The Model Spy

Chapter 18 - An Almost Murder at the Moulin Rouge

“Hungry?” Zach asked as we walked quickly down the hill. The sun was just beginning to set, an orange glow shining down on the city. I shivered. I was wearing a black dress I brought from L.A., but it wasn’t suited for cool weather. Mr. East Coast, on the other hand, thought it was a nice night. He gave me his black jacket to cover up my bare arms as he strutted down the street with only a white shirt and tie. Needless to say, he got double-takes from multiple women walking around.

My stomach growled on cue. “Famished!” I exclaimed. My mouth watered simply thinking of the meal that awaited me.

“Wow,” we both said in unison as we reached the Moulin Rouge. Its red and pink lights lit up nearly the entire block as its iconic windmill spun slowly against the darkening sky.

Zach, his face illuminated by the bright lights, smiled. He pulled the door open. “After you.”

There was a waiter right at the door to take my coat and show us to our table. I rubbed my hands together, thankful for the room’s warmth.

The large restaurant was nearly packed. I recognized most of the diners from the fashion show. Bella Victorino and an older gentleman sat together in the back corner. Clipboard Girl was sharing a table with a young and rather handsome man, and not her clipboard, as I had originally suspected.

“Merci,” Zach murmured as the waiter pulled out our chairs and handed us large menus.

Christinne and her posse shared the table next to us. Their chatter subsided as Zach and I sat, only to pick up again several seconds later with a few chuckles.

“Ignore them,” Zach whispered, shooting them a glare over the menu. “You were beautiful.”

Beautiful? Did he really just say that or was I beginning to hear things? I smiled bashfully and turned my attention once more on the other guests, searching for more familiar faces instead of staring at the one right in front of me.

The only person I didn’t see in the restaurant was Dylan, which surprised me because he was all about Paris’s history and culture. He had looked fine earlier as he watched the show. Why would he miss this?

The young waiter approached the table once more and asked for our orders.

I was hesitant. Everything on the menu was in French. Feeling pressured I pointed to the dinner with the word “can-can” in the name. Appropriate for the setting. Zach followed my lead, eyeing me nervously.

“What?” I asked him as the waiter took our menus.

“Just making sure it isn’t a trick,” he said, only half-jokingly. “I don’t want the waiter to come back with cat brains on my plate.”

“But they are just so delicious,” I joked dramatically.

He laughed a little but I noticed his fingers as they played with his tie. “This is way out of my comfort zone,” he mumbled, looking around at the laughing guests decked out in the most glamorous fashions.

“You’re afraid of a formal dinner?” He was one of the toughest guys I had ever met, yet he didn’t like a suit and tie.

“It’s not the suit and tie I’m afraid of.” He let go of his tie and began playing with his cuffs.

I leaned across the table. “What are you afraid of then?” I asked him quietly.

His eyes met mine for a split second. What shocked me was that they weren’t filled with coldness and hatred like they were when we first met. Instead, there was a hint of apprehension. He looked away.

“Your dinner,” the waiter said with a thick accent. He handed Zach and I our meals and then poured us each a glass of red wine. I nearly refused the drink, being used to American laws, but I couldn’t very well order chocolate milk now could I?