Page 20 of Infidelity Rules

Several hours later we are finally dressed and finishing up a leisurely lunch at an outdoor cafe — oysters and salad Nicoise for me, steak tartare and frites for Marcus.

Things are so easy with him that I forget we have only known each other for a handful of weeks.

The conversation flows, the banter continues and I genuinely feel like I can be myself.

It’s as if I’m talking to Alex or Dezi, or even Julian for that matter.

Except, of course, unlike those three, Marcus makes my heart race and my head dance.

That, and I want to rip his clothes off.

But I digress.

So far, we’ve discussed our childhoods and our families.

I even confided in him about my ex-husband, Chris, which is unusual for me.

Marcus grew up in upstate New York with three older sisters, a father who still works as a veterinarian and his mother, a stay-at-home mom and part-time librarian.

Oh, and two cats, Boogie Nights and Disco Biscuit. Don’t ask.

The only topic we have yet to broach is his wife. And I am not bringing her up. That’s almost certainly sudden death for a new affair. Or, at the very least, it would seriously kill the mood. And I’m not about to extinguish my wild rumpus ride.

What I do know about his current family is this — no children. Whew. I have yet to break that cardinal rule of infidelity and I certainly don’t want to start now.

.....

We wrap up with lunch and Marcus stands to take my hand and guides me around the crowded outdoor tables. He pulls a plain brown paper bag out of his inside coat pocket and grins at me. “Come on gorgeous, we have a fun little errand to run.”

I look at the bag suspiciously as he opens the top to show me what’s inside.

“Twinkies? What the hell? Please tell me that’s not dessert.”

“What?” he says straight-faced. “I hear they go great with wine.”

I raise my eyebrows. He cannot be serious. Can he?

Marcus laughs and kisses me on the lips. “You should see the look on your face right now. Don’t worry, I won’t force you to eat these,” he says, stowing away the bag and leading me down the sidewalk. “You’re gonna love this.”

“Marcus, why on earth did you haul a package of Twinkies with you to Paris?”

“I’ll show you,” he says, as we approach what appears to be a bit of a line outside a cheese shop. We queue up as Marcus whispers to me that he’s hoping his favorite “cheese dude” is working today.

I’m quite smitten over the fact that Marcus even has a cheese dude.

Apparently, said cheese dude is a cheerful Brit who guides any non-French speaking, naive cheese cretins through the hushed halls of cheese at this award-winning fromagerie. And, as Marcus tells me, there’s even a procedure for procuring cheese at this place:

Step quietly but quickly up to the entrance.

Do not speak to the cheese. Do not look at the cheese. Do not wave at the cheese. And most certainly DO NOT touch the cheese.

I giggle as we wait patiently for assistance.

I notice a very tall, very French, dark-haired cheese monger surveying the shop.

He’s wearing what I come to find out is the signature neck scarf for the award-winning elite who make and age their own cheeses.

Marcus tells me he’s the owner and doesn’t speak any English, hence the jovial British man assisting all the English speakers in the shop.

It’s times like these I really wish I would have kept up with my Rosetta Stone French lessons. Although, even if I had been diligent in my practice, I have a feeling I would crumple under the pressure of attempting the language in the presence of an actual French cheese king.

We are next in line and the cheese king is free, so he begins his approach.

It’s obvious, however, that we do not speak French, so he graciously delivers us to his British mentee.

Then, satisfied we are in excellent, cheese-choosing hands, he turns to help an elderly woman who is clearly French and knows to whisper amongst the cheeses lest she disturb their delicate slumber.

Enter the saucy Brit, who practically prances right up to us, bouncing lightly on his toes and tapping his fingers together. His joyful energy is infectious. I have to quell the urge to link my arm through his and go skipping through the cheese shop and hippity hopping right out the door.

“So, Americans are we, eh?” says the bouncing blond man, still grinning. “Don’t mind The Master, he doesn’t speak any English. What can I get you? A fresh milky chevre, perhaps? A Comté aged right here in our caves? Or if you enjoy a blue now and again, then maybe a Fourme d’Ambert?”

Just as I was about to say, “all of it. Get me all of it,” Marcus pipes up with, “pssst, we have Twinkies.”

The Brit stops. The cheese he was holding, drops. He grins so wide I can count the silver crowns on his molars.

“It’s you,” he whispers and claps his hands together. “You’re the American who promised to bring me a Twinkie. A real American Twinkie. From America.”

“It is. And I didn’t forget,” says Marcus.

“Let me see,” he says eagerly. “Let me see.”

Marcus pulls out his brown paper bag and surreptitiously opens it to reveal the quintessential, bright yellow, tube-shaped American snack cake.

The Brit gasps, keeping a close eye on The Master to ensure he is otherwise occupied and then gleefully claps Marcus on the back.

He grins and opens the bag, staring at the yellow treat as if the presence of a Twinkie among the hallowed cheese luminaries is akin to him sitting on the Queen’s lap.

“I cannot wait to show these to The Master,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “He just won’t believe it’s supposed to be food.”

Ahhhh. Now I understand. This wisecracking, jovial man was not going to actually eat these. Oh no. The strange, weirdly shaped, preservative-laden, immortal Twinkie was destined to be a gag gift. He was going to use it to tease the hell out of his boss, The. Great. Cheese. Master.

I start laughing. “I cannot believe you actually brought a Twinkie to Paris to scare a French cheese monger,” I say to Marcus, loving every minute of this quirky side to him.

He shrugs, grinning. “I said I would and I did.”

“Shhhh. We have to pipe down,” says the Brit, choking back a chuckle and hiding the bag in a nearby drawer.

He straightens up, throws his shoulders back and says, “okay, anything else for you two today?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Cheese, please.”

Marcus and I tumble out of the shop, laughing. We have lost two twinkies but gained four pounds of cheese.

“You’re a bit of a nut,” I say, delighted with Marcus and his antics.

He smiles down at me. “I’m pretty certain I’m nowhere near as crazy as you,” he says, planting a kiss on my lips. “I’ve seen the telltale signs.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “And they are …”

“Well for one, you’re dating me,” he says between kisses. “That automatically makes you a bit of a lunatic.”

“No arguments here,” I say, putting my arms around his neck.

“Is that what we’re doing? Dating?” I ask, instantly regretting the words as they come out of my mouth.

No, Quinn. No. No. No. This path will lead directly to talk of his wife.

And I really don’t want to know anything about her.

This is most definitely not dating. It’s an illicit affair and now I’m wondering how many of these he’s had?

GAH! Stop thinking like this. Do NOT ruin this lovely Parisian rendezvous.

Before Marcus can even answer, I distract us both by sliding my hands underneath his jacket and pressing my breasts up against his chest.

“Quinn,” he groans, wrapping his arms around me. “I cannot get enough of you.”

“Then it’s a good thing you have me for the next 24 hours,” I say, running my hands down his stomach.

Once again, we’re grinning and staring at each other like total asses.

I can only imagine what we must look like to any passersby.

We seem incapable of untangling from one another when we’re forced to by my phone, blowing up with texts.

Uh oh. I’ve been ignoring everything and everyone except Marcus.

My phone is pinging like mad with texts from both Alex and Dezi.

Alex: What the hell? You okay? Get back to me asap! You are seriously in trouble.

Dezi: Is your brain addled from too much sex or are you floating in the Seine? What’s going on???

Alex: Don’t make me get on a plane. Where are you?

Dezi: I’m worried. I’m about to call your brother.

I group text them back immediately.

Me: SORRY. Having the time of my life! Marcus is a doll and I’m over the moon. Plus, I’m in Paris, so there’s that … again, so sorry to worry you both. I’m in excellent hands.

Dezi: I bet …

Alex: Okay, I’m out of this conversation. Quinn, I’m glad you’re okay. Text me the moment you land.

Dezi: Details my friend, details!

Me: Ha! Of course. I’ll be back late tomorrow but then a gal’s night? How’s Elliot?

Dezi: YES! He’s great. We have a date tonight.

Me: Have fun. Tell him hello. Hugs and kisses to you!

“Sorry about that,” I say to Marcus, putting my phone away. “My best friend and brother were worried …”

“Afraid I might whisk you away and turn you into my French fancy woman?” he asks, putting his jacket over my shoulders as a chilly breeze starts to pick up.

“Wait, isn’t that EXACTLY what you did?” I laugh and snuggle into his jacket.

“I suppose it is.” He lifts my hand to his lips. “Well my French fancy woman, how do you feel about heading back to the hotel for a nap?”

“I feel good about it.”