Page 41

Mackenzie
“You know Robert De Niro?” Mom exclaims, her voice a little too boisterous for the atmosphere of Chez Alexandre’s. I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but then take another sip of wine when it appears we’re in the clear. We’re tucked away in a corner booth, safe from prying eyes. I guess this is the kind of table you get when you’ve got billionaire connections, though.
“Well, we’re not drinking buddies or anything,” Gabriel smiles charmingly. “But I’ve run into him at a benefit or two over the years.”
“What’s he like?” she insists. She’s already pressed him for insider details about Alec Baldwin and Matt Damon.
He indulges her and I lean back against the cushioned seat, more relaxed than I can remember in… God, I don’t know when. He’s been wonderful with my parents, both of them under his spell.
And honestly, I am too.
Setting up front of the line passes for us at the Empire State Building. A private tour of the Met. A reservation for lunch at a restaurant smack dab in the middle of Times Square, just because my mom asked for it.
Because he wanted to do something nice? Because we’ve become friends? Because he… cares about me?
What does that mean anyway?
I let the live music from the trio of musicians near us drift over me, raising my glass to my lips again, only to realize I’ve drunk it all.
“Would mademoiselle care for another glass?” the waiter asks, materializing out of thin air.
“Um, yes, please.” I’ve never had wine like this. The French words had rolled right off of Gabriel’s tongue easily as he ordered a bottle for the table, but if it doesn’t come in a box, I’m not too familiar with it.
My wine is immediately refreshed, and I’m taken aback for a moment, not used to this level of service. It’s without a doubt the nicest place I’ve ever been, every aspect of it from the atmosphere to the food to the decor spot on. Soft, red walls and dim lighting invite conversation. Staff that seem authentically French and not just doing poor imitations of an accent mill around, attentive to their table’s needs. And don’t even get me started on the menu.
I watch Gabriel to my left entertaining my mom, my dad to my right having a religious experience with his cut of chateaubriand. If this had been a boyfriend meeting my parents for the first time, he would have passed with flying colors. I’d hold his hand under the table, playing idly with his fingers, exchanging stolen glances, both of us aware we’d be going home together afterward for one hell of a night in bed.
But he’s not my boyfriend. Obviously. And I shouldn’t get used to this fancy restaurant. This is a rare treat, not the norm.
I take a bite of my roasted duck, the meat tender and juicy, seasoned perfectly. But even as I acknowledge this, it’s almost like I can barely taste it. Everything is… too perfect, leaving me with a sense that I’m missing something.
But what?
After a fantastic crème brûlée I wish I could have appreciated more, Gabriel lets us use his town car to drop my parents off at their hotel.
He stretches out next to me after they leave, starting the drive back to my place. I could seriously get used to having a driver all the time. “So are you ever going to tell me about that dream you mentioned earlier?”
Oh God, I forgot about that. “No.”
“Come on,” he teases. “Not even a fantasy?”
“I don’t have any.” Especially not the one I had during dinner about him being my boyfriend.
“Now that’s a lie,” he laughs. “Everyone has something.”
The only other thing that comes to mind is an old one. “It’s stupid,” I murmur.
“Nothing is stupid. There are no rules in fantasies.”
“No, I mean, it’s not sexy or anything. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“Okay, well now I have to know.”
He turns to me, settling in like he’s ready for a good story, and I laugh at his eagerness.
“Well, some back story first. I snuck out of bed one night - I must have been nine or ten - and went out to the living room to see what my parents were doing after I’d gone to bed. I could hear my dad in the kitchen doing the dishes and my mom was watching this movie, an old black and white one.”
I smile to myself, recalling the innocent thrill of tiptoeing out of my room coupled with the anxiety of potentially being caught. Not that I would have been in serious trouble. Mom and Dad never believed in corporal punishment. Just the crushing weight of knowing you’d disappointed them.