“Nice to meet you, I’m Josie Marin.”

Monsieur Pascale unfolded his body with the lithe grace of a panther until he stood, towering over me. He took my hand in a brief perfunctory shake, dropping it as quickly as it began.

His eyes assessed me coolly. “Xavier Pascale,” he announced. “This is my daughter, Dauphine.” His accent was like a drizzle of rich chocolate sauce that made me want to lick my lips.

I glanced down at Dauphine and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She shook it. “Vous parlez Francais?”

Shaking my head, I adopted what I hoped was an apologetic look. “Not very well, no.” I understood she was asking me if I spoke French, but beyond anything more than these basic questions I knew I’d be clueless. At least until my high school French clicked back into place, and even then, I knew I’d be woefully inadequate.

She smiled. “Bon.”

Good?

She fired something in rapid French up to her father, and then walked away. I expected her father to go immediately after her again based on the scare he’d just had, but Xavier Pascale didn’t move. And he didn’t strike me as someone who simply followed without good reason.

Dauphine walked up to a man hovering ten feet away from us. He was about my age with dark blond hair, wearing light colored but official looking pants and blazer, and an earpiece. He reached for Dauphine’s hand. In his other, he held a sign dangling by his side that had my name written on it. I must not have seen him. He shot me a warm and welcoming smile.

I nervously returned it.

The man in front of me hadn’t moved when I looked back at him. He studied me with a startling intensity. Nothing about it was warm and inviting. In fact, it was more like an arctic breeze. I guess this was the interview, then. In the train station. I hoped he’d buy my fare home, otherwise I was shit out of luck. But that was becoming the theme of my life.

“You are not what I expected,” he said, his voice deep and accented, articulating each word.

You either, buddy. I frowned. “In what way?”

His gaze swept over me, and he muttered something in French I didn’t understand.

My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, and I bristled.

Seemingly coming to his senses he shook his head. “Désolé. I’m … sorry. Merci … uh. Thank you for coming with much on short …”

“On short notice?”

“Short notice.” He nodded, though he didn’t seem very thankful. More annoyed and perturbed by my presence. “I apologize. My English is normally better. I studied for a time in Britain after all.”

“Of course,” I said. “My French is normally worse.”

He frowned.