Prince Charming from my memory, but I have only one motivation now. To get to the Bagnolet estate and meet him in person. And look at his mouth.
2. A thrilling concerto
I think about Gabriel Diamonds non-stop for the duration of the car ride from the Angoulême
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