When the air comes on, a cool draft blows under the table. Uncrossing my legs, I put them on the floor, then scoot my chair back, then pull my legs up onto the chair cross-legged again, almost sitting on my cold toes.
I open up the linen napkin and drape it across my lap. Picking up the hot tea, I wrap my fingers around the mug, relishing the warmth the porcelain emits. Closing my eyes, I inhale the tantalizing aroma and then take a sip.
"Are you cold, mon amour?" Alexandre asks with a soft timbre to his voice.
"I'm okay," I reply, picking up my fork.
"That is not a real answer," he says, tilting my head to face him. "Now, answer the question. Are you cold?"
"Yes, I am." A spark of frustration gnaws at me.
"That was not difficult, now, was it?" he asks as he lets go of my chin.
He s
