His Inspiration by Ava Lore Read Free Book Online

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all those missed calls and the answered one would be in the record and I'd
better confess right now—
    But Malcolm wasn't going for his cell phone. He was instead
lifting a handset off the wall and dialing out. Oh my god, a land line! This
really was the Old Town. I giggled to myself as Malcolm spoke to the
person on the other end of the line, in French. Surprisingly.
    After less than a minute's conversation he hung up. “You speak
French?” I said.
    “Mais oui.” He smiled. “But not as well as I speak German
and Japanese. And I certainly don't speak Croatian. I never had the chance to
learn. Luckily for me it seems everyone here is multilingual. Dominic knows
French best, so I speak to him in French, and he, in turn, laughs at my French.
But he will still make the most delectable meal you've ever tasted.”
    “He will?” I was dubious. I've had some damn good food in the
last year or two. And New York is lousy with hole-in-the-wall restaurants that
would make a gourmand weep for joy—if you know where to find them.
    “Indeed. We should get dressed.”
    Getting dressed took a little longer than it normally does
because I was too drunk to match my clothes up, especially because they were
all new and I'd never seen any of them before. In the end, Malcolm dressed me,
pouring my drunk ass into a corset and delicate stockings before wrapping me up
in fine winter clothes and handing me my purse. His hands on me made me happy
and warm, and by the soft kisses he planted on my skin I could tell he felt the
same. Coming with him had been a good decision. I was sure of it.
    When we finally wandered out into the streets, the city was
different than it had been this morning. Lamplight filled the stone world, and
the smell of the sea hung sharp and cold in the air. I reveled in it, letting
it sober me up a bit as we walked the cobbled streets. Or stone-paved streets.
They kept changing under my feet, and it wasn't long before I was completely
turned around and lost. All I knew was that we were on a large, main
thoroughfare. It had rained again while we slept, and the streets gleamed
wetly, small puddles reflecting the street lamps, gilding the stone world in
gold.
    I was very warm from my stifling underthings and the walk
through the streets by the time Malcolm steered me off the road and into a
little cafe. No chairs or tables stood in the street outside it, but inside a
few lights burned, and when we stepped through the door I nearly fainted with
hunger at the delicate smells of fine herbs and sweet shellfish. Traditional music
played, tinny and old-world sounding on an ancient sound system. White
tablecloths shone in the warm yellow light, and I immediately felt at home.
    An older man, his face lined so deeply he looked like a raisin,
came out of the kitchen and exclaimed something in French, his arms open wide.
Malcolm returned the greeting and the two hugged and kissed like old friends.
    Friends. That was what Malcolm was like. A friend to everyone.
Straightforward. Open. Welcoming. And despite his strange talk and idiosyncrasies,
he seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. The realization startled me.
I'd known so many men who hid things, who led double lives. But Malcolm was
completely transparent. Everything there was to know about him was floating on
the surface, written in plain words in a language I was learning to decipher.
    Malcolm introduced me to Dominic, and the old man embraced and
kissed me as well, his arms surprisingly strong for a raisin. Speaking in rapid
French, he ushered us over to a table in the middle of the room decorated with
fluttering candles. Malcolm helped me into my chair, then seated himself.
    And then my phone rang.
    Real world calling.
    The happy buzz of the wine receded somewhat before I realized
that the ringtone was not Felicia's. I probably had a million texts from her,
but she'd known I'd gone to see Malcolm on Monday because he'd asked her for
the day off so he could paint me. If