Amanda's Guide to Love (11 page)

When the final credits rolled, she
sighed with an emotion that was half relief and half anticipation. The next
part of the evening program was her favorite. They’d go to a nearby bar for a
lazy drink and a debriefing about the movie. She’d be able to prolong the
pleasure of his company without the dangers of his proximity in a dark room.

“I started the job at La Bohème
this morning,” she said as soon as they arrived at the bar.

“Great!” He pulled out a chair for
her. “La Bohème. I like the sound of it.”

She sat down. “Vivienne was livid.
I half expected her to ask me to choose between her and the bistro.”

He gave her a sympathetic look and
screwed up his forehead as if trying to recall something. “Where did you say
that place was?”

“I didn’t. I don’t want you to show
up there.”

“It’s OK—don’t tell me. I’ll google
it. And because I’m a good person, I’ll give you a few days to hit your stride
before I make an appearance.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Wonderful,” he said with a
satisfied smile.

“Er . . . Does an
eye roll translate as ‘sure, go ahead’ in Gypsy Land? Because here in Paris, it
means
frustrated disapproval
.”

“It’s the same where I come from.
The reason I’m happy is that you
only
rolled your eyes.”

“I’m not following.”

“When you’re really mad, you put
more effort into your
frustrated disapproval
. You do this.” He rolled
his eyes and jiggled his head at the same time. “But when it’s only the head or
the eyes, it means your annoyance level is light to moderate.”

Amanda stared at him. “You think
you’ve figured me out in ten days?”

“And a weekend a month ago.”

“Oh yes. That changes everything.”

He shrugged. “I notice little
things about you. Something new every time we meet.”

“Like what?”

“Like the way you wrinkle your nose
when you smile for real, the way your eyes remain cold when you do your polite
smile, the way you place your feet when you walk, the way you tuck that strand
behind your ear—”

“Enough. I get it.”

“When I’m not with you,” he
continued, “I remember those things. I picture you smiling, walking, talking,
and I . . .” His paused, peering into her eyes. “This is
obviously making you uncomfortable, so I’ll just shut up.”

She trained her gaze on her drink
as it occurred to her that she’d been doing the exact same thing. She’d
watched him, noticed little things about him—the soft wave in his hair, the
chocolate tint in his black eyes, the rich timbre of his laughter, the feline
grace with which he moved . . . And then she remembered those
things at night and added another brushstroke to the hero of her fantasies.

She cleared her throat. “So what
did you think about the movie?”

“I loved it. You?”

“I’m not sure. Antonio Banderas is
perfect as Ricky, and so is Victoria Abril in Marina’s role, but the whole
premise? Hmm.”

“What, you disapprove of a guy who
kidnaps and ties up an ex-one-night stand in the hope of getting her to love
him?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his
half smile betraying that he too had noticed the parallel with their situation.

“I think,” he said, “there are less
intrusive and more respectful ways to win a woman’s heart.”

She wiped the imaginary sweat off
her forehead. “Phew.”

“Even though Ricky did achieve his
goal at the end.” He gave her a defiant look.

“Only because Marina was a junkie
and a porn star.”

He held his index finger up. “A
former porn star.”

“And because it’s a romantic
comedy.” Amanda leaned in. “If anyone ever held me captive, I’d find a way to
murder him in his sleep.”

He grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Good.” She sat back and took a sip
of her cider. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Banderas?”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t see any
resemblance beyond the color of our hair and eyes.”

“There’s definitely more than
that.”

He shrugged. “He’s Spanish. Maybe
he has Gitano blood.”

“That must be it. And that’s why he
can play a low-life psycho and make him endearing.”

Kes cocked his head. “Am I
imagining things, or did you just pay the Gypsy people a warped compliment?”

“I never said your people were
entirely without charm.”

“The Gypsies,” he said, “are just
like any other ethnic group. There’s the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“Oh, come on, Kes, the Gypsies are
nothing like any other ethnic group.”

He smirked. “Our way of life is a
little exotic for the modern world, I’ll grant you that. That’s why the gadje
either romanticize or demonize us. But they can’t see that beyond our unusual
ways we’re not that different.”

She frowned, digesting what he’d
just said.

“Take my parents,” he continued.
“They are loving and generous to a fault, but they’re also narrow-minded,
bordering on oppressive. Sound familiar?”

It did.

“When I went to Las Vegas for the
first time, the peeps I met on the Strip asked me where I was from. I said,
‘I’m a French Gypsy.’ You know what their reaction was?”

She shook her head.

“Ha-ha,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“That’s what they said: ‘Ha-ha.
Very funny, man.’ At first, I was confused. Then I realized those guys thought
Gypsies were fictional.”

“Get out.”

“No, I’m serious. In the States,
they don’t really have itinerant Gypsy communities like we do in France. To Americans,
we’re a thing of the past.”

“Which you are,” Amanda
interjected. “Totally anachronistic.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, the guys I
met on the Strip thought Gypsies were mythical creatures. You know, like
vampires.”

She widened her eyes in exaggerated
terror and drew her chair back. “Are
you
a vampire?”

“Of course not! That’s absurd.” He
gave an indignant snort. “I’m a werewolf.”

She burst out laughing.

He kept his expression earnest for
a brief moment until a spark of hilarity lit up his eyes, spread to the rest of
his face, and stretched his mouth into a wide, sexy grin.

She gasped at the beauty of him.

God give me
strength.

* * *

“Two things make or break a guest’s
experience: the quality of the food—but that’s Claude’s worry, not ours—and the
level of service.” Amar paused, giving Amanda time to internalize his
statement.

Her lips twitched slightly, but she
kept a straight face as she held up her pen and notepad. “Should I write this
down?”

He shook his head.

She lowered her notepad.

“Right. Where was I?” Amar
scratched his head. “Oh yes, I was going to kick off your apprenticeship with
good news: smiling at customers is not mandatory in this establishment.”

Amanda nodded, delighted, until
Amar’s meaning hit her: he didn’t think her a friendly sort.

She schooled her features into an
annoyed frown. “I spent three hours last night practicing my perfect waitress
smile. What a waste of time!”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t smile,
just that you don’t have to”—he sighed—“if you don’t feel like it.”

“Do I have to chat with them?”

“No. Just say hello and answer
their questions politely. No need to go beyond that.”

“Hang on a sec.” Amanda began to
scribble in her notebook, filling one tiny page after the next and pausing to
think. She watched Amar from the corner of her eye. The poor guy looked unsure.

Great
.

She was successfully destabilizing
her mentor.

When she’d filled four pages, she
stopped and looked up. “You may continue.”

Amar cleared his throat. “I have
more good news. If a guest is too slow to choose her dish, you don’t have to
stand there while she’s agonizing over the possibilities.”

“No problem.”

“A good waiter doesn’t hover by a
table like a fly over a cake. Parisians don’t like it. You should keep your
distance until you’re called.”

Amanda’s lips twitched again.
“It’ll be tough, but I think I can do that.”

Amar plowed on. “Don’t bring the
main courses out while people are still eating their starters, and don’t clear
a course until everyone at the table has finished eating.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Constantly observe all your tables
to make sure everyone has enough bread, napkins, and water.”

“What happens if they don’t?”

“You bring them more.”

“Hmm.” She pinched her chin, trying
to look perplexed. “Doesn’t this instruction contradict what you just said
about not approaching guests unless called?”

He sighed again. “Use your
judgment, Amanda. Even
you
can do it, I’m sure.”

Jeanne walked in holding a large,
newspaper-wrapped frame against her chest. She approached them, grinning.
Amanda smiled back. It looked like Amar would have to postpone the rest of his
tutorial.

“Will you guys give me a hand?”
Jeanne said, carefully setting the frame on the floor.

“Sure,” Amanda said, glancing at
Amar. “Did you buy a painting?”

“It’s a poster.” Jeanne began to
remove the wrapping. “I spotted it in a shop window on my way to work, and I
kept thinking about it all morning. I had to go back and buy it.”

She removed the last bit of paper.
“Ta-da!”

The poster was a photo of a huge
steaming mug. The caption below the mug said,
All you need is LOVE. Oh, and
coffee.

“Ah. I see why you like it,” Amanda
said.

“It’s genius.” Jeanne stepped back
to admire the masterpiece. “It should fit into the space between the wine rack
and the dresser.”

“I’ll get the hammer,” Amar said.

“I’ll tell you if it’s even,”
Amanda offered. “I have an accurate eye.”

An hour later, the lunchtime crush
descended on the bistro, and Amanda did her best to keep up. Thank God, she was
in good shape; otherwise she would have collapsed from the exertion.

The most exhausting part had been
staying alert enough to get all the orders right and not drop, spill, or break
anything. When she finally sat down to her well-deserved meal and coffee at the
end of her shift at four, she felt rather satisfied with her second day at La
Bohème.

Truth be told, Amanda was finding
she didn’t mind her new job as much as she’d expected. Amar certainly took his
mentor role a little too seriously, but she didn’t mind that, either. Her being
older by seven years—and the proprietor’s friend, to boot—gave his tutorials a
slightly comical touch. She listened to him carefully and did her best to
memorize every piece of advice he imparted, but she played her apprentice role
with a tongue-in-cheek excess of zeal.

How else was one to
take lessons from someone so young?

The first drops of rain hit the
terrace awning at the same time as a tall, dark-haired male began to take shape
in the distance. As he approached, Amanda’s last doubts vanished—it was Kes.
The drops turned into a torrent, and by the time he stepped under the awning,
he was soaked.

And gorgeous.

He smoothed back his damp curls,
pulled a chair next to hers, and ensconced himself comfortably. “Hi.”

“I told you not to come here.”

“And I told you I would.” His
expression became mutinous. “If you kick me out, I’ll complain to your boss.”

She blew out her cheeks. “I
finished my shift, so I’ll be leaving as soon as I drink my coffee.”

“Braving the elements?”

“It’s just rain. It’ll stop any
minute now. Summer showers never last.”

“Oh, trust me—this one will.” He
winked. “We werewolves have the moon on speed dial.”

“The moon has nothing to do with
rain, you ignorant nomad.”

“Says who? The scientists who fabricate
their data or the ones who misinterpret it?”

“Smartass,” she mumbled, and took a
sip of her coffee.

“Can I have a glass of red wine,
please?” Kes asked Amar, who was clearing a table next to them.

“A Bordeaux?”

“You read my mind.”

Amar nodded and disappeared inside.

Kes sat back and stretched his
legs. “How was your day?”

“Not bad, I guess.”

“Are your colleagues friendly?”