Sweet Filthy Boy(82)

Ansel looks up when he nears the corner, doubling his steps when he sees me.

“Hi,” he says, leaning in and placing a lingering kiss on each of my cheeks. Damn I love France. Oblivious to Simone’s wide eyes or gaping expression, he pulls back just long enough to grin before kissing me again, this time on the mouth.

“You’re off early,” I murmur into another kiss.

“I find it harder to work late these days,” he says with a little smile. “I wonder why?”

I shrug, grinning.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks, pulling me to stand and linking his fingers with mine.

“Hi,” Simone says, accompanied by the sound of her spiked heels shuffling on the sidewalk, and finally, he looks over to her.

“I’m Ansel.” He gives her the customary kiss on each cheek, and I’m more than a little pleased to see her crestfallen expression when he pulls quickly away.

“Ansel is my husband,” I add, rewarded by a smile on Ansel’s face that could power each and every streetlight up and down Rue St.-Honoré. “This is Simone.”

“Husband,” she repeats, and blinks quickly as if she’s seeing me for the first time. Her eyes move from me back to Ansel, almost blatantly looking him up and down. She’s clearly impressed. With a shake of her head she hoists her large bag over her shoulder, before saying something about a party she’s going to be late for and tossing a “well done” in my direction.

“She was pleasant,” Ansel says, watching her go.

“She’s not, really,” I say with a laugh. “But something tells me she might be now.”



AFTER ONLY A few blocks of walking in companionable silence, we turn down a street that is cramped even by Paris standards. Like most restaurants in this neighborhood, the storefront is narrow and unassuming, barely wide enough to accommodate a nest of four wooden tables out front and sheltered by a large brown and orange awning above, the word Ripaille written across it. It’s all cream-colored panels and chalkboards scribbled with the day’s specials, and long, thin windows that throw flickering shadows onto the cobbled streets just outside.

Ansel holds the door open and I follow him in, quickly greeted by a tall, rail-thin man with a welcoming smile. The restaurant is small but cozy, and smelling of mint and garlic and something dark and delicious I can’t immediately identify. A handful of small tables and chairs fill the single room.

“Bonsoir. Une table pour deux?” the man says, reaching for a stack of menus.

“Oui,” I say, and catch Ansel’s proud smile, deep dimple present and accounted for. We’re led to a table near the back and Ansel waits for me to sit before taking his own. “Merci.”

Apparently my grasp of two of the most basic words in French is awesome because, assuming I’m fluent, the waiter launches into the specials of the day. Ansel catches my eye and I give a small, barely perceptible shake of my head, more than happy to listen while he explains it to me later. Ansel asks him a few questions, and I watch in silence, wondering if listening to him speak, watching him gesture with his hands, or, hell, do just about anything will ever stop being ranked up there with some of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

Jesus, I am in deep.

When the waiter leaves, Ansel leans across the table, pointing at the different items with his long, graceful hands, and I have to blink several times and remind myself to pay attention.

Menus have always been the most difficult for me to navigate. There are a few helpful things: boeuf/beef, poulet/chicken, veau/veal, canard/duck, and poisson is fish (I’m completely unashamed to say I knew that one from countless viewings of The Little Mermaid), but how things are prepared or the names for various sauces or vegetables are still things I need help with at most restaurants.

“The special is langoustine bisque, which is . . .” He pauses, furrows his brow, and looks up to the ceiling. “Uhh . . . it’s a shellfish?”

I grin. Lord only knows why I find his confused face so endearing. “Lobster?”

“Yes. Lobster,” he says with a satisfied nod. “Lobster bisque with mint, served with a small pizza on the side. Very crunchy with lobster and sundried tomatoes. Also there is le boeuf—”

“The bisque,” I decide.

“You don’t want to hear the others?”

“You think there’s something better there than soup and pizza with lobster?” I stop, realization dawning. “Unless it means you can’t kiss me?”

“It’s fine,” he says, waving his hand. “I can still kiss you senseless.”

“Then that’s it. Bisque.”