He was immensely fuckable—and I mean that in the nicest possible way. A tug of familiarity niggled at me; he reminded of someone.
Jaelee continued her verbal assault, undaunted by basic manners. “So, we’re here in this gorgeous city, just for tonight, and we want to go somewhere cool, somewhere fun, somewhere we can meet more men as gorgeous as you …” I’m pretty sure I heard Lou groan at the last part. At least there was solidarity—we were all being humiliated in front of the spectacular-looking man.
I was tempted to walk away until the whole embarrassing exchange was done but, for some reason, I was rooted to the spot. Who does he remind me of?
“… So, can you help us out?” Jae’s head tipped up to the Frenchman, her chin jutting out expectantly.
He laughed then and ran a hand through his hair. Oh, my God, I want to do that. “For sure. I know a place. I’m going there now to meet some friends. I would walk with you, but I have this.” He pointed to a powder blue Vespa parked at the kerb.
Dani said something to him in French—maybe she was apologising. I hoped she was apologising, but whatever it was, he waved it away, smiling. Then he said something back in French and she typed into her phone. “What’s happening?” asked Lou in a low voice.
“She’s getting directions?” I replied, just as quietly.
“Got it,” Dani said, smiling at the Frenchman as he climbed onto his scooter. “Are you sure you don’t mind us crashing your party?” she asked. Please don’t mind. Please don’t mind.
His reply was another laugh. “Not at all. It will be fun, non?” I found myself nodding a response even though he wasn’t even looking at me. Then he did look at me and there was a flicker of something across his face as his eyes held mine for a moment. His mouth pulled up at one corner and I felt a sharp intake of breath.
“So, you will definitely come, non?” he asked. My mind went somewhere crass, but in my defence, he was spectacularly sexy. Four women and one guy gave affirmative responses in varying degrees of enthusiasm, and by then it was really starting to bug me—who did he look like?
Before I could figure it out, he started the scooter, rolled it off its kickstand, and waved a goodbye before scooting—scootering?—away and leaving the five of us slightly dumbfounded by the whole exchange, even Jaelee.
“Dani, let me see that.” Jae pointed to Dani’s phone and she handed it over. Jae’s face scrunched up.
“What?” asked Lou.
“It’s an Irish pub.”
“Hah!” My laugh released some of the tension I’d been holding in. “Well, I don’t care. We’re going.”
“Oh yeah,” said Dani. “That guy was, like, uber hot. We are totally going. Especially if there are more like him at the pub.”
“Um, Craig,” said Lou. “Are you okay with this?”
He shrugged good-naturedly. “Sure. I mean, it’s a pub and I can drink here, so …”
“Oh, that’s right—you can’t drink in the US.” I only just realised we’d given him illicit wine with dinner. We were corrupting the man-child. I’d worry about that later—there were more important matters at hand. “Jae, we are going.”
“But—”
“Nope. We’re going. Dani, lead the way.”
Dani needed no coaxing—I guessed she was as intrigued by the handsome stranger as I was. She struck off at a decent pace. I had no idea if he would be there when we arrived—or if he’d want to hang out with us—but we were going to that pub.
***
Dani led the way, her phone held like a divining rod. “It should be right up here.” Music and light spilled out onto the footpath in front of what was, unmistakably, the right place. The awning was bright green, a fluttering Irish flag was visible from half a block away, and the sound of Ronan Keating’s voice pumped out of the outdoor speakers. If a leprechaun had jumped out and waved us in, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Most importantly, though, there was a powder blue Vespa parked out front.
I felt a tingle in my nethers and a pep in my step, then I glanced at the rest of my party. Jaelee, Dani and Lou were all very attractive women. Even if we did end up talking to the Frenchman—and he was single, and interested—there was every likelihood he would be into one of my friends.
For all I knew, he might have been into Craig.
Dani had navigated, but Jaelee led us into the pub. As expected—I’d travelled to Ireland and had frequented more than a few Irish pubs—it was loud, poorly lit, and smelled like beer. It made me want a Guinness very badly—actually, I preferred Caffrey’s, if they had it. I spied the tap on the bar and got a little excited.
A hand rested on my shoulder and I turned around to meet a chest clad in a denim jacket and a white T-shirt. Oh, my God, he smells like happiness and sex. I tilted my head to meet his eyes—his Kelly-green eyes framed by thick brown brows.
And that was when it hit me.
“Jean-Luc.” It came out as barely a whisper.
“Catherine.” He said it the French way, “Cat-er-in”. He’d always said it that way, even as the precocious teenager who’d refused to call me Catey. Only this time, it made me melt into a puddle of molten woman.
If it was possible to swoon in the twenty-first century, that was what I did—and thankfully, Jean-Luc was there to catch me. As my knees buckled beneath me—traitors—he grasped my elbow and guided me to a chair where he gently helped me to sit down.
“What’s happening?” asked an annoyed Jaelee as she peered down at me.
There was a rushing in my brain, a flood of memories, as I tried to grasp the reality of Jean-Luc Caron standing in front of me, his hand on my shoulder and a concerned look on his face.
I watched as he turned to Jaelee and said, “Catherine and I, we are old friends. To meet like this, it is, how would you say? Kismet.” To me, he said, “Are you okay?” His brows knitted over those gorgeous green eyes and I felt myself nodding like one of those bobble-head thingies.
“I’ll get you some water.”
“Caffrey’s,” I managed to squeak out. Then he was gone. Please come back. “He’s coming back, right?” I asked Lou. Panic asserted itself in my gut.
She looked unsure. “I think so. Cat, seriously? You know him?”
Did I know him? It was the most rhetorical question ever asked. Yes, I knew him. I knew him very well. Well, not that well, but close. Jean-Luc had been my best friend when I was—sorry, when we were—fifteen.
I managed a slight head nod as a pint of Caffrey’s and a pint of water appeared on the table next to me. I went for the Caffrey’s first. I downed about a third of the pint before I realised that five sets of eyes were peering at me, all with the same expression.
I put down the glass and, with what I am guessing was a scowl, told my new friends—including Lou—to bugger off. Of course, I’d lived in England long enough for it to come out as, “Can you please give us a moment?”
Lou squeezed my hand and offered a weak smile before following the others to a nearby table.
A different hand rested on top of mine and I looked at it. His hand—Jean-Luc’s. God, he has beautiful hands. Had they always been like that?