Bartender in Berlin

Chapter Five

A/N: TRANSLATIONS IN THE COMMENTS
Enjoy!
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Tom is seated behind me, face stuffed with eggs, by the time the intruder walks into the room.

I'm left with no seconds to process what just happened- or almost happened- as the stranger halts in the doorway, staring straight at me. His mop of dark hair curls in all directions and a single strand covers his green eyes as they widen in shock.

His gaze moves between me, as I awkwardly sit with a faint blush on my cheeks, and Tom, who continues to ignore everyone and everything except for his breakfast.

"Hi, Tom," The boy starts, deciding to stop staring at me, unmoving from his position. Tom looks up at the sound of his voice, as though he hadn't noticed him yet, and nods his greeting with a small smile. "Where are Harry and Drew?"

His voice is soft, unsure and carries an accent I haven't heard yet in this household: American.

"Out. Apartment viewing or something," Tom replies after swallowing his huge bite.

The curly haired brunette nods, his colourful eyes settling on me again. They look curious, irises alight with many questions.

"Who's this?"

That's my cue, I think to myself and get up, intent on taking a step towards him and greet him properly, introduce myself like a normal person, when I feel a large hand on my back.

I can't move away, not now that Tom's hand is on me. I physically cannot make myself move away. I swallow hard and ignore the warmth seeping through my clothes.

Racking through the mess in my brain, I make to introduce myself, but I guess I was more caught up with his accent than I thought, because what comes out instead is:

"You're not British?"

I almost smack myself.

Tom's touch has rendered me stupid.

I continue to ignore it, as if it's normal for his fingers to be splayed out on my lower back the way they are, and watch as the boy's lips twitch into what looks like a small smile as he shakes his head.

I wait for further information from him, but it's Tom that responds to me.

"Timmy's American." His voice is laced with humour.

"Half," Timmy interjects, almost defensively, "half American, half French."

I raise an eyebrow as I look him over again. His clothes, the loose fitting striped pants, the navy blue pullover and his black combat boots; those especially; they scream European. I recognise some French features in his wickedly attractive and chiseled face. His cheekbones, his jaw, even his thin nose, they look cut from marble.

It's official: only attractive people live in this apartment.

Maybe it's part of the lease agreement?

I shake my head, realising the length of my stunned silence is getting awkwardly long.

"Tu es français? Tu le parles aussi?"

I feel Tom flinch as he looks up at me in bewilderment. Timmy's demeanor changes, relaxes. He seems more at ease as he uncrosses his arms and his smile widens.

"Bien sûr. Je vois que tu le parles aussi. Et sans accent. Je n'aurais pas pensé, même si je sais mieux que sous-estimer une femme."

I grin, pleased that I can show off my skills in a language I love. It's been a while since I had a conversation in French and I am determined to enjoy this one.