Honeymoon Alone: A Novel by Nicole Macaulay

Author:Nicole Macaulay [Macaulay, Nicole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781733276917
Publisher: 4B Pub
Published: 2019-12-03T05:00:00+00:00

Twenty minutes later, I scoot into a booth at a hole-in-the-wall café that Oliver assured me would be open today.

I rub my hands together, breathing warm air into them. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Says the girl who was just laying on the cold concrete for a photograph,” Oliver quips, removing his jacket and scarf and placing it on the booth beside him.

“I think this calls for a warm white mocha, don’t you?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You seem to switch up your coffee order daily.”

“Not usually,” I say, fiddling with the menu. “Just on this trip.”

The waiter walks over and hands us a drink menu. I only know it’s a drink menu due to a black and white drawing on the cover of martini glasses with an olive garnish.

“Parle vous englais?” I ask the waiter, who nervously shakes his head and backs away, as if I’ve just asked him for his life savings.

Furrowing my eyebrows, I try to figure out how to order my hot drink. Perhaps if I talk slow and use hand gestures—

Before I can formulate a plan, Oliver says something to the young man in rapid French and with a nod the waiter hurries off.

“That was good.” I say to Oliver, leaning forward. Though I shouldn’t be shocked he speaks French. His sister lives here. He seems to know the city remarkably well. “Do you speak French or just know how to order in French?”

“I speak it, though not well.”

After a moment, the waiter returns with three drinks – a cappuccino for Oliver and two white mochas for me. I look at Oliver incredulously. “You ordered me two?” I ask.

“Don’t you always order two?” he asks, looking unsure – almost boyish.

“Yes,” I assure him, kind of touched he’s paid attention. “I always get two.” I grab the first of the white mochas and take a slow, cautious sip. It is hot, so I blow on it before attempting a second sip. It succeeds in warming me, making me feel comforted and safe, here inside this little restaurant.

“I do have to ask, though,” Oliver says, sitting back with his cappuccino and fixing me with a curious look. “How do you sleep?”

“I’m immune to the effects of caffeine,” I share. I have to explain this to a lot of people. Apparently most people only drink a cup or two a day of coffee.

His smile widens as I shrug innocuously.

“So, where is your husband today?” he asks.

I sigh, all positive feelings toward this man nearly vanished. “Oliver, if we played a drinking game for every time you asked that question, I’d be wasted this entire trip.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he actually looks like he means that. “But I have to ask.”

“Why do you have to ask?” The words seem to explode from inside of me. But he infuriates me. One moment he is completely helpful and friendly, and the next he’s just nosy and annoying. “You make it sound like you’re being ordered to ask this. So please, Oliver, tell me.

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