said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just need to check my schedule first and make sure I have no other commitments.”
Ha! Who’s annoyed now, she thought, as irritation flashed across Quinn’s face.
“Yeah, well, let me know as soon as you can.” He stood. “You and Liam want help cleaning up?”
“No, we’ll be fine.”
Quinn slung his sports jacket over his shoulder. “Talk to you soon, ma petite olivier .”
My little olive tree. God, what an ass! Yet there was no denying it; she enjoyed the way he teased her. L’Orangerie indeed. She couldn’t wait to see what happened.
11
“I hope the appetizer was to mademoiselle’s liking?”
Natalie was on the verge of an ecstatic swoon as the waiter at L’Orangerie took the empty plates of the appetizer she and Quinn had just completed: duck liver served with fresh fig chutney. She’d been dubious about Quinn’s boast that he could get them reservations at the drop of a hat. But apparently he wasn’t lying, and now here they were, being served in New York’s finest French restaurant by a waiter who was French. She was in heaven.
She felt slightly guilty about doubting him, as well as the fact she was worried about how he might dress. But he looked wonderful, his pants pressed, his white shirt starched, a lovely tie, a blue blazer. She’d never seen him look this smooth and put-together before. Even his thick salt-and-pepper hair, which he often unconsciously mussed himself raking his hands through in frustration, was neat and tidy. She was proud to walk into such a fine establishment on his arm.
“Impressed so far?” Quinn asked. He sounded just the tiniest bit smug, but she didn’t mind.
“Very much so,” Natalie admitted. “You must have lots of connections, as you boasted.” She paused. “You’re very well-known in the city, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Quinn.
His blatant egotism made her laugh. In fact, he often made her laugh. He was funny, and she prized wit.
“You look—very handsome.”
Quinn laughed. “How hard was that for you to say, Nat—I mean Natalie.”
“Not hard,” Natalie insisted. “It’s just that—”
“You’re used to seeing me after I’ve been running my ass off all day.”
She studied his face. “Your job is very hard, isn’t it?”
He took a sip of the wine the sommelier had recommended, a semisweet white wine produced along the Layon River, an area Natalie knew well. “You’re just figuring that out, huh?”
“It’s difficult, but you love it.”
“Passionately.”
Natalie felt a small tingle inside her as she wondered what else he might be passionate about.
Quinn’s gaze was penetrating. “What are you passionate about?”
Natalie stared back at him. Americans—so blunt! So rude! But she enjoyed the subtext of his question.
“I’m passionate about culture, I guess. I like the theater, museums . . . I love going to the symphony.”
“Me, too!”
“Really?” Natalie’s insides began jangling with excitement. They did have more in common than teasing each other. She never would have figured him for someone who enjoyed going to the symphony. Such an interesting man . . .
Meanwhile, Quinn was pouring on the charm. “You know, there’s a lot about you I don’t know.” He was right, of course. He knew very little about her life before she came to the States, unless Vivi had told him some things. Alarm pierced her, and she wondered if Vivi had told him she’d been a shopaholic. But then she realized Vivi would never do that to her. He reached across the table to take her hand in his.
Natalie tried to look nonplussed. “What do you wish to know?”
“Tell me about your family. Your job in Paris. Your romantic past.”
Bold, Natalie thought. Pushy.
“If I tell you some things about me, then you must tell me some things about you.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m not going to just start babbling about my life,” Natalie scoffed, trying to ignore how much she was
Ha! Who’s annoyed now, she thought, as irritation flashed across Quinn’s face.
“Yeah, well, let me know as soon as you can.” He stood. “You and Liam want help cleaning up?”
“No, we’ll be fine.”
Quinn slung his sports jacket over his shoulder. “Talk to you soon, ma petite olivier .”
My little olive tree. God, what an ass! Yet there was no denying it; she enjoyed the way he teased her. L’Orangerie indeed. She couldn’t wait to see what happened.
11
“I hope the appetizer was to mademoiselle’s liking?”
Natalie was on the verge of an ecstatic swoon as the waiter at L’Orangerie took the empty plates of the appetizer she and Quinn had just completed: duck liver served with fresh fig chutney. She’d been dubious about Quinn’s boast that he could get them reservations at the drop of a hat. But apparently he wasn’t lying, and now here they were, being served in New York’s finest French restaurant by a waiter who was French. She was in heaven.
She felt slightly guilty about doubting him, as well as the fact she was worried about how he might dress. But he looked wonderful, his pants pressed, his white shirt starched, a lovely tie, a blue blazer. She’d never seen him look this smooth and put-together before. Even his thick salt-and-pepper hair, which he often unconsciously mussed himself raking his hands through in frustration, was neat and tidy. She was proud to walk into such a fine establishment on his arm.
“Impressed so far?” Quinn asked. He sounded just the tiniest bit smug, but she didn’t mind.
“Very much so,” Natalie admitted. “You must have lots of connections, as you boasted.” She paused. “You’re very well-known in the city, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Quinn.
His blatant egotism made her laugh. In fact, he often made her laugh. He was funny, and she prized wit.
“You look—very handsome.”
Quinn laughed. “How hard was that for you to say, Nat—I mean Natalie.”
“Not hard,” Natalie insisted. “It’s just that—”
“You’re used to seeing me after I’ve been running my ass off all day.”
She studied his face. “Your job is very hard, isn’t it?”
He took a sip of the wine the sommelier had recommended, a semisweet white wine produced along the Layon River, an area Natalie knew well. “You’re just figuring that out, huh?”
“It’s difficult, but you love it.”
“Passionately.”
Natalie felt a small tingle inside her as she wondered what else he might be passionate about.
Quinn’s gaze was penetrating. “What are you passionate about?”
Natalie stared back at him. Americans—so blunt! So rude! But she enjoyed the subtext of his question.
“I’m passionate about culture, I guess. I like the theater, museums . . . I love going to the symphony.”
“Me, too!”
“Really?” Natalie’s insides began jangling with excitement. They did have more in common than teasing each other. She never would have figured him for someone who enjoyed going to the symphony. Such an interesting man . . .
Meanwhile, Quinn was pouring on the charm. “You know, there’s a lot about you I don’t know.” He was right, of course. He knew very little about her life before she came to the States, unless Vivi had told him some things. Alarm pierced her, and she wondered if Vivi had told him she’d been a shopaholic. But then she realized Vivi would never do that to her. He reached across the table to take her hand in his.
Natalie tried to look nonplussed. “What do you wish to know?”
“Tell me about your family. Your job in Paris. Your romantic past.”
Bold, Natalie thought. Pushy.
“If I tell you some things about me, then you must tell me some things about you.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m not going to just start babbling about my life,” Natalie scoffed, trying to ignore how much she was
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