into the water. If you crash into the rocks.”
“Does it?” he says, raising one eyebrow.
God, his eyes are so green. “Are you? Going to crash, I mean.”
“Almost definitely.”
After discussing with the waitress, who’s pleasantly friendly and conversant about the menu, I order the canette de barbarie, a duck cooked in honey and thyme. Elijah orders the quail, which comes with grapes and tiny onions. The star of the dinner is definitely dessert. We both get the éclairs, made from choux pastry, vanilla cremeaux, and dark chocolate with cacao nibs on top.
When the check comes, the waitress hands it directly to Elijah, but I pull out the wallet from my crossover bag. “Let me pay half.”
“No.” He doesn’t even look up.
“Elijah.”
“Holly.”
“You said my clothes cost as much as your rent.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m coming into some money soon. Besides, this is a date.”
“People go Dutch on a date,” I argue.
“Not with me, they don’t.”
I don’t know how else to make my point, especially without hurting his pride. Maybe I like the quaintness of having the man pay for the date.
But I cringe to think about this check on a security guard salary.
This kind of place should be an anniversary dinner with a girlfriend, not a first date. At least I think so. This is actually my first date that wasn’t a high-school party. The truth is I’ve never had to worry about money. I have cash in my purse, along with a credit card. Dad is always extra careful to make sure we each have money and identification when we travel.
When we step outside, the rain has stopped but the streets are still wet.
He leads me away from the line of people waiting for valet toward the streetlight. I glance at him curiously. “Don’t we need to get your car?”
“I’ll come back for it. It’ll be nicer to walk with you.”
My heart melts a little then. I do like the walk. Over the line of buildings I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower. It’s muted in the fog left over from the rain, which makes it seem ethereal.
“I’m glad you asked me on a smoke break,” I say, feeling almost shy. “Out of the thousands of girls who come through to see the Mona Lisa every day, I’m glad you saw me. And wanted me.”
His green eyes flash in the darkness. “And took you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I know a diamond in the rough when I see one.”
We reach an alley between two restaurants, and he pulls me into the shadows—slowly walking backward so I have plenty of time to balk. Instead I follow him, my body turning heavy and warm. I have that same itchy feeling just touching him in one place: my hand in his.
He backs me against the wall, and cold, damp brick cradles me. His body leans against me from the front, so I’m sandwiched in from the cool air.
“Hi,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my forehead.
It makes me laugh a little, as if we’re only just now meeting.
My lips are still curved in a smile when he kisses me. He tastes it from one end to the other, as if he can sip my happiness like the champagne I saw people drink with dinner.
As if it’s just as bubbly and cool.
He pulls back, and I’m breathing hard, staring at the shine of dark green.
“Hi back,” I whisper, and then I push up on my toes to kiss him more. This time he swipes my lips with his tongue. I part them, and he presses inside. His tongue rubs against mine, and I whimper into his mouth. He pulls back an inch, and my whole body leans forward as if to catch him. Maybe the mermaids did more than sun on a warm rock. Maybe they wanted the dragons to crash. It’s as if something snaps. Something breaks. His control maybe, and he presses his lips against mine, hard and a little clumsy. His tongue opens my mouth forcibly, searching, searching, not able to find what he needs. Elusive, he said. The flavor of him eludes me, and I hunt for more of it with my lips. It feels like my heart is in my throat, and I ache. I ache for him to do more than kiss me. I want him to touch me, to bear me down on the dirty alleyway floor.
“Elijah,” I murmur between kisses, and he answers back, “Christ. I know.”
Then he stops. Air fills the space between us. The physical