Forbidden French

The next evening, I’m sitting on my bed in my grandmother’s house, reading. Logs crackle in the fireplace, and a candle burns on my bedside table. Dinner will be served soon, and then the rest of the day will probably unfold as it usually does. My grandmother and Margaret will go into the sitting room to play cards. I might go for a walk, or I might continue reading.

There’s a knock on my half-cracked bedroom door, and then Jacobs pushes it open further. I set down my book, prepared for him to tell me it’s time to come down for dinner.

“Mr. Mercier is downstairs. As usual, he’s asked me if you’re available. Should I tell him—”

There’s no concealing my smile.

I’ve held out hope that Emmett would come today, but I was doing a good job of trying not to show it. All day, I’ve gone about my normal life. I worked at Morgan’s and ate lunch with Collette and even managed to sell a painting in the afternoon.

Now I leap off my bed, half-running, half-walking toward my door, and then I rush out into the hall.

“I can tell him you’ll come down!” Jacobs says, trying desperately to hold on to some kind of decorum, but I’m already barreling down the stairs.

Emmett stands in the doorway, cradling a book and a box of chocolates. La Maison du Chocolat.

He looks up to see me just as I finish descending the stairs.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I say, breathless.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d turn me away.”

How could I?

“I worried about it all day,” he admits, passing over the chocolates and the book.

We only left each other this morning. I stayed at his house, in his bed, cocooned in his sheets all night until he had to wake for work and I had to dress to get back home so I could shower and hurry off to Morgan’s.

He offered me everything: a change of clothes, breakfast, his driver.

I pressed a kiss to his lips then slipped out his front door, not wanting to be a burden.

Now, I see how silly that was.

“You shouldn’t have worried.”

“You could have stayed.”

“In your bed?” I ask in a lowered voice.

He grins. “Yes. We could be there now, in fact.”

I set his gifts on the entry table beside us and shake my head. “No. I have other plans.”

His brow cocks with curiosity.

“A date.”

At this, he nearly laughs.

“A real one,” I add. “You’ll buy me pizza at a grungy little place and it’ll be the best slice we’ve ever had, and we’ll share a bottle of cheap wine and it’ll be too loud in the restaurant, and we’ll barely be able to hear each other, and all you’ll be thinking about is how you’ll be able to convince me to go home with you at the end of the night.”

He helps me into my wool coat then ties the belt around my waist for me.

“You think it will take convincing?” he asks, all that devilish charm practically oozing out of him.

“God no, but at least I can make it seem that way, right?”

He laughs and bends down to kiss me. It’s chaste at first, but maybe it would have deepened if my grandmother didn’t clear her throat behind us.

We jump apart like two teenagers. I look down at the ground, trying to keep my cheeks from overheating.

“And where are you off to with my precious granddaughter?” she asks, and though the question is formal, her tone reveals that she’s happy to see him here.

He looks down at me. “To get a slice of pizza, apparently.”

“I see. And, Lainey, will you be back before I go to bed?”

I meet Emmett’s eyes, and his expression makes it perfectly clear that the answer is no. I won’t be coming back here at all tonight.

“I don’t think so.”

I’m prepared for some kind of reprimand or a warning at the very least, but instead, she nods and comes over to press a kiss to my hair.

“Then have a nice time. And Emmett, take good care of her.”

He nods reverently and then we’re free to head out the front door and down the stoop. His car is waiting at the curb. Already his driver is en route to open the back door for us.

I tug Emmett’s arm. “Let’s walk.”

There’s no argument from him.

“I’ll be on call,” his driver tells us.

Then it’s just the two of us walking hand in hand down the sidewalk.

“Is there somewhere you had in mind?” Emmett asks.

I strain my brain to come up with the name of a single pizza restaurant in the entire city.

“No. My grandmother prefers fine dining.”

“A travesty. We’ll walk until we find something.”

“You know what I really miss? The pizza they served in the cafeteria at St. John’s.”

He laughs. “It was surprisingly good.”

It’s maybe too cold to be out on a leisurely walk, but neither of us tries to rush, and we’re hardly the only ones out here. Brave Bostonians litter the sidewalk. A few tuck their hands into their pockets and burrow down into their coats, hurrying along, but most of them look wholly unaffected by the weather. Kids with red noses and chapped cheeks play chase, darting past us while letting out peals of laughter, as if immune to the biting wind. A mom pushes her stroller while singing quietly to her baby. Emmett and I carry on, talking about our favorite food at St. John’s.

Just before we turn the corner, I look back at my grandmother’s house, and for a moment, I’m no longer down on the sidewalk with Emmett. I’m standing up on the balcony, outside my room, wistfully watching the parade of people come and go, just as I’ve done on a hundred evenings before. With a pang of loneliness, I drop my head in my hand and hunch over the railing, looking first at the woman with her stroller and her sweet baby. Then my attention is stolen by the running children and I smile, briefly feeling the same wild glee they feel as they scurry around other pedestrians. Finally, my gaze snags on the beautiful couple holding hands, the sharply dressed man with his dark hair and warm smile, staring down at the woman by his side as if she hung the moon. They’re so in love.

It’s a sight worthy of an old black and white film, a snapshot that would stand the test of time. He can’t keep his hands off her. They make it two steps forward, almost around the corner and out of sight, and then he backs her up against a brick wall—in plain view of everyone—and bends down to kiss her.

“God, I missed you all day” is what he tells her, his lips daring to move down to her neck.

I don’t have to wonder if she loves him like he so clearly loves her.

I don’t have to imagine she’s happy.

I’m no longer the girl on the balcony.

“I missed you too,” I tell him, rising up onto my tiptoes to press a firm kiss against his lips.