Page 13 of Wild Tangled Hearts

“Does ‘Wicked’ or ‘Hamilton’ count?” I ask with a grin.

He laughs warmly, a rich sound that fills the car. “No, not quite.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m willing to try anything once.”

His smile widens, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Do you like French cuisine?”

“Well, if french fries count, then definitely,” I say with mock seriousness. “Actually, other than croissants and wine, I don’t know what French food is.”

Those dark eyes glance at me, and his smile removes all insecurities. “It’s about elegance and flavor. Imagine delicate cheeses, fine wines, and exquisite dishes like coq au vin or duck à l’orange.”

“You lost me at cock—” I cover my mouth in embarrassment as I realize my mispronunciation, but he just laughs.

“Your pronunciation was right.” That sexy smile tugs at his lips again. “I’ve booked a reservation at ‘Le Charmé. And after, the theatre is just across the street, and I have tickets for The Marriage of Figaro.”

French food and an opera — It’s exactly the date night I expected from a man who drives a car worth more than my small house. But even though it’s not something I would ever do on my own, I’m looking forward to the evening.

We arrive at ‘Le Charmé,’ and I’m immediately struck by the ambiance — soft lighting, white tablecloths, and an air of sophistication that envelops us. As I peruse the menu, the assortment of dishes appears exotic and alluring, though the prices are shockingly high. The wine he selects is certainly pricier than the typical Merlot I purchase at Walgreens.

"Do you know what you’d like?" he inquires as the waiter approaches.

I nibble on my lower lip. "How about you choose for me?"

He nods, then fluently, in what I believe to be flawless French, he orders.

“You speak French,” I say when the waiter leaves.

Sebastian pours more wine into my glass. “I spent three years in France when I was younger.”

"Of course, you did," I reply with a chuckle, but I immediately regret my comment when I see him frown.

"My brother was there receiving medical treatment that he couldn't get here," he explains.

"Oh. Is he okay now?" I inquire.

A shadow darkens his gaze, and he looks away. "He passed away several years ago."

"I'm so sorry," I offer my condolences.

"Thank you," he says, clearing his throat and shifting the topic. "What about you? Any siblings?"

"No, I'm an only child," I respond.

He continues to ask me questions about my family, my childhood, and my interest in art. However, whenever I attempt to steer the conversation back to his family, he quickly changes the subject.

The first bite of my meal sends waves of delight through my tastebuds. The flavors are complex, and the presentation is impeccable. “Wow.”

He grins. “You like it.”

“It’s delicious.”

The dinner and dessert surpass any culinary experience I've ever had, yet it's the opera that leaves me speechless.

Seated in the dimly lit theater, the haunting melodies and fervent performances echo through the hall. Although I may not comprehend the language, the emotions conveyed by the music and the commanding voices on stage stir something within me.

Tears well up in my eyes, and I glance at Sebastian, who smiles at me. It’s a moment of pure connection, where words aren’t needed to express the profound impact of the opera on our souls.

When the final encore fades and the applause subsides, Sebastian drives me home. The ride is filled with light chatter, a mix of our thoughts on the opera, and our shared laughter. There’s something about his presence that puts me at ease, like we’ve known each other forever.

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