Brothers of Paradise Series

“What did they think of you moving out here?”

“They were supportive. I mean… they don’t really understand what I do, but they’d never be anything but positive about the whole thing.”

The picture she is painting is lovely. “Any siblings?”

“Nope, only child.” She pulls her knees up under her silk skirt, heels left abandoned on the carpet. “But this is going the wrong way around. I have questions for you.”

I steel myself. “All right.”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“Well, my father is a developer and builder, just like me. My mom doesn’t work. She… she came here from France to marry my dad. She was a stay-at-home mom for many years.”

Faye sits up straighter. “You’re half-French?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her wine, eyes averted. It’s not hard to imagine what she’s thinking about. Both of us have one foot in another culture, another language, but the lived experiences of our parents couldn’t be more different. It’s a similarity that still serves to highlight the difference between us-the same difference she’d outlined in her cover letter.

“Do you speak French?”

“Yes. Had to, to be able to speak to my cousins.”

“I’m very much hoping that’s not a requirement for this wedding, though.”

I snort. “No. Everything will be in English, don’t worry.” Most of the French side of the family had not been invited. Lily had wanted it small, after all.

Faye nods, letting her fingers trail over the couch. Her hand is slender, free from rings, slightly tan. I wonder what it would feel like on my skin. I wonder how she feels about my firm, my apartment, after what she just told me about her upbringing. In her eyes, I suppose it might seem… gaudy. Does it make her think less of me?

But then she cocks her head, smooths her hair back, and sends me a look filled with such challenge that all thought evaporates.

“So, Henry Marchand… how exactly did we meet?”

I clear my throat. “Through mutual acquaintances.”This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.

“Mmm, that’s good. At a dinner party.”

“Sure.”

“We were seated next to each other and found mutual ground over how small the portions were. You offered me a ride home. We stopped at a kebab shop in Brooklyn.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Detailed, are you?”

“It’s what makes me a great assistant.”

“Then by all means, continue.”

A beautiful, fierce flush rises on her cheeks, but she doesn’t break away from my gaze. “You got a massive kebab, I got a smaller one, and we shared a plate of fries. We spoke about our mutual love of architecture.”

“Sounds like something we’d do.”

A smile ghosts across her lips, the memory of our lunch clear in her eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

“What did we do after the kebab shop?”

“We didn’t call another car. We walked instead, late at night, nearly all the way to my apartment. We spoke about how hard you work, that you’ve always been driven. I chimed in with my own stories of all-nighters spent in the library, of feeling like a failure if I didn’t get an A on my report cards. Our hands brushed as we walked, by accident at first, but later on with purpose.” She pauses, taking another sip of her wine. “…and then we reached my apartment building.”

“Hmm. It would be late by then,” I say.

“Oh, it was.” Her eyes glitter, challenging and heated. “Well? What did you do next?”

I drape my arm along the edge of the sofa, my hand nearly at her shoulder. “I brushed your hair back-you were wearing it down, like you are now-and asked for your number. You gave it to me, of course.”

“Of course,” she says with a smile.

“Then I told you that I wanted to take you out the following weekend. Properly, on a date, just the two of us.”

She wets her lips. “You wouldn’t kiss me? Or come inside?”

Heat and need clenches inside of me at her words. Such a simple question, but such a powerful response. I try to force my mind away from the memory of her soft lips on mine and the way her body had melted against me.

I fail.

“I wouldn’t have pushed it. We’d just met, after all. But I can tell you, just between us, that I wanted to, very much.”

She picks at the hem of her skirt. “Oh?”

“Absolutely.”

There’s something about her normally competent self being thrown off that is beyond intoxicating. I have to stop myself from smiling at the look on her face, her lips slightly open, eyes glazed…

I shift closer. “Is that a good enough story for our first meeting, Faye?”

“Yes. Yes, I think that’ll work…” Her voice trails off, her fingers dancing along the back of the sofa.

“We met each other recently, so this is still new. We don’t need to know everything about each other to convincingly play this off.”

“Smart.”

“Thanks,” I say, with half a smile. “You’re clearly nervous about this. There’s no need to be.”

Faye wants to protest-I can see it in her eyes-but doesn’t. Instead, she drains the last of her wine. “Maybe I am, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Here.” I reach for her glass, now empty, and stand. “I’ll be right back, and then you can ask me anything you want to put your nerves at ease. All right?”

“All right,” she echoes, curling up further on the corner of the couch, and I ignore the feeling that she belongs here. In my life, in my apartment, and on my couch.

It’s getting harder to do by the minute.