Page 47 of Holiday Romance
“Well, beauty is pain. You know, those earrings would go really well with—”
“No.”
He smirks as I zip up my coat again, but still seems amused, no hint of his previous bad mood left. And that was exactly what I wanted to happen when I bought it.
“I feel like we should do tourist stuff,” Andrew says reluctantly, but one look at each other and we know neither of us has the energy.
“Something to eat?” I ask hopefully, and he grins. “But not around here,” I add. “I’m not wasting our few hours in Paris on fast food.”
“You love fast food.”
“There is a time and a place,” I say firmly, leading us away from the mall. We still have ages before we need to get back. “Trust me.”
We head east, away from the Louvre and its tourists just as it starts to rain. One of my favorite food bloggers raves about a small restaurant by Saint-Jacques Tower and it’s there I bring Andrew, finding it down a quiet side street. It’s just open for lunch and we get a small table right by the window, the smell of rich food and the gentle chatter of voices immediately putting me in a better mood. I’ve always felt comfortable in restaurants, even when I’m by myself.
“Very French,” Andrew declares as the waiter hands us our menus. “Do you want me to take your picture?”
“No.”
“Why not? I’ve got my camera. You’re in Paris. You’re geeking out over yeast,” he adds as I start admiring the breadbasket. I drop a roll on my side plate and make a face. “Let’s create a memory.”
“I don’t particularly want to remember this trip,” I tell him, and he gives me a look of mock hurt.
“Thistrip? This expensive, exhausting, terrible one?”
“The very same.”
“I think we’re having fun.”
“That’s becauseyoustill have your suitcase.”
The waiter comes back for our drinks and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself ordering a glass of wine. Instead I ask for an ice water with some broken French and Andrew gets a ginger ale. Another one. It’s what he got at the airport and on the flights. I wonder if it’s his go-to whenever he wants something alcoholic. Is that something you do when you’re trying to stay sober? I really have no idea. But I don’t know how to ask him about it without sounding too prying.
“They do French fries in France, right?” Andrew asks, picking up the menu.
“Frites,” I answer. “But I think you should go for—”
A sharp vibration comes from somewhere nearby and we both stare at each other before I realize it’s my work phone. The automatic anxiety I get spikes through me and I dive into my laptop bag, taking it out to see a call from my boss go to voicemail.
“Are you working over Christmas again?” There’s no judgment in the question, but for some reason that only makes me feel worse. I don’t want to be the person who’s always expected to be busy.
“Not officially,” I say, checking my emails out of reflex before I realize what I’m doing.
Andrew watches me with a frown. “If you need to—”
“I don’t.”
“I don’t mind. Do what you have to do.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I say, putting the phone down. “It can wait. What?” I add at the confused look on his face.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “It’s just I know how busy you are.”
“I’m trying to get a better work/life balance,” I say, even as my stomach drops. It’s one thing to realize how much of your life has been consumed by your job, it’s another to hear someone else say it.
But Andrew smiles. “Work/life balance, huh? What’s brought on the change?”
“Nothing in particular. I just didn’t want to…” I shrug, watching another email notification light up my screen. “I don’t think that’s who I am anymore,” I say, trying to explain it. “I’m thinking about slowing down.”
