around the neck. Accepting a compliment gracefully is another particularly French female characteristic that eludes me. I mumble a thank-you, then turn my eyes away, happy my skin is brown enough to hide a blush.
Before I can turn back, Alexandre places a white cardboard box in my hands and lofts a small striped cotton blanket into the air and settles it on the grass. He drops onto it with a smile and reaches a hand out for me to join him. My heart thumps as I slide my free hand into his, taking care to tuck my legs to the side as I take a seat. My knees graze his thigh. He gestures for me to open the box, and when I do, whiffs of butter and sugar and choux float out like clouds.
“L’Eclair de Génie?” I ask.
He nods. My favorite éclair shop in Paris.
“Pistachio raspberry?”
He nods again.
I’m delighted; a perfect éclair awaits. Although I was kind of hoping the surprise was going to be secret Dumas family documents. I need to be patient, or at least act like I am. Being excessively eager is not a good look in France, or anywhere for that matter.
I tap his éclair with mine and say, “Santé.” To your health.
He laughs. “You didn’t look me in the eyes when you toasted. How do I know you didn’t poison my pastry when I looked away?”
I lean over and take a bite of his éclair, making slightly embarrassing, yet not-so-exaggerated mmmmmmm sounds. “See? Poison free.”
“Touché,” he replies.
Our eyes meet. His spark with a knowing smile, a familiarity. A moment. A first step from a me-and-him into an us. Or it could all be in my imagination.
“I wish Americans did pastries like the French,” I say, trying to bring my mind back to the now, away from the what-ifs.
Alexandre shrugs. “Well you might not excel at pastries, but no one does cheese in a can like Americans.”
I shake my head. Cheese in a can is blasphemy. “I’m sorry that Cheez Whiz entered your life. Should I even ask how?”
Alexandre looks away and clears his throat. “A-a . . . friend . . . bought it for me,” he stammers. “When we were on holiday in the States as a . . . joke gift.”
“A gag gift? It’s totally gag-worthy, so that makes sense.”
“Ha!” He smirks as he wipes his hands on his skinny jeans. Then he points to one of the buildings that line the perimeter of the park. “Did you know that Victor Hugo used to live there?”
I nod. I guess we’re done talking about the Cheez Whiz friend.
“He used to take hashish with Dumas.”
I pull a cartoon double take. “What! Dumas spent his days toking up with Victor Hugo?” I laugh. “I can see it now—France’s greatest artists waxing philosophic about killer bud and arguing about whose turn it is to change the bong water.”
Alexandre scrunches up his eyebrows like I’ve annoyed him. Then he sighs like he’s exasperated. Crap. Maybe I offended his family honor by mocking his ancestors or something?
“Obviously, a servant would’ve dumped the bong water,” he says with a grin.
I breathe a small sigh of relief and laugh.
“Anyway, it probably wasn’t an issue, because they didn’t smoke it. The hash was a paste they’d mix into their coffee to inspire hallucinogenic visions. They called themselves the Club des Hashischins.” The Hash Eaters Club.
“I love the name! If they were around today, they’d probably have custom logo T-shirts and a huge Twitter following with their own . . . Hash-tag.” I pause, giving him the chance to appreciate how I crack myself up. “Get it?”
“Is this more American humor?” Alexandre deadpans.
I elbow him. “What? That was a quality quip.”
He laughs lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray wisp of my hair behind my ear. I shiver. He appears unfazed. “They had a real clubhouse. On ?le Saint-Louis.”
“That’s where our apartment is,” I answer quickly. “Maybe I’m staying in the