“Love you too,” I said.
I put the phone down and stared bleakly at the kitchen table covered in chocolate croissants and strawberry danishes. I wasn’t in the mood for pastries anymore.
Chapter Six
I reached half-heartedly for a chocolate croissant. Honestly, I didn’t want them to go to waste, no matter how uneasy my stomach was feeling. As I reached over the phone that I’d just put down, it rang.
My body jumped back and I laughed nervously. I picked up the phone and looked at the number. My heart, already skipping beats, did a full on leap.
“Hello? Jean-Luc?”
“Lacey!” His voice was warm and inviting. “Will you come to my studio? We are having a class today, and I would love for you to come and join us.”
“Yes, absolutely!”
I found myself nodding into the phone. Ridiculous. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and tempered my enthusiasm.
“Where is it?”
“Let me send my car around. You’re staying at the Milliard over on the Champs-Elysees, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. I wondered how he had known. Perhaps Jake had told him. I wondered if Jake had ever met him, or thought to meet him. I wondered if Jake would be jealous of me if he knew how young and handsome this art collector was.
Jean-Luc’s voice brought me out of my ruminations.
“—be there in ten minutes, at most.”
“What? Oh, you mean now?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t eat anything; I’ll have a little brunch prepared for us.”
“A—alright,” I said.
I put the phone down and ran to get dressed.
The driver dropped me off in front of an old building in the north of Paris and told me to go up to the third floor. I climbed the spiral stairs, clenching the iron railing the whole way up. I didn’t trust old stairs in Paris, but I trusted old elevators even less.
When I opened the door onto the third story, I was shocked to see a huge room, an art studio stretching out for what would have been many office spaces.
“Hello?” I called.
Jean-Luc’s head popped up from behind a counter on the far side of the room.
“Come in, come in,” he said. I realized that he was watching the stove—that side of the room had a kitchen built into the wall. Easels were propped next to the dining table. He came around and pushed them aside, waving me into a seat.
“Thank you,” I said, sitting down. I lifted my chin and was greeted by the signature Parisian kisses. “Oh! Oh, hello. Bonjour.”
Were we the only ones here? It looked like it. I wondered if Jean-Luc had an ulterior motive for inviting me over. I eyed him warily, but he only smiled with a brightness that got under my defenses. And whatever he was making smelled delicious.
“First we eat,” he said, producing a plate heaped with crepes. The scent of roasted apple and cinnamon wafted over the table, and my mouth immediately began to water.
“Then,” he said, pulling out two wine glasses, “we drink. And then we will do some art. The students will be in later.”
“Oh, alright,” I said, a bit relieved that there would be other people arriving soon. I felt bad for thinking that Jean-Luc would try to do anything with me. And I felt, too, a hint of disappointment.
I didn’t have long to think about my own feelings. Jean-Luc sat down next to me, pulling his chair close. I tensed at how close he was. I wanted to impress him, but I didn’t want to invite any… unwanted attentions. I sat up straight and tried to look professional.
Then I took a bite of apple crepe and my eyes widened. I guess it’s hard to look professional when you’re stuffing your mouth. That might have been why Jean-Luc leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his face suddenly serious.
“Why are you an artist?” he asked.
“Uh…” I started, then kicked myself for stammering. I shouldn’t be stammering. “Well, I grew up in Iowa on a farm, and—”
“Did I ask you your family history?”
“N-no.” He wasn’t asking angrily, but the stern tone in his voice made me shiver inside.
“Then let me ask you again. Why are you an artist?”
“I—um, I like to paint,” I stammered. God, I needed to stop that.
“You like to paint,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“And are you any good?”
“Any good?”
“At painting.”
“Oh. Um, yes. I think so?” I got the feeling that I wasn’t answering these questions right. His dark stare was so blank that I couldn’t tell if he was about to kiss me or about to throw me out of the studio.
Jean-Luc sat back in his chair, and I let my breath out in a sigh of relief. I picked at a drop of paint on my knuckle, trying not to look straight at him.