The man can pick up on cues, I'll say that for him. Sensing my unease, he asks if I'd rather take our drinks out to the hotel's private beach. We chat as we stroll across the boardwalk that spans the protected dunes and seagrass, and Fabian holds my drink while I slip off my shoes when we reach the other side. The party has spilled out onto the beach, where Fabian locates a couple of semi-isolated lounge chairs, a fair walk down the beach, away from most of the revelers.
"We're lucky to find these, it looks like all the other chairs have been claimed," I remark, scanning the beach. Fabian holds my hand to help me sit down gracefully — I can never sit down gracefully in a lounge chair — and then adjusts the back of it for me so it's upright but comfortable.
With an unusual shyness I've not seen from him yet, he says, "They're mine. I had a feeling about the crowds, so I went out and procured some chairs today, in hopes that you would show up." He looks away from me and stares out at the water.
I don't know whether to feel honored or overwhelmed by the idea that he went out and bought chairs just for tonight. “That's too nice," I say, admiring his profile, watching the ocean breeze play with his hair. I find myself wanting to reach out and touch the stray tendrils and tuck them behind his ears so they don't obscure his face. "Can I pay you back for my half, at least? You went to a lot of trouble."
I know that he knows I'm serious, so when his response to my offer is to laugh, I feel confused at first.
The way he laughs is so infectious, I start to laugh myself as he leans toward me. "What's so fun—"
His lips cut off my words in a soft, unexpected kiss. The brief caress of his mouth on mine and his hand cupping my face electrifies my entire body.
"Do not ever mention paying me back for anything, sweet lady," he says, leaning back in his chair.
I'm not sure how to proceed from here, I'm so shaken after one simple, sweet kiss. The way he's looking at me, all I can think about now is jumping his bones. It's not the same wolfish gaze from earlier today. This expression is the way someone looks when they have a thousand things they want to say, but can't find the right way to say them. My heart thuds. I will the sun to set faster so I don't have to see him looking at me like that; yet I also will it to set slower because, my god, he's beautiful, and no one has ever looked at me in this way. My mind quickly flails around for something — anything — to talk about.
"So," I finally say, "It’s nice out here, away from the crowds of people wondering why such a dashing fellow is hanging around with a humdrum person like me.”
Fabian stops as he reaches for his drink. “No, you misread them. Trust me, it is you who is out of my league.”
I’m glad he can’t see my full expression in the dimming light; I’m embarrassed by his flattery.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I say.
He sees me self consciously fiddling with my dress and mercifully changes the subject. “Let’s play a game,” he says. “I’m going to ask you five things about yourself and you have to answer as quickly as you can.”
I love learning trivia about people so of course I agree.
“What’s your favorite book?”
I’m thrown because nobody has ever asked me this before. “Of all books? Or do you mean childhood book, or young adult...”
“Gut reaction, mon amie. Just the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Like Water for Chocolate,” I say.
He responds with a huge smile. “Very nice. Favorite color?”
“Teal. Turquoise. Aquamarine? Are they all the same?”
“For our purpose here, yes,” he answers. “Favorite food?”
“Tex-Mex.”
"Wait," he says. "Tex-Mex?"
I clarify, because it's no surprise he might not know about this. "A combination of Texas, Mexican and Spanish cuisine. The best. That's all you need to know, and I don't even try to tell me French cuisine is better."
Chuckling, he moves on. “Favorite movie?”
“Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure.”
“Favorite country you’ve ever visited?”
“Fiji. OK, now it's your turn," I say, and repeat the same questions back at him.
Book? “Devil in a Blue Dress.” Color? “Terra cotta.” Food? “Anything cooked by my grand-mère.” Movie? “Ocean’s Eleven. The original.” Country: “America, because I’m going to miss it here now that I’ve made a friend.”
This last part triggers a little pinch of regret inside me. Before I can stop myself, I tell him he should stay.
“Sadly, I cannot. You should come with me. My grand-mère would adore you, and you could teach her how to cook Tex-Mex.”
I have to laugh at the notion of me teaching anybody’s grandmother how to cook anything, especially a French woman who is also an accomplished cook.
“She would love your company almost as much as I do, my little petal.”
I barely have time to gasp when his words flood me with happy thoughts because the next flood of sensation comes from surprise that I’m being kissed again. Hard.
How did we get here? I don’t even remember him kneeling down next to my beach chair to lean in, cup my face with both hands this time, and kiss me with his firm, assertive lips, but here we are.
Fabian’s warm tongue teases my lips in between deep, sensuous kisses. As much as I detect some odd kind of fakery and over the top charm in him, this kiss is the real
