He looks up over the top of them. “Not very often. I can’t wear my contact lenses at the moment, and it’s giving me headaches.”

Why not? I open my mouth to ask more ridiculous questions, but he looks studiously down at the menu in a way that suggests he won’t answer me. I detest being pushed for answers, myself, so I leave it alone and pick up my own menu.

“What do you fancy?” I ask.

“How about the minestrone soup and the tear-and-share rosemary focaccia bread?”

“Tear and share?” I echo.

“Yes. We can eat it together.”

I eye him in disbelief. “Why would I want that?”

He raises his head to look at me. “It’s a light lunch. We tear off the bread and share it.”

“I don’t like sharing my food. When I order a meal, I expect to eat all of it. We are not living in a commune, Laurie.”

“The tearing makes it sociable,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Putting your hands on my food is unhygienic. Not sociable,” I inform him.

“I give up,” he says, laughter ringing in his voice. “Order your own food, you miserable bastard.”

“Thank you.”

We place our orders, and when the waiter has gone, I lean back in my chair. “So, you live full-time in France, yes?” The thought is a niggle in my brain, telling me our time together is limited. It saddens me for some reason. He has a pull to him, and I like him. We could be friends.

He nods. “I like it over there.”

“I presume you speak French?”

“Of course. What about you?”

“Danish, French, Spanish, and Russian. Although my Russian is a little rusty. I haven’t been over there for a while.”

“When was the last time?”

He sits back as the waiter delivers our drinks. Water for him and a limoncello for me.

I consider his question. “Ten years ago. I was defending a man accused of war crimes. I had to go over there to do some research.”

He looks startled. “You do your own research?”

I take a sip of my drink. It’s tart and refreshing. “Of course. I like control, and I detest being blindsided.” He’s watching me interestedly, so I relent and give him more than my standard answer. “I always research my client and the evidence against him. I like to start that process by looking at the prosecution’s case.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot defend if I do not know the angle of attack.”

“And did you get your war criminal off?”

“He died before it came to court. He wasn’t a nice man, though.”

He picks up a breadstick and bites into it. His teeth are white and even. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

I sit back in my chair. “Are we now at the stage where you castigate me for defending the scum of the earth?”