Forget (13 page)

People are literally tripping around us, but Dylan isn’t fazed. And since he doesn’t seem to care, I’m not caring either.
Damn, I never knew apathy could feel so good.

“What kind of choice?”

“A very important choice.” His eyes sparkle with playfulness.

A hand goes straight to my hip, as I sassily demand, “How many times are you going to say the word choice before you actually give me the choices?”

Dylan grins. His hands massage my shoulders. “Wine or coffee, love?”

“Wine or coffee? That’s the big choice?”

“Like I said,
important.
”

My nose crinkles at the last word, and he taps it with his index finger.

I shake my head on a laugh, eyeing him with feigned irritation. Considering I had coffee this morning, it’s not a hard decision. “Wine.”

“Good answer!” He claps his hands and then turns around, leaving his back to me. “Hop on, and I’ll take you to the second best wine bar in Paris.”

A piggyback ride? It’s ridiculous, and I fucking love it. I jump onto his back, arms wrapping around his shoulders as I adjust my position, and I’m softly giggling into his ear. Dylan’s large frame carries me with ease, hands gripping my thighs and legs eating up the pavement in relaxed strides. I hang on to him like a chimp.

My eyes focus on the ethnic and vibrant atmosphere of the Latin Quarter. I’m overwhelmed with how much there is to see. Students head towards universities, books tucked under their arms or backpacks slung across their shoulders. Two young children laugh as they run along a fountain, their not-so-happy mother trailing behind them. And eclectic shops are lined up like sardines, huddled together along the sidewalks.

“All right, we’re here,” he says, gently sliding me off his back.

The establishment is small, not kitschy like most tourist attractions; it’s quaint, and just
feels
like Paris. Instantly, I’m in love. We’re seated outside, where wine barrels are used as tables, and a red awning blocks out the sun. A few other tables are occupied, their patrons easily identified as locals.

I stare at the French menu. My brain can only translate a word or two. This is one of those moments where if Millie were here, I’d have to tell her she was right. I should have worked harder at refining my French skills. Sighing heavily, I shut my menu and set it on the table. “I’m putting you in charge of ordering.”

Dylan raises a questioning brow, eyes still focused on his menu. “Why? Nothing sound good?”

Figuring honesty is always the best policy, I bite the bullet. No need to be embarrassed about my pathetic understanding of French. “Because I can’t understand anything.”

His eyes meet mine. A soft laugh leaves his lips once he takes in my frustrated expression. “I’ll translate for you,” he says, sliding his menu to the center of the table.

I shake my head, pushing the menu back. “No translation needed. All of the alcohol I consumed last night has officially made my brain mush. I’m deferring my meal choice to your expertise.”

“Oh, come on, Brooke. Now is not the time to be stubborn,” he teases.

I stick my tongue out. “I think stubborn suits me pretty well, thank you very much.”

He exhales a soft chuckle, his eyes shining with amusement.

“And the pressure is on buddy. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Oh, I can promise I
never
disappoint.” He winks.

No promise necessary,
I muse. My body is convinced that a man with a body like his, and a sexy smile like his, and gorgeous green eyes like his, and messy, sexy hair like his, would
never
disappoint. Him, disappoint? Pfffffft. Not fucking likely.

Dylan orders, and surprisingly quick by French standards, our table is covered in small, tantalizing plates. Foie gras with artichoke salad, lamb and fig terrine, and several excellent types of cheese are just a few of the dishes.

He didn’t disappoint.

My wine glass is filled with French rosé. It’s mouth-wateringly good. My taste buds did a little dance once the refreshing flavor hit my tongue. Dylan says it’s a Paris staple when the weather gets warm, but I’d drink it all year long.

“Good?” he asks.

I nod enthusiastically, my mouth too full to answer.

“Glad I didn’t disappoint.” He takes a hearty drink of rosé.

I finish a bite of one of the most decadent cheeses I’ve ever tasted. “Seriously, this is unreal. I want to move into one of the apartments above this bar just so I can eat this food every single day.”

A forkful of poached baby artichokes is pushed past my lips. Once the lemon and herb broth hits my tongue, I moan in satisfaction. I’m starting to think it might be possible to achieve an orgasm from food.
Food-gasm.

His deep laughter gains my attention.

“What? Is there something on my face?” I ask, dabbing a napkin around my mouth. All of sudden, I’m feeling very self-conscious. Maybe I should have put more effort into not acting like I haven’t eaten in days? My current infatuation with food, and the fact that my mouth has been stuffed full since the waiter placed our meal on the table, is probably more repulsive than attractive.

He shakes his head, eyes smiling. “No, you’re still just as gorgeous as ever.”

I set my fork down. I need to cool it on the whole, “My food is bringing me to climax” act.

“Please, don’t stop, I’m quite enjoying watching you eat.”

“You’re crazy,” I say, laughing and blushing at the same time. “And one hell of a good liar.”

“Oh, I can promise I do not lie. I hate dishonesty. Although . . .” he pauses, eyes flashing a heated look.

“Although what?”

“In the spirit of trying to keep things
friendly,
my mind is having a field day with all of those sexy little moans that keep flowing past your lips. At the moment, they’re making it quite difficult for me to be completely honest with you.”

“Oh.” It’s the only response I have at the moment. Normally, I’d be embarrassed that I’ve been moaning loud enough for him to hear, but the brief flash of heat I caught in his eyes makes it impossible to care about anything else. I’m wondering what his eyes look like when they’re
not
trying to be so friendly.

“Friendly?” I question, curious about the meaning behind that.

“I’m merely following your instructions, love. You were quite serious about us staying friendly. I believe ‘no funny business,’ were your exact words.”

Why would I say that? Even drunk, it appears I was striving to put up walls. Well,
some
walls. Writing my name and number across his sexy abs in black marker is the complete opposite of trying to shut someone out. Is this why he practically threw my body off of his in the courtyard at my hotel?

“I said that?”

He nods.

My brain searches to remember the context of that conversation. I rummage through memories of last night like a teenage girl going through her closet, quickly moving past anything that doesn’t fit.

I remember walking off stage and getting a text from Jamie, telling me he was sorry for missing our phone chat. I remember feeling discombobulated and contemplating removing myself from the situation, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay there with Dylan.

So I did.

And then I remember, the bar, the women who kept flashing him interested looks, and one woman in particular who made her way over to us. Lucie was her name, and she was all crimson lips, batting lashes, and spilling cleavage. Her accent revealed she was most likely born-and-raised in Paris, but she made a point to have the conversation in English while ignoring my presence altogether.

Lucie flipped her hair, smiled seductively, and kept touching his shoulder, his arm—pretty much whatever fucking part she could get her hands on.

“You were
amazing,
” she said.

“Seeing you up on stage, had me really missing
old times,
” she said.

“Old times” is whore code for “I’m down to fuck again,” I thought.

I had the overwhelming urge to tell her to “shut the fuck up.”

Luckily, I kept my mouth shut, but her claws had already done their damage. I felt nauseous over the fact she knew Dylan in a way that I didn’t.

Needless to say, I was not a fan. I kind of hated her, and hate is not a word I like to use. I’m guessing it was her overt display of familiarity that put my guard up, spurring words like
friendly
and
no funny business
to come out of my mouth. I have no idea why that girl got under my skin. I have no claim to him. Hell, I barely know him.

“What’s your last name?” I blurt out.

He sets his fork down, eyes perking up at the abrupt topic change. “Bissette.”

“
Bissette.
” I test it on my tongue. “I feel like we’re doing this all backwards. I probably should have known your last name before agreeing to spend the day with you.”

His hand covers mine, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I’m glad you agreed to spend the day with me. Damn near ecstatic, to be honest, even if Lindsay kind of pushed you into it.” His smile is a little self-deprecating.

“She didn’t push me into anything I didn’t already want to do.”

“Good.” His grin reveals that one perfect dimple indented in his right cheek. “How about this? I’ll tell you a few things about myself, and then you reciprocate?”

“Okay.”

I make a mental note to avoid disclosing too much. This thing between Dylan and me, whatever it is, shouldn’t be complicated. He lives in Paris. I live in L.A, and I’m only here for a few more weeks. I have an entire life—
and a part to play
—back home. I have a feeling that’s why drunk Brooke was tossing out the whole “let’s just be good buddies” card. Well, that, and the intimidating fact that he can get any woman he wants. Lucie’s fluency in whore code proved that point.

Dylan releases my hand, leaning back in his seat. “All right, what can I tell you?” He singsongs, running a thumb and forefinger along his chin. “I promise I’m not secretly a psychopath. I have no criminal record or seedy past. I’m just a normal, twenty-seven-year-old guy who has a boatload of tattoos . . . I love collecting vinyl records . . . I think Gummi Bears are a viable option for breakfast . . . And I refuse to give in, to the whole Facebook, Twitter, social media hype . . . I miss the notes my mum used to leave on my bananas when she’d pack my lunch for school . . . And I had aspirations of running off to the circus as a kid . . .”

“The
circus?
”

Nodding his head, he explains, “I’m really good at juggling.”

“You’re full of surprises,” I say with a laugh.

“You don’t know the half of it, love.” He smiles. It’s sexy and adorable and downright irresistible. “I was born and raised in London for most of my life. My brother and I started a band together with our mates, Alex and Zach, when we were at uni together. I moved to Paris about a year ago to help my family out with our wine bar and pub. The pub, which you know as Au Fait, is my dad’s second love. And the wine bar, the
best
wine bar in Paris I might add, was inherited from my mother’s family. Bissette is a name that’s known for wine vineyards. We cultivate the best Chardonnay that’ll ever touch your pretty lips.”

“Better than this?” I hold up my wine glass, feigning disbelief.

“If we’re going to be good
friends,
Brooke, you need to learn to trust my wine judgment.”

I shrug. “All right, I’ll take your word for it.”

“My father wants Jesse and me to take over the family businesses, but my baby brother is super focused on the band, trying to get things moving—booking shows and getting record labels to give us a shot.”

“You don’t want that?” I ask, sensing more to the story.

His long fingers run through his hair. “I don’t know what I want. For me, it’s always been music first, and everything else second. I just love to play. I like that things are on our terms right now. I’m worried if a label gets involved, they might screw up something that’s working just fine the way it is.”

“I’m sure there’s a way to find a balance—signing with a label while maintaining your creative freedom.”

“Some of the contracts we’ve been offered are appalling. The last label that offered us a shot had high hopes they could morph us into what they wanted us to be, not what we are.”

I’m dying to ask which label, but bite my tongue. “Well, if it’s any reassurance, you’re really talented. Even rocking with a house band, I can tell you’re going places with that voice. Just hold out until someone comes along and appreciates your music. Someone who won’t want to change it, but give you the tools to cultivate it, and reach the places you’ve been dreaming about.”

His soft smile reaches his eyes. “Thank you.”

I wave him off with my hand. “No thanks necessary, I’m just being honest.”

“So, how’d I do? Did I tell you everything you need to know?”

“Fantastic.” I grin. “And I agree, Gummi Bears are a perfect breakfast food.”

“I knew I wasn’t the only one!” he exclaims.

His overzealous excitement spurs a few giggles from my lips.

Dylan has the most fantastic personality. He’s the type of guy who would do anything to make me laugh. I can picture him pulling a goofy face or doing the moonwalk in public just to hear me giggle.

Millie often said, “Beauty captures the eye, but personality captures the heart.”

If I were the sort of girl who believed in happily-ever-after and love-at-first, I’d be thinking about that quote right now. But I’m not that kind of girl . . .
right?

And I love how his passion for music mirrors my own. What are the odds I’d meet some like him under such ridiculous circumstances? Millie would have called it a meet-cute. The woman was a hopeless romantic, and if she were still here, she’d be ecstatic over our amateur paparazzi moment.

I’m starting to wonder if my grandmother is pulling strings with the Big Man upstairs, and planting me into the most absurd situations. It would be just like her, working her magic in the afterlife, making sure I can check off every single item on the Paris Bucket List, including number twenty,
fall in love.