Page 94 of Eat. Prey. Love.
TigerKing: I don’t like the thought of you leaving them in a car while you prance about Paris.
TigerWoody: What if they don’t prance? What if they just mosey?
LustyLibrarian: For fuck’s sake, Fitz…
BabyGirl: You guys should put that on a tee-shirt. You say it enough.
LustyLibrarian: He MAKES us say it, lunchable. And he does it on purpose.
EmoBatman: …
TigerWoody: You’d better not be texting while you’re driving my Baby Girl, you winged wanker! That’s dangerous as fuck.
TigerKing: For once, I agree.
BabyGirl: You all need to calm down. Rennie is driving fine; I have his phone to transcribe. Stop motherhenning me. We’ll be fine and he just said to tell Felix that the trunk has some sort of lock box he can put the stuff in.
I chuckle as she clicks her phone screen off and puts both of our devices in her purse. “Just like that, hmm?”
“Absolutely,” she says with a wink. “This is our date now, and I don’t want them intruding, no matter how well-intentioned.”
Fuck she’s hot when she’s taking charge.
The Parisian skypeels back its cover, revealing a tapestry of stars as we sit beneath the gaping roof ofL’Étoile Ouverte. The clink of fine china and the murmur of conversation harmonize with the sweet serenade of a violin player tucked in the corner of the terrace. It’s an ambiance that breathes romance, the perfect setting for a night steeped in history and amour.
“Can you imagine,” I say to Dolly, my voice barely above a whisper, “the artists who walked these streets? The poets and musicians who spilled their hearts into the Seine?”
She leans forward, the candlelight dancing in her rainbow-hued hair, casting prismatic shadows on the tablecloth. “You don’t have to, Rennie. Youlivedit. Tell me about the 1500s now…about your Paris.”
I smile, savoring the coq au vin that melts on my tongue like a savory memory. “C’était une époque de renaissance?2,” I begin, describing the revival of art and beauty that bloomed even as the old world crumbled. I tell her of hidden salons where preds and prey gathered to discuss philosophy and sculpture, where we debated under the moonlight, animated by the magic of the city.
“Sounds enchanting,” she sighs, her eyes reflecting the constellations above us.
“Paris has always been magical,mon amour,” I reply, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.
As the final note from the nearby violin trembles into silence, I can hardly contain my excitement for the next surprise. “Dolly, are you ready for thepièce de résistanceof our evening?”
Her grin is all the answer I need.
We leave the restaurant,the cool night air wrapping around us like a cloak. I lead her down cobblestone alleys until the distant echo of an organ fills the air. A shiver of anticipation courses through me. This surprise is one I had to use the hyperactive tiger to dig up, and I know she will adore it. I quietly made certain that we were both dressed for the occasion by nudging her polar bear friend and acquiring my own attire from the city via Captain’s special delivery.
And she has not sensed it in the slightest, which means she’ll be completely taken aback.
“Where are we?” Dolly asks, her voice laced with curiosity. “I didn’t expect to be wandering around this part of the city, to be honest. I thought you’d take me to see your bells, or maybe to theMoulin Rouge.”
My smile is mysterious and she huffs a bit until we happen upon the back alley door. I knock three times, and it opens, revealing an elegant waiting room. She arches a brow, her expression curious.
“We’re going to a cathouse?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “Welcome to the Phantom’s lair.” Handing her a delicate white mask, feathers fluttering at its edges, I grin, then take mine out of my inside jacket pocket.
Her eyes sparkle as she takes in my all-black suit, the stark contrast of my newly donned Phantom mask. “Rennie… what did you do?”
“I found an escape, no matter how brief, from the pressures of the world we’re living in. Come with me, my Angel of Music.” My eyes dance at the reference and she squeals, then slaps her hand over her mouth when the other people in the foyer give her amused looks.
We enter the grand ballroom, already alive with masked figures swirling in time to the haunting melody ofMasquerade. Taking her hand, I draw her into the dance, our movements fluid, as if the music itself guides us. Laughter bubbles from her lips, and the sound is more intoxicating than the finest champagne.
“Je t’adore,” I whisper against her ear as we spin, her dress fanning out like the wings of a vibrant butterfly.