I waited outside the restaurant, eagerly watching the crowds for any sign of Jean- Pierre. Every few minutes, I found myself checking the time on my phone. I kept track of every minute that he was past the half an hour mark, and right now, I was up to ten. I was struggling to stay patient, but that was quickly wearing thin. I had been so excited about this dinner. But even that was wearing off under the irritation of him being late.
I wanted to go inside to ask for a table in order to get off these ridiculous three-inch heels. But Jean-Pierre had specifically asked me to meet him out front. I felt slightly foolish for caring so much about his requests, but I couldn't help it. When he had looked at me with his soft amber eyes and asked something from me, I felt almost helpless to refuse. It reminded me of the few times I had met one of Scott's girls. They had seemed so malleable and compliant that it was absolutely annoying to me. Now? I could understand it a little bit better now.
I checked the time once more. If Jean-Pierre ever showed up, I thought with a silent growl. At least I thought it was silent. However, the few strange looks I got from the crowd around me warned me that I was louder than I had realized.
Ten minutes before eight, I was calling myself a simpering fool. I grabbed my bag and stood to leave. This was not the first time I had been stood up. I was in no mood to wait the two hours I had last time for Bobby Pritcher in the sixth grade. I had never allowed that to happen again.
Call it picky, but if a man didn't call when he was running late, then I assumed that wasn't important to him. It seemed especially rude in the age of cellphones. My mother always told me not to waste my time on a man that didn't find me important.
I was halfway down the street when I heard my name being called in a very familiar French accent. I almost kept going and ignored him. It definitely would have served him right for being so late and not calling to let me know.
"Molly! Ma belle, where are you going?" he called again, sounding much closer.
I signed heavily and turned around, calling myself a fool. I wanted to be furious and tell Jean-Pierre where to stick it. But when he called me that little pet name, I just melted like putty in the sun.
Jean-Pierre came trotting up to me with his, all too handsome, face lit up in a sexy, seductive smile. His jet-black hair was tasseled around his head, lending to his playful-roguish good looks.
He easily caught up to me and pulled me into his arms. "Ma belle, comment vas-tu?"
I frowned at his careless attitude. There was no way he could not have known how late he was. He caught my displeasure and tapped my cheek with a finger, then clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"Why so grumpy, ma belle? We are with each other again! Smiles, only!" he told me, pressing a small kiss on my nose.
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to summon my patience. "I'm sorry, Jean-Pierre. I'm just a little upset that you didn't call to let me know you were running so late."
Jean-Pierre pulled back and looked at his watch. "Late? Late? It's not even eight! You said around seven! It is still seven."
"I don't know if I'd call 7:57 still seven, Jean-Pierre," I told him skeptically.
Jean-Pierre clicked his tongue again and pulled me into his arms once more. "Ma belle, you Americans are soo obsessed with time! Relax, you beautiful woman! I will show you how to turn that beautiful mind off and not worry about time. "
Between his words and tone, I felt slightly chastised for being upset. I supposed he was right, in a way. I should have specified the time a little better than I did. There really was no reason to be upset with him. Besides, I couldn't stay mad at him. He gave me the sweetest look and pressed another kiss on my nose.
"Let us go inside. We will have a nice bottle of wine and a good meal. You will be less angry then." Jean-Pierre coaxed me.
I sighed gently and nodded. I was probably just starving, and though I never really enjoyed wine, I wouldn't mind trying French wine with someone who actually knew about the subject.
The restaurant was bustling with noise and activity, proving without a word that it was one of the more popular places in Paris. Every man, woman, and child in the place was dressed up with the same care and elegance as the restaurant itself. Suddenly, I felt underdressed.
It didn't help that the maitre d' looked at me like I was some kind of prostitute that Jean-Pierre had just picked up outside. I doubt it helped that I had been waiting so long there either.
Jean-Pierre seemed not to notice as he and the maitre d' struck up a conversation before getting us seated. Though my French was alright for minor conversations and getting directions, there was no way I could keep up with their fast-paced speech.
There was one part of their conversation that I did understand, a deep throaty chuckle that they shared. No matter what culture you were in, it was apparent when two men shared a laugh at a woman's expense. I felt a blush rush up my cheeks, and I looked away in mortification.
Jean-Pierre put his arm around my waist and pulled me close to his side as the waiter showed us to our table. I felt every eye on me as we walked through the crowded room.
"You could have warned me that this place was classy. I feel like a paid woman on your arm," I chastised him.
He frowned at my tone. "You did not ask, Molly. "
Jean-Pierre truly knew how to take the wind out of my sails and make me feel like an idiot for speaking up. But before I could call him out on it, he squeezed my waist tightly.
"Besides, with you in this sexy dress and me in my dashing suit, we are the envy of everyone here!" he exclaimed excitedly.
I made a face and shook my head. "What does that matter?"
Jean-Pierre threw his head back and laughed. "It is fun making others jealous of what is yours!"
His proclamation made my heart speed up slightly. "Does that mean I am yours, Jean-Pierre?"
He put a finger under my chin and tilted my head up until I gazed into his eyes. The dark depths held a triumphant sense of possession. Something about it bothered me, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
Unable to understand my concern, I let it go and let the joy of his desire fill me.
"You are absolutely mine, ma belle," he purred.
He took my lips in a hard, almost punishing kiss. Up until this point, Jean-Pierre had always been sweet and gentle, almost as if he was afraid he would scare me off with his desire. But this kiss felt like a brand on my lips, like he was marking his territory. I was confused by the kiss, by him, by everything... and for the first time, I wondered if I had made a mistake about him.