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Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Blame Iton Paris
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  5. Book One
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Book Two
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Thirty-nine

Let no one say that I am easy. It was two more whole days before I showed up at Le Relais du Vin near closing time. Sébastien’s face lit up when he saw me, as it tended to do. He installed me in the tiny corner between the bar and the front window. Louis, the wild-haired owner, smiled happily at me and went back to filling the small dishwasher under the bar with glasses.

“You should try this dessert,” Sébastien murmured. He wore a black, pressed, short-sleeve shirt again, as he had the night I first saw him, but I could tell he was hot and tired and just longing to unbutton it and strip down to the black tank underneath. “Poire belle hélène. It’s another of my favorites. Plus, the chef’s gone by now, and this is one of the few things on the menu I can make.” So he served me pears with pear ice cream, lavishly dripped with a hot chocolate sauce. It melted in my mouth, sweet and cool and hot all at once. I watched him move as I ate. Most of the tables were empty again by now, Sébastien taking care of the tail ends of lingering parties and hauling in tables from the cobblestoned street.

“Do you know what day it is?” I murmured, nervous and excited. I’d worn my stiletto boots again, and under my long black coat were finally and at long last my black leather pants. If black leather pants couldn’t make up for failings in a certain department, what could?

“It’s Wednesday, right?” he said.

“It’s two months exactly since I asked you out.”

“You asked me out?” he asked, confused.

I gritted my teeth. “Since I left you that invitation to the party.”

“Right.” He smiled. “That was a good day. Of course, I’d no idea how much work you would turn out to be.” He pinched my nose before I could stop him and went off to bring someone a bill.

When he got back, I had a folded piece of paper under my hand. I hadn’t written it in the toilet this time. I drew the line there. I slid it across the table to him. “It’s another invitation.”

He picked it up and unfolded it and then looked up at me, not quite smiling. “Absolutely,” he said.

I hope I don’t have to go into detail about what it was an invitation to do. Use your imagination. Anyway, I had no choice; he was holding Harry Potter hostage for my bad behavior.

Twelve