“HMM. YOUR NOT-SO-SECRET admirer is going to be very disappointed,” Marie remarks when I call into her café to pick up the food Paul ordered over the phone. She lifts a picnic basket up onto her counter and gives me an amused look.
I feel myself blush. “Darby and I are just friends. And Paul and I are just friends.”
“You used to come here with Paul all of the time. You didn’t look like friends back then.”
I clear my throat, then assure her, “We’re definitely just friends now.”
“Just like you and Darby.”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, my friends are forever giving me flowers just because and organizing romantic picnics for me,” Marie laughs. “Tell me, where are you having this platonic picnic, huh? The Eiffel Tower? A hotel room strewn with rose petals?”
“I don’t actually know where we’re having the picnic, he’s off organizing that now and it’s a surprise. But I’m pretty sure it will be somewhere very unromantic, because Paul and I really are just friends now, and even when we were together, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Romance.”
Just then, the door to the café opens, and Paul steps inside and gives me a broad smile. “Hey, Marie, thanks for this. Ready, Isabel?”
“Sure am,” I say lightly, and I scoop the picnic basket off the counter.
“Tell me, Paul,” Marie asks. “Where are you two off on this picnic today?”
“I rented a yacht. I thought we’d float around the Basin for a while and relax, maybe go for a swim if the sun comes out later,” Paul says easily, and I stumble a little. He catches my elbow and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I shoot a glance back at Marie to see she’s laughing smugly.
“You two enjoy yourselves,” she calls after us.
“A yacht?” I repeat once we’re out in the street. “Seriously?”
“It’s a modest yacht.” Paul shrugs. “Technically a sailboat, I think.”
“Do you even know how to drive a boat?” I ask incredulously.
He shakes his head. “Of course I don’t.”
“Great. I know we’re getting along better now, but I don’t think we’re quite ready for a Castaway type situation just yet.”
“Isabel, you wound me,” Paul says, playfully clutching his chest. “It would definitely be more of a Gilligan’s Island type situation. I’m just not sure if I’d be Gilligan himself, or the Professor.” I laugh, and he winks at me. “Fret not, Ginger. The yacht comes with its very own Skipper.”