I extended my hand to her across the table. “I’m Colin, by the way.”
“Hope,” she said, taking my hand in hers and giving it a nice, firm shake.
“And what brings you to Paris, Hope?” I asked.
She looked me up and down, much like she had done the room, as if I were now a subject for her next canvas. Except rather than simple interest in the sensory input, there was a hunger in her eyes which was something I
found more than a little intriguing.
She nibbled her lower lip, as if debating something with herself in her head. She was probably trying to decide how much to tell me about herself given that I was a complete stranger. I took her to be something of a naturally guarded person who didn’t open up very easily anyway.
“I’m a travel writer,” she finally said. “I’m writing about Paris.”
