Gentle Persuasion

by Cerella Sechrist

  He moved toward the window, but she noticed his eyes never left her face.

  “We should visit there again someday. Maybe...on our honeymoon...”

  She started at this reference. Had Cole really begun thinking in terms of matrimony again? There was the reference to the cocktail umbrellas at the luau and now talk of a honeymoon? At one time, this sort of talk might have made her giddy but now she felt only a faint queasiness at the prospect.

  She turned her attention back to the New York skyline and didn’t respond. He sighed.

  “I need to have an answer, Fee. If you want me to go to Paris with you, I need to make arrangements.”

  “I know.” But she couldn’t bring herself to say any more than that. After another minute, he turned away from the window.

  “I thought we could have lunch together today.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m not sure I should leave my desk. I have a lot to wrap up here before I can start thinking Paris—”

  “Fee.” He moved forward and placed his palms on her shoulders. She knew he meant to be reassuring but the weight of his hands felt like a burden, not a blessing. “You have to take a break at some point. Why not now, with me?” He smiled in that golden-boy way of his—the same grin that had once made her feel singular and special. Now it nearly caused a panic attack in her chest.

  “I’ve already made reservations at Le Petite Renard.”

  Ophelia felt a ripple of both pleasure and annoyance—the latter for Cole’s presumption that she would join him for lunch and the former because he had chosen one of her favorite French-inspired bistros.

  “Okay. I suppose I should eat something, anyway.”

  Cole beamed victoriously and removed his hands from her shoulders in order to extend one, palm side up, toward her.

  Quelling any doubts, she placed her hand in his.

  * * *

  LE PETITE RENARD was an upscale bistro just off Times Square in Manhattan. Ophelia treasured its similarities to the cafés in Paris, from its wrought-iron tables and chairs fronting the glass windows outside to its French and English menu boards hanging behind the glossy cherrywood counter.

  Cole had reserved a more private table in the back of the establishment, and when they arrived, she found her favorite appetizer (a salad of mixed spring greens and berries in a tart lemon vinaigrette) already waiting. She was impressed that Cole had gone to such lengths but found her appetite lacking, even in the face of the deliciously flavorful starter. She managed to force down a few bites and hoped her appetite would improve with the main course.

  But it didn’t. Cole spoke easily throughout the appetizer and into the entrée (a vegetarian wild mushroom and goat cheese tart for Cole and the Crepe du Jour, stuffed with brie, ham and seasoned spinach for her) while Ophelia picked at her food. She remembered the lunch she’d had with the Inoas less than a week ago. She wondered how the couple was doing and if they were worried about Keahi now that Dane had departed. She stole a glance at a clock hanging nearby, as Cole rambled on about a particular client who wanted him to continue to handle their account from Paris, and estimated Dane should be landing at JFK airport shortly.

  She surreptitiously slid her phone from her purse. “It sounds like they really value your negotiation skills,” she said, and checked the display for any missed calls. The screen contained no notices. She hoped Dane remembered to call once he landed....

  “Ophelia?”

  Her head snapped up, and at Cole’s expression, she felt a flush burn across her cheekbones.

  “Sorry. What was that?”

  “I asked if you’re ready for dessert.” He hadn’t appeared to notice she’d tuned out his dialogue—he only wondered if she had finished eating.

  “Um...I’m not really that hungry.”

  “But I have something special planned.”

  “Oh. Well. In that case...” She conceded out of a sense of obligation.

  Cole gestured to a waiter, and the two of them sat there, in strained silence—at least it felt strained to Ophelia—until a waiter came over bearing a covered platter. He withdrew the white serviette with a flourish and easily lifted the single dish from the tray, placing it in front of her before whirling away.

  Ophelia felt Cole’s eyes on her as she stared at the dish of Crème Caramel, a creamy custard normally topped with homemade whipped cream. Today, however, in place of the white foam cap sat a biscotti over the top of the dish, and on its surface rested a small, royal-blue velvet jeweler’s box.

  Ophelia stared, another swell of panic rising up in her chest.

  “Go on,” Cole prompted. “Open it.”

  She was going to hyperventilate. Right here. Right now. She’d never had a panic attack before, but the tightness in her chest surely precluded one. His talk of honeymooning in Hawaii...the cocktail umbrellas at the luau...had he been trying to ready her for this? Priming her for this proposal?

  “Fee, it’s not going to bite. Just open it.”

  She swallowed. It was too much right now, with everything else she faced. A promotion and move to Paris was daunting enough, and those were things she’d always wanted. But marrying Cole...did she still want that? Had she ever wanted it?

  “Cole, I—”

  “Come on. It’s not as if I’m proposing or anything.”

  She froze.

  “Oh.”

  The panic subsided, replaced in degrees by embarrassment. Reaching out, she lifted the box from its resting place and popped it open. A pair of pearl earrings rested inside.

  “They’re real pearls. I got them in Hawaii. It’s to congratulate you. On the Montgomery contract and your promotion.”

  Someone laughed nearby, a shrill, uneasy sound. It took her a moment to realize it had come from her own throat.

  He wasn’t asking her to marry him, then. And she felt nothing but relief and a slight awkwardness that she had misunderstood.

  He eyed her skeptically. “You don’t seem very pleased.”

  “Oh, they’re lovely! Really!” And they were nice—elegant, simple. In truth, though, they looked like something her mother would have preferred. But she had no desire to hurt Cole’s feelings after he’d made such an effort. “It was very thoughtful of you, but...I’m not sure I should accept them.”

  He continued to stare at her, seemingly in wait for something more.

  “I’d hoped perhaps they would help you decide.”

  “Decide?”

  “On me. On whether we could be a couple again. Especially since I’ll be moving to Paris with you....”

  Ophelia felt a flash of guilt at his slightly wounded expression. She couldn’t string him on, she knew that. And if he had only agreed to move to Paris before she had left for Hawaii, then perhaps things would be different. But something there had changed her, and she wasn’t sure she could return to the way things had been with Cole. And yet...she wondered if she owed it to him to try.

  “Do you think we could take it slow for a bit? See how things go?”

  At first, he frowned, a small indent forming between his brows. And then he shrugged. “Sure. Why don’t we go on a few dates and test the waters again?”

  She felt relieved. “Yes, that would be a good start.”

  No pressure, she tried to assure herself. Just a couple of dates.

  “You can wear the earrings when I take you out.”

  “Oh.” She looked back down at the smooth, iridescent surface of the pearls. “I don’t know.”

  “I insist.”

  “Um...okay.”

  “Excellent.” He reached across the table and grabbed the biscotti from her plate. “Do you mind if I eat this?”

  She shrugged. She had even less of an appetite now than she’d had before.

  * * *

 
OPHELIA FOUND SHE couldn’t return to work following her lunch with Cole. She got the entire way to her floor and exited the elevator before she found herself stuck, unable to move. The office air felt claustrophobic, the scents of stale coffee and carpet clogging her throat. She turned on her heel and stepped back into the elevator before the doors could close. She rode it the entire way back to the lobby floor and then rushed toward the sunshine outside like a prisoner seeking release.

  Once outside, she began to pace, trying to calm her restlessness. But she couldn’t shake the desire to flee, to get as far from this building and her mother and Cole as she possibly could, if only for a few hours.

  She was just debating whether to text Holly that she wouldn’t be returning to the office when the phone in her hand lit up with a call. The name that flashed across the screen sent a wave of euphoria through her.

  Dane Montgomery.

  Her heart lurched, even as she bid it not to. His plane must have landed, and he was calling her, as he’d said he would. Suddenly eager to hear the sound of his voice, she accepted the call and held the phone to her ear.

  She hesitated for a second over all the witty things she might say to him. In the end, she didn’t utter a single one of them.

  “Hey,” she murmured.

  “Hey,” he replied.

  She could imagine the smile she heard in his tone, one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Did you have a good flight?”

  “Not too bad. I forgot how restless a person can feel, sitting on a plane for that many hours.”

  Having experienced two of those flights in the past week, Ophelia agreed with this observation.

  “I checked in to the hotel,” Dane went on. He was staying at the Towers Resorts in downtown Manhattan, near the Towers International office suites, until he found a place of his own in the city. “I have to say, Bianca has a good thing going for her. If all her properties are this nice, it shouldn’t be hard to shine up the company’s image.”

  Ophelia found herself smiling with pleasure at his optimism. “It sounds like you’re ready to get to work.”

  “Not just yet. Give a guy some time to recover from the jet lag.”

  She laughed. “Well, when you do, perhaps you’d like to have dinner with me—as a welcome back to the city.”

  She felt herself stiffen as soon as these words were out of her mouth. Had she just...?

  But Dane sounded nothing but pleased on the other end of the line. “Are you busy right now?” he asked. “After twelve-plus hours on a plane, I’m ravenous. Crackers and pretzels only carry a man so far.”

  Ophelia knew she had to be grinning a little too broadly and hoped the people going in and out of the Reid Recruiting building didn’t report her to security for lurking. She wasn’t about to tell him she had just had lunch with Cole. In fact, her appetite suddenly seemed to be returning.

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  * * *

  OPHELIA GIGGLED UNCONTROLLABLY as Dane stuffed a huge slice of pizza into his mouth. He tore it off with his teeth and chewed vigorously, working to swallow as she continued to laugh helplessly at his enjoyment of the meal.

  When he finally got the massive bite down, he sighed with contentment. “Okay, I have to admit...this, I missed. There’s nothing like a New York slice.”

  Ophelia’s giggles slowly subsided until she could take a sip of her Diet Coke without fear of spraying it all over the table. “Was it worth a twelve-hour flight, then?”

  He made a point of looking between his plate and her. “I guess between the pizza and the company, it was worth it.”

  She felt a tingle of pleasure shoot through her. “I don’t suppose there are too many girls you’d spend twelve hours on a plane for, just so you could have lunch.”

  “Well, some girls are worth it.” He winked at her in such a boldly flirtatious move that she felt herself begin to blush. Perhaps he felt the same way she did—giddy at seeing him again after a day apart. Maybe that was why they were both in such boisterous spirits.

  She took a bite of her own slice as he continued to enjoy the pizza.

  “So you’re okay then, with being back?” She ventured the question tentatively, not wanting to destroy the carefree mood that seemed to have come over Dane. It was probably the lightest she had seen him in all the time she’d known him.

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin before replying. “I don’t know yet. I’m glad the plantation will be saved. That part feels really good. As for the rest of it...” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

  He picked up his pizza again and gestured it toward her. “How about you? It must feel good to know you’re fulfilling your dream of moving to Paris.”

  She thought about it. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” Tearing at the corner of her pizza crust, she avoided his eyes.

  But she felt him grow still across from her.

  “You’re not having doubts, are you?”

  “Of course not!” she declared.

  “Ophelia...can I ask you something?”

  Every fiber of her body vibrated at his tone. “Sure.”

  “Do you really think Paris is the solution to your problems? Do you think you’ll be happy there?”

  She swallowed. “It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember.”

  He nodded with seeming understanding. “But do you ever think you could be just as happy...somewhere else?”

  She cocked her head, studying him. What was he really asking?

  “I don’t know. I’ve wanted Paris for so long, I can’t imagine giving it up for anything.”

  “Or anyone?”

  She stared at him. “Are you saying—”

  “Can I get you a refill?” Their waitress had chosen that inopportune time to interrupt.

  Ophelia could only stare at her stupidly.

  “Your Diet Coke?” the girl prompted, her eyes conveying her annoyance at Ophelia’s slowness.

  “Um...no. No, thank you.”

  The girl turned to Dane, her irritation turning to flirtation. “And how about for you, love?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  By the time the waitress sashayed away, the moment had passed, and Ophelia didn’t know how to resurrect it.

  “Tell me what you love about Paris.”

  Ophelia frowned at this question, wishing he would ask her again—whatever it was he’d been asking in the first place.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s important to you, and you have a family history there. But what else do you love about it? I want to know.”

  She considered for a moment.

  “The smells,” she replied. “Of wet pavement in the morning. Baking bread when you pass a boulangerie. Perfumes in a thousand scents with hundreds of notes layered in them. Cigar smoke and flowers. It smells old and new at the same time.”

  Something in his eyes sparked at her description. “What else?”

  “The colors are the same way—everything is muted and ancient or fresh and vibrant. Chic coupled with vintage. There are fashions in every hue imaginable, and they stand out in sharp contrast to charcoal-gray sidewalks, faded red brick and weathered brown walls.”

  Now that she had started, she couldn’t stop. “It’s magical. It’s not that people go to Paris to fall in love, it’s that Paris is the city of love. You fall in love with the place, more than the person you’re with. Every conversation is a story, and each painting is a new experience. You cannot be there without falling in love—in love with the idea of love.”

  She suddenly stopped, surprised that these feelings had been buried within her. For a brief time, she hadn’t been in a New York pizza shop at all but rather experiencing the streets of her favorite city.

  “But is it real?”r />
  Dane’s question caused her to physically start. “Real?” she repeated.

  “Do you love the city, or simply the idea of it? As you said—are you in love with the idea of love? Are you only in love with the idea of Paris, of the happiness it once represented?”

  She drew in a sharp breath, disconcerted by such an enigmatic question. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, Dane.”

  “But maybe...just maybe,” he clarified, “what you want isn’t really there. Maybe you want to go back to a time that’s gone—back to when your father was alive and your mother was—” he drew a breath “—someone different than she is now.”

  She felt a prickling of anger. “You don’t even know my mother.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But I know you. And I know her opinion matters to you, maybe more than anything else.”

  She chafed. “You barely know me. We only met a week ago.”

  She could tell this observation wounded him by the way he winced in response. Guilt wove itself in with her anger, complicating her emotions further.

  “I think I know you better than you know yourself, Ophelia.”

  “And what do you know?” she shot back, wondering how he could possibly think he had her figured out when she couldn’t figure herself out.

  “I know that you care, more than most in your profession—that you want the people you place in careers to be happy.” His voice grew quieter so she had to strain to hear him. “I know you didn’t want to coerce me here against my own will. I know you feel bad about how things have turned out.”

  He reached for her, grabbing her hand in his and holding on even when she tensed. His thumb ran in circles over her wrist until she felt herself relaxing.

  “I know you try to hold it all in but once in a while, like with Masters, something more comes out—you don’t like bullies. Maybe because you grew up with one.”

  She jerked her hand out of his grasp then. “My mother isn’t a bully,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure what hurt more—Dane’s observation or the ring of truth in it.

  Dane only looked at her sadly, and his expression angered her all the more.