Free Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene Page A

wasn’t fooled. “Be good,” she scolded.
    â€œI am being good. At least until after dinner.”
    â€œWell, dinner’s exactly the issue. I thought I wouldn’t have any trouble translating food words, but apparently—” she motioned “—I just have to be wrong about this. I mean sardines? Fresh sardines?” She started to laugh, then looked at his face.
    â€œFresh sardines with fennel.”
    â€œSo I was translating it correctly.”
    â€œAfraid so.”
    â€œReally. Oh, well.” She gulped, looked again and let out another short, uneasy laugh. “Okay, I have to admit my school French is turning out to be useless, but on the second line down, they couldn’t really mean pigeons stuffed with figs, could they?”
    â€œAfraid so.”
    â€œPigeons? They’d kill pigeons? I mean…pigeons coo. And they walk right up to you in a park. They make a mess, I know, but they’re so sweet and friendly. I can’t even imagine anyone killing pigeons to eat. ”
    He sighed. “We’re not going to end up eating here, are we?”
    She had another restaurant on her list. It was one more place Will tried to talk her out of, but not for long. The more time they spent together, the more he got the big picture. Kelly had the memory of an elephant, the stubbornness of a hound and the absolute capriciousness of a woman.
    â€œI have to prove to you that I’m not a fussy eater now,” she insisted. “Normally I really can eat anything. I love to experiment and try new stuff. Honest!”
    Uh-huh. This round, they got as far as the outside of the restaurant, where a menu was posted in the window. She looked at it for a long time, while she stood there shivering in spite of his jacket around her shoulders.
    â€œIt’s a very famous restaurant,” she began.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œThe food is undoubtedly fabulous. It’s listed in every single guidebook.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    She sighed. “It’s the black,” she admitted in a small voice. “It just seems…unappetizing…for all the food choices to be black.”
    â€œIs it the black truffle pizza that got to you or the black hors d’oeuvre plate?”
    â€œBoth.”
    He grinned, tucked her inside his shoulder and said, “My turn to pick. You’re out of votes.”
    She’d forgotten about the personal questions, he thought. But God knows that didn’t mean she’d run out of conversation.
    â€œI don’t quite get the difference between a bistro and a brasserie.”
    â€œWell, a bistro’s just a little restaurant. Usually it’s owned by a family, and a bistro tends to serve regular meals, you know, lunch, dinner. But brasserie is the French word for brewery. You can usually get some kind of food in a brasserie, but it’s a guarantee they’ll serve beer and wine. And both kinds of places are informal.”
    He ushered her into his choice—Le Petit Saint-Benoit, in the Saint Germain. It was distinctly a French place, not so touristy, more a place that the locals guarded for themselves. It was a night spot, with a good share of tables set up outside, even though it was ball-bustingly chilly by then. Still, the decor inside was from the thirties, and the food was basic French, which meant damn good if not outright fabulous. They had all the basics. Shellfish. Good wines. Filet mignon so tender it could melt in your mouth.
    â€œAll day, everywhere I went, the women were wearing scarves,” Kelly, who’d already proved she could talk and look at everything in sight at the same time, noted. “And what really irritates me is that they all know how to tie the scarves to look really chic. I mean, the real chic, not the cliché chic. I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”
    â€œSore thumb, no. Uniquely attractive woman, yes.”
    â€œYou don’t have to butter me up.