Possessive Parisian Pilot: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 90)

by Flora Ferrari

  “This is fish?”

  He nods.

  “I don’t even like fish.”

  “I would argue the contrary based on what I’m seeing.”

  I laugh so hard I almost snort, which would probably not be acceptable in a place like this.

  “And this?” I say pointing to the sweet I just tried.

  “That is creamy coconut milk and grilled coconut with soft ginger-lime jelly “Mojito” sorbet with fresh mint.”

  “And this?” I say motioning my fork towards our cheese platter.

  “Brie de Meaux, matured with walnuts.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  “I try and come here once a month or so when I’m in town.”

  “Oh,” I say, wondering if he brings all his “dates” here.

  “Gabriel,” a man says coming up from behind and putting his hands on his shoulders. He’s wearing a chef’s outfit and the way he says Gabriel’s name makes it sound more like he’s singing it rather than saying it.

  “Hello, Eric,” he says, turning in his seat to shake his hand. “This is Marie. Marie, this is Chef Eric Frechon.”

  We quickly say hello and Chef Frechon goes back to speaking with Gabriel. I recognize his face from the menu. He’s the head chef.

  “It’s nice to see you in here with some company. You are usually at that corner table by yourself staring out the window. She must be very special. Congratulations,” he says patting him on the shoulders again and then giving me a smile. “I must get back to the kitchen. Was great to see you.”

  They shake again and Chef Frechon gives me a nod and is gone just like that, or voilà, sounding like vwala, as they say in France.

  Well, that answers my question about him bringing other women here.

  “So you come here often? About once a month you said?”

  “Yes. I’ve gotten to know Eric over the years, and he always teases me about sitting by myself in that table,” he says motioning with his head to the table Eric was referring to.

  “You always come by yourself?”

  “Always. After a long flight I like to walk over here to stretch my legs and to sit in a place where I can enjoy a real meal and have some space. It’s important after being crammed in a sardine can all the time.”

  “A sardine can?”

  “The airplane,”

  “Oh.”

  “I love it. Flying is my passion, but still, it’s good to explore different things in life and switch it up to make sure that your passions never feel like work when you decide to pursue them as an occupation. What are your passions, if I may ask?”

  “As strange as it sounds I really enjoy advertising.”

  “That doesn’t sound strange at all.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. There are many ways one can advertise. There are in your face ways, and that works sometimes, and there are subtle ways, which appeal in a different way. Plus all the mediums…print, radio, billboards, and of course the Internet these days. Add in the way a visual ad is structured using colors, contrast, and I’m sure lots of things I wouldn’t understand and don’t have knowledge of, and I’m sure it must be fascinating.”

  I practically fall off my seat even though my body stills and I can’t even open my mouth.

  “Am I off?” he asks.

  “Completely the opposite. You’ve just described, in great detail, the exact way I look at advertising and how I came to enjoy it so much and why I decided to pursue it as a vocation. Not only that, but just before when you were talking about switching things up so that your passions never feel like work when you decide to pursue them as an occupation…that completely resonated with me.”

  “How so?”

  Oh my god, he’s a great conversationalist and a great listener. He asks questions and lets me answer completely, without interrupting while he maintains total eye contact throughout.

  “Because I work in advertising I’m always looking at ads. It’s almost like some sort of OCD type of thing. When I see an ad, and believe me we are being bombarded with more ads than we know, I have to look and analyze it. I want to know why it works or not. Partly because I’ve always been interested in ads and it’s my passion, and partly because I want to be better at my job…not just better actually, but the best.”

  He nods.

  “For instance, I recognized the chef when he came by and said hello.”

  “You recognized the chef even though you’ve never been to Paris?”

  “Yes, because I remember seeing his picture in the menu, so it wasn’t that big of an…accomplishment, let’s say. But I was really studying the menu. I was analyzing the fonts, the colors, the use or lack of currency signs. Did you know if an expensive restaurant doesn’t use currency signs and makes the font size just slightly smaller than the font used to describe the item which is next to the price, that the item seems less expensive?”

  “I never thought about it, but it makes sense.”

  “It’s very subliminal. The lack of a currency sign doesn’t make you think of money, it doesn’t raise that red flag that’s inside most everyone…the one that tries to keep us from spending too much. And the smaller font makes it seem less threatening, like it’s not too much, no big deal. It makes us think, ‘Sure, I can have two,’ for instance.”

  “Genius. So you’re looking at ads almost psychologically as well?”

  “Totally. For me that’s one of the biggest parts.”

  “Would you say you’re good at reading people too?”

  “I’m much better with ads because I can stare without repercussions,” I say, laughing at myself. “I’m so-so when it comes to people.”

  “Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?”

  Just like that I feel a flash of heat throughout my body and then a chill as I feel goosebumps everywhere.

  His intense gaze, his relaxed elegance, his charm, and that barely there smirk give his intentions away…I think.

  And if not those big muscles, the way the chef knew him and mentioned out loud that he was glad to finally see him in his restaurant with someone, the way I know my microexpressions are giving me away right now…surely he can read me.

  One of the things I’ve read in negotiating books is that when negotiating an offer, or when a call to action is requested, she who speaks first loses.

  There’s definitely some truth to it…and apparently he’s familiar with the same concept because he’s waiting for my reply with a look that says he’ll wait the rest of the day and into the night if he has too.

  I’m not going to be able to give him some weak answer or he’ll know, not that he probably doesn’t know what I’m thinking already. But if I go to direct he’ll think I’m easy, which he could have thought after what happened on the plane although I think he understands that was completely out of character for me.

  I’m so confused.

  I think back to more things I’ve read about advertising, negotiating, and even life in general.

  It’s one thing to have all the knowledge in the world as you flip through pages on a Sunday morning in the comfort of your own home.

  It’s entirely another when it’s time to put what you’ve learned into practice, when the stakes are high.

  When in doubt just give it to them straight…direct.

  “The same thing I am. That’s what you’re thinking,” I say, as I stroke the stem of my wine glass.

  “Check please,” he says after motioning to the waiter.

  He knows me better than I know myself. And I feel a comfort inside knowing that I know this is the first guy who I’m ready to let know even more of me, all of me…for the very first time.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gabriel

  As much as I want to ravish her right now, I have to remind myself that she’s on vacation and I need to be a good tour guide in the city, before the mutual desire for each other guides us to the bedroom.

  After we leave Epicure, I offer her my
hand.

  She doesn’t hesitate.

  The moment her small fingers find mine I feel the transfer of energy from her body right into mine, shooting through me.

  To think that at thirty-seven I’d fly a plane from L.A. to Paris and then go straight to lunch and still have more energy than I knew what to do with is ludicrous.

  But anything is possible when it comes to her.

  I can already picture all the possibilities for our life together. The world is her oyster…I’ll make sure of that.

  As we stroll around the city, taking in the most romantic place on earth, it’s hard for my chest not to swell with pride knowing what we have as a couple is the best. There’s no way I’d ever compare her to another woman because the whole idea of it would be a joke. No one compares to her, and damn do I feel proud to know that I’m the luckiest son of a gun in the world who got her.

  The sun sets soon this time of year and we take the metro over to Le Chat Noir for a coffee. It’s about as touristy as it gets, after the monuments in town, but still it’s a must see and I’m going to make sure she sees all the famous places in addition to the secret spots tourists won’t know about.

  After I finish my espresso and she’s done with her cappuccino and croissant with cream cheese, we walk the short one hundred and fifty meters just down the street to Moulin Rouge.

  “Can we go tonight?” she asks with her childlike enthusiasm for something I’ve never considered doing.

  It’s one of those things…the attractions in your own town you avoid because they’re too touristy and you can always do them later, with later often never coming. It’s the age-old story of not even knowing what’s in your own backyard while you explore the other side of the globe.

  I’m definitely guilty, but not anymore. Now that I have her I see how romantic and beautiful Paris can really be. It pales in comparison to her beauty, but together the feeling is unbeatable.

  “Wait right here, beautiful, while I get the tickets.”

  I bypass the regular line and go straight for the V.I.P. tickets. How can the most incredible woman in the world ever sit in regular seats? She can’t and she won’t, not while I’m alive. The first class seats on my plane started a tradition which will never be broken.

  I quickly get the tickets sorted and turn to walk back the short five meters to her.

  Just before I reach her I see one of the big bouncers saying something to her in French.

  My pace quickens as my teeth clench. I rush to her side and stare down this big meathead.

  “What were you saying to her?” I demand in French, invading his personal space and getting a wide fighting stance, letting him know if I don’t like his response there’s going to be hell to pay.

  “I told her that dancers enter through the back, not the front.”

  “You think she’s a dancer? You think my woman flashes her body for other men to ogle over and fantasize about? Are you fucking crazy? Did all those steroids destroy your last brain cell?”

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help,” he says taking a step back.

  I feel the other patrons stepping away from us sensing something is about to go down, and it is…if he doesn’t follow my orders very carefully.

  “Don’t sorry me. Apologize to her,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t know,” he says in French.

  “In English, and it’s not miss, it’s madame,” I say letting her know she’s mine permanently, despite the fact she may not have a ring on her finger…yet.

  He apologizes and even though my blood is still boiling I can see it was an honest mistake and he’s genuinely sorry. There’s no need to make a scene here when one isn’t necessary. People make mistakes all the time. As a matter of fact she’s shown me I’ve been living one, just thinking of what would have happened if only I’d found her sooner.

  But there’s no time for living in the past…not now and not ever again.

  The future is brighter than the lights at the top of the Eiffel Tower each and every night, and just like a beacon as that light moves across the sky at the top of the hour, she will always be a beacon for me. No matter where I’m flying in the future I know to follow the stars that take me to her, and to my family. That’s where home will always be.

  And after this show that’s where I’m going to take her, and explain to her that it’s her home now as well.

  CHAPTER 13

  Marie

  “You barely watched the show,” I say as we walk in the front door of his place.

  “Why would I look at those women when the most beautiful woman was already by my side.”

  “Awww,” I say, cuddling up to him as he pulls me in for a hug.

  “Can I get a glass of water by chance?”

  “I’ll give you the ocean in a glass if that’s what you want.”

  “Aren’t you the most romantic of all the romantic Frenchmen in history.”

  “Only for you. Sparkling or still?”

  “Sparkling,” I say as he moves toward the kitchen.

  “The acts were phenomenal. I really like the roller-skating duo and the lady swimming with snakes. That giant python was huge,” I say and then start giggling realizing how childish that must sound right now.

  Like a true gentleman he doesn’t take the bait to say something about his manliness, instead just pouring me a glass of Perrier and handing it to me.

  “Is it true Europeans don’t often use ice?”

  “Very, but I might need a couple cubes to put on my forehead to cool down from the way you look in that dress,” he says, complimenting the one we stopped and picked up at a quaint little boutique just before coffee and croissants at Le Chat Noir.

  I didn’t really want him to buy it for me, but at under one hundred euro, and fitting me like a glove, I couldn’t resist.

  But the real deal clincher was the way he looked at me when I stepped out of the changing room.

  He’s been looking at me with an unmatched intensity since we first met, but something about that intensity and how it just seemed to reach a new level when I put on this red dress sealed the deal and I accepted his gift.

  “You didn’t think the topless dancers were hot?”

  “What topless dancers?” he says.

  I almost spit up my Perrier.

  “Come on. Those girls were gorgeous. Fit bodies. Amazing performers. Beautiful smiles.”

  “No woman, topless or otherwise, could ever top your beauty,” he says moving in closer and completely closing the distance between us.

  The air in the room immediately gets heavy, making it thick to breathe. I smell his masculine scent and know he hasn’t put on cologne all day. It can only be him…him that is pulling my body towards him like a magnet.

  I want this so bad. Now. But I don’t want him to think I’m easy, no matter how badly I want my first time to be with him.

  And that’s why I’m nervous, because I can literally see my first time, and every other time in my life, with him and him alone.

  I don’t want to ruin that chance, if it even exists. If we have sex tonight he’ll always remember how quickly this happened.

  It’s practically ridiculous to even think this way considering what happened on the plane, but there are so many thoughts going through my mind right now, and when his hand comes up and touches the side of my arm I know I couldn’t resist him even if I tried.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  “About what?” I say so softly I’m not even sure he hears it.

  “Us,” he says, the throaty matter of fact gruff notes from his voice telling me this is the most serious moment that will determine everything.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”

  “Tomorrow I’m taking you out.”

  “I thought we went out today?”

  “We did, but today was different. Today was us just arriving and making the most of the time we had for a day that was already well underway when we got to my pl
ace. Tomorrow…we start from the beginning. Tomorrow…I show you what it’s really like to be my woman,” he says, his hand moving to my chin as his thumb and forefinger cup it as he lifts it up slightly and turns it to the side, looking at me as if he’s inspecting a diamond.