VERA

_

TONI WOULD KILL ME if she knew what I was doing.

Not only did I agree to meet a stranger for a strange offer, that very stranger was the guy she warned me about. It was in the heat of a moment, something you really shouldn't blame me for, and my mind was set on finishing the novel I'd been pushing aside for so long. I took Timothée's offer for my own benefit, not for his.

I just wondered what would happen, that's all.

It was debatable if I could even survive the first ten minutes alone with him, less so in a 'he'll murder me' way, but because his personality is far too brash and charming to ever mesh well with mine. I like simplicity—a straightforward answer that saves time and worry—but yet here I am, getting dragged along by someone who spoke in metaphors and symbols alone.

By someone who I barely knew.

Timothée held true to his statement earlier this morning, his familiar brown curls already lingering outside the window of the shop before we closed. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his grey pants, the tip of his nose tinted pink in the chilly Parisian air, and he occasionally would nod politely at a passerby.

He made a point not to look into the window, as if he was trying to prove that he wasn't waiting for me and just happened to be in the area.

It was that aloof behavior of his I found slightly unnerving. Was he really so unbothered by everything, that he could linger outside of a bakery shop window and not bother to come inside? Maybe he was trying to be respectful—not trying to pressure me into thinking I needed to hurry or rush, or making me uncomfortable by staring. But that was the other problem; I couldn't tell what his motives were in anything he did.

His reservation contradicted his vociferous mouth.

So as I pushed open the glass door to leave Plaisirs De Bella's, I let the wind catch the strands of my hair without bothering to push it behind my shoulders. If he didn't seem to care for the little things, I shouldn't bother with mine. Yet even so, I felt completely ridiculous approaching him. Almost unworthy.

"Timothée," I said curtly, attracting his attention, "are you ready?"

As I came to a stop in front of him, standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk, his eyes flickered towards me with a smirk creased upon his lips. He was chewing on a wooden toothpick, the thin stick clenched between his teeth as his tongue flicked it up and down. Mesmerizing, but not the time to accidentally get caught staring for too long.

"I should be asking you that question," he grinned, sliding the pick out of his mouth, "I know this city more than you ever will."

I shrugged. "I'd hope so."

"Then I'll try not to let your hopes down."

"Where are we going?"

Timothée fluttered his eyelashes innocently, cocking his head towards the winding sidewalk behind him. A stray curl fell over his eyes as he did so, and I had the sudden urge to reach out and brush it aside. Thankfully, he did it himself. Even the slightest move from me would have boosted his ego into thinking I would have done it out of infatuation—and that's the last thing I wanted him thinking.

"Marché Mouffetard," he said, beginning to walk away from the bakery, "if you want to know Paris, find the busiest place and immerse yourself into life."

I quickly followed behind him. "And I can do that there?"

"Ouais, you hear the conversations, you fill your senses with all things French," he enunciated, his hands clasped behind his back, "and the best part?"

"What's the best part?" I asked.

"There's food."

Just the mention of the word put a smile on my face, and I turned my head towards the street so he wouldn't see. There was something vulnerable about smiling in front of someone, and the flashes of red flags striking across my mind was enough to make me feel uneasy. Toni warned me about him. But, then again...food?

"I'll hand it to you, Timothée," I noted, stepping over a stone on the sidewalk, "you've got my attention now."

He winked. "Haven't I always had it?"

If cringes were audible, I'd have one the sound of a meteor crashing into the earth. It wasn't a bad thing, but it held true to the thought I had been thinking about a mere second ago. The epitome of a red flag: narcissism, ego, outright flirtation, and unbearable attractiveness.

But that's what made me so keen to keep walking with him. The honeyed tone he'd use when he'd turn to look at me—like he was forever waiting for a response—and inviting me to answer back. Even if it was in the worst way possible, I was drawn to him like a magnet. Stuck, unwilling, and unable to get pulled away.

"Here," Timothée said abruptly, stopping in his tracks. We were standing in the middle of a boulevard now, a few blocks away from the bakery, and nowhere near the market he was bringing me to. He lifted his hand towards my shoulder, gently pushing me to the side so he could focus his gaze on something near my neck. "Do you mind?"

Though I wasn't looking at his face now— staring at the wall of some wine shop that desperately needed to repaint the chipping furnishing of the clay bricks—I could feel his eyes trailing down my neck and towards the top of my back. I prayed the goosebumps on my arms weren't noticeable.

"Do I mind what?" I questioned, swallowing my spit nervously.

His voice was lowered now, as I felt the tip of his finger brush lightly against the nape of my neck. "If I fix this for you."

"Fix?"

As if to answer, he tugged at the fabric on the top of my dress, bending down as if to observe it closer. I realized the two button clasps had somehow come undone since this morning, and were now hanging loosely down my spine. I almost flinched out of sheer anxiousness.

"Um, sure," I stammered, pressing my lips together, "go ahead."

Timothée let out a breathy grunt of amusement, nimbly looping the two pieces of fabric between his fingers until the familiar sound of metal clicked together just underneath the back of my ears.

"Désolé," he said, "it has been bothering me since this morning."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" I uttered sheepishly.

"Given the way you seemed to hate me at the present moment," he mused, running the strands of his hair through his fingers, "would you have cared?"

I couldn't answer that. I didn't think he'd assume I hated him for it, when in truth it was nothing more than a disposition, but I was surprised he cared. He didn't seem like one to care about things like that. Then again, whatever compelled him to fix a loose button was proof there was more to him than hidden underneath his ivory complexion.

I wondered if he had a knack for reading people. He certainly was able to read my hostility earlier, no matter how restrained I tried to make it seem.

"I didn't hate you," I muttered, "and I don't now, so don't think too much of it."

"I won't," he smiled.

There was an awkward pause, more so on my end than his, before we resumed walking again. I felt like I was wading in thick waters, doused in tension and whatever mysteries he had tucked up his sleeves, because I'd expect myself to drown in them before ever pulling myself out.

'You're being dramatic,' Toni would say to me, 'you're pretending he's perfect, when you know he's not'. And she was right, of course, I was being dramatic. But she hadn't seen Timothée standing right in front of her—no, walking right beside her, his shoulders pulled back, and his chin held high—so she wouldn't know how unbearable it was to be in his presence. How mentally exhausting it was just to look upon him, and pretend he wasn't the most undeniably gorgeous person I had ever seen.

And I'd be a fool to deny it, more than I'd be a fool to fall for it.

"But thank you," I said, staring at the cracks in the pavement as we walked, "for fixing it for me."

Timothée let out a soft chuckle, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jean jacket for warmth from the chilly Parisian air.

"Common courtesy, American," he sang, "don't thank me for it."

"But common things can be appreciated," I said.

"Are you telling me you appreciate something as minuscule as a loose button?"

"And if I did, you shouldn't judge me for it," I stated, flickering my gaze away from him, "one would think you can't take a compliment, Timothée."

He turned onto another street, not bothering to respond as he busied himself with dodging a woman and her baby carriage. I didn't mind at all, though, because as soon as he regained his footing, he gave me an amused grin, laughing under his breath as we resumed walking. Any ice we kept frozen between us was slowly being chipped away, piece, by piece, by piece.

And when it melted, I wondered what would be left.

➢

"Marché Mouffetard," Timothée exclaimed, stretching his arms above his head as he yawned, "the best market in Paris."

Somehow, in the grand scheme of things, the walk over to our destination sped by faster than I thought. I wasn't timing it, or anything, but I expected us to have more time to talk.

He turned his head, eyes flickering down to meet my own, biting over his bottom lip and narrowing his eyes in thought. He stared for a moment, before exclaiming something that sounded like 'je sais' under his breath, and placing his right hand gently over my shoulder to guide me forward through the crowd.

The market was bustling with life—a strange chaos of dozens of churning cogs and wheels, yet still managing to make it seem orchestrated into one symphony of daily life; the rustling of plastic bags as they were ripped from the stands, the thick accents of the sellers hawking at passersby, the throaty laugh of kids dodging through the stands with candy hoisted into the air. It should have been a mess of a thousand different things, yet it was almost choreographed together under the foggy air—a product of years of history.

"You hear it, do you not?" Timothée grinned, tightening his grip around my shoulder, "the sounds of Paris in full swing."

We passed by a fruit seller, their display of multicolored fruit being picked at by pedestrians looking for the freshest things they could find.

"I hear it," I said.

But that was not enough for him.

"Listen to the talking," he urged, pushing me through the crowd, "you see that man?" He pointed towards an elderly gent behind a wooden booth. "He's worked here for fourteen years, always selling his produce, and never changing what he sells." Then he pointed to a lady sifting through stocks of green towards my right. "That woman over there only knows how to grow herbs, and will always try to trick you into buying more than you need."

"Why do I need to know all this?" I questioned, ducking under a line of flags strung across the pavilion.

Timothée deliberated. "If you want to know Paris, you must know the people."

"And once I know the people?" I asked.

"Then you can write about them."

So this was all for my benefit, I thought to myself, he still cares about the book. And in an unexpected revelation, I felt my spirits lift slightly under where I strode underneath the looming tents of the Marché Mouffetard. Maybe—just maybe—I had been misreading all of these red flags in my own selfish worry. Maybe they were never there to begin with.

But I kept those thoughts to myself, even as Timothée stopped in front of an apple stand, removing his hand from my back as he bent down to observe the red fruits. They were all packed in barrels, the glistening, ruby skin shining under the greying sunlight.

When he picked one up, I recognized the familiarity of the way he observed it—much like the time in the basement back at Bella's. Timothée noticed me flinch.

"What?" He grinned, placing it back on the top of the pile, "worried I might steal something?"

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and I looked askance. "That was a misunderstanding."

"You still thought I was a thief," he said.

"The situation was interpretable."

"Do you still think I am?"

"No."

"Prove it," he cajoled, taking a step closer to me. Hovering over my eyes, he didn't break his gaze—even as he picked the apple back up from the stand, bringing it slowly in front of him and twisting it in his loosened grip. There was a flicker in his expression.

It was like he couldn't dare to look away, burning that sly look of amusement into my face, and making me feel utterly secluded from the rest of the crowd milling around us. And just before I could open my mouth to speak, he lifted the apple up to his lips, daring me to stop him from continuing.

But I couldn't. I was stuck in my own mind, barely fathoming thoughts as I watched him take a bite into the fruit, digging his teeth into the core like it was nothing. And soon enough, he pulled it away, wiping off the clear juice with the back of his hand as he swallowed.

"You didn't pay for it," I choked out, trying to ignore how nervous I was, "y-you didn't, you..."

And before I could finish my sentence, he winked, lifting his left hand to show me something shiny and round in between his fingertips. It was a Euro. Cocking a brow in amusement, he reached over the stand to drop the coin into a plastic container, showing off the already-bitten apple to the jostled seller.

"I paid," Timothée hummed under his breath, brushing my shoulder as he walked past.

And all I could do was stand there, wondering how I got to this point in my life—wondering how I found myself becoming increasingly enamored with french markets, crowds, apples—and with Timothée.