Romancing my Boss

Chapter 31

When Jean-Pierre cornered me in the breakroom, his roguish grin set to full wattage, I knew I was in trouble.

"Mademoiselle Bennett., ma chérie," he purred, invading my personal space in that distinctly French way. "I was hoping you might join me for dinner tonight. I know a delightful little place zat serves ze most divine bouillabaisse zis side of Manhattan."

I arched a brow, trying to ignore the flutter of anticipation in my stomach. Great, now I have to fend off French Casanova in the middle of my coffee break. "I don't know, Monsieur Duvall. Mixing business with pleasure seems like a recipe for disaster."

His grin only widened. "Ah, but who said anything about business? Can't two colleagues simply enjoy a lovely meal together?"

Colleagues, sure. And next, pigs will fly. I snorted. "With you? I highly doubt it." But even as I said it, I could feel my resolve wavering. Come on, Lottie, stick to your guns.

After the tumultuous hot-and-cold routine with Max and the icy dismissal from his so-called benefactor, I was feeling reckless. What was the harm in a little dinner and flirtatious banter? Besides, how often does a girl gets wined and dined by a living and breathing French Adonis?

"Oh, what the hell," I said, throwing caution to the wind. "Why not? But you're buying, Frenchie."

Jean-Pierre's answering smile was blinding. Oh la la, what did I just sign myself up for?

The restaurant was every bit as chic and intimate as Jean-Pierre had promised. As we settled into our candlelit table, I couldn't help but admire the way the soft light played over his chiseled features. Damn, there was not denying that the man was ridiculously attractive.

Over the next hour, we fell into easy conversation, our witty repartee flowing as smoothly as the rich Bordeaux. I discovered there was far more to Jean-Pierre than met the eye. Beneath his polished charm, there was a keen intellect and a surprising depth of emotion. Who knew Mr. Suave had a soul?

He spoke of his childhood in Aix-en-Provence, painting vivid pictures of sun-drenched lavender fields and lazy afternoons spent in his grand-mère's kitchen. There was a wistfulness to his tone that hinted at old heartaches and hard-won wisdom. Not just a pretty face, huh?

As Jean-Pierre told me a story about the time he and his childhood friends decided to turn his grand-mère's garden into a "lavender-themed amusement park," I couldn't help but laugh.

"We set up a makeshift rollercoaster using an old wheelbarrow and some wooden planks," he said, eyes twinkling. "It was all fun and games until grand-mère caught us and chased us around with a broom, shouting curses in Provençal. She was a tiny woman, but she had ze heart of a lionne."

I laughed, picturing the scene. "And what did she do when she finally caught you?"

He leaned in, his expression playful. "Ah, she made us replant every single lavender bush we had trampled. It took us zhe entire summer, but we learned our lesson."

I shook my head, still chuckling. Grand-mère sounds like a real force of nature. "But I doubt you learned the lesson, seeing how you're incorrigible, Monsieur Duvall."

"Indeed," he replied with a roguish wink. "But it's zose incorrigible moments zat make life worth living, n'est-ce pas? Tell me, Charlotte, have you ever done something just as reckless for ze sheer zrill of it?"

I hesitated, the question catching me off guard. "Well, there was that one time I decided to sneak into a closed exhibit at the museum with a couple of friends. We ended up triggering the alarm and spent the night hiding from security."

Jean-Pierre laughed, the sound rich and infectious. "Now zhat is a story worth hearing more about."

Great, now I'm spilling my guts to the French Casanova. I mentally chastised myself.