Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice heard a squeal and before he knew it Jamie had darted through oncoming traffic and swiftly into the arms of a person just as tiny as she was.
He pulled his lips to the side in a half smile and made sure to pick up Jamie's thoughtlessly discarded tote probably full of all of her essentials. He shouldered the bag on his arm free from his duffel and his own briefcase and approached the two girls, hugging one another tightly and swaying back and forth.
"This morning took forEVER," Jamie's sister said, her French bright and swift.
"I know, and the ride here was so bumpy," Jamie laughed, giving her sister an extra squeeze.
"Oh my god--STOP," the other girl said, opening her eyes from the embrace and spying Patrice. She unhinged herself from Jamie and pointed at him, looking at her sister in disbelief. "JAMES!" She said, her mouth ajar, her finger still directed at him. Patrice's eyes darted back and forth between Jamie and her sister. What should he stop doing, exactly? He wondered.
He smiled at who he knew must be Emily and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. She was dark in skin tone, particularly for the winter, just like Jamie, and her hair was big and curly, too, tied up in a tight bun with a few loose twists plummeting from her dark brown head. He wondered more and more of Jamie's decent, having now met another member of her family. He always admired Jamie's beautiful, blemish free, olive skin tone, but had never given it much thought; typically those of French-Canadian descent were blessed with a certain pallor, like himself. Now, hearing her speak in French to her sister, he noticed an accent that wasn't entirely French-Canadian, either. He got a good look at Emily's eyes as she made eye contact with Jamie and they communicated silently in glances and a twinkling smile. Instead of warm, honey eyes like Jamie's though, Emily had distinctive blue eyes that really differentiated the two young women. Just like Jamie, though, she was absolutely, other-worldly, beautiful.
"Emily, this is Patrice," Jamie said, biting her lip as she held his arm and introduced the two of them. "Let me take this, mon amoureux," she whispered, slipping her tote off of his shoulder, despite his firm hand assuring her he had it. "And Patrice, this is my sister," she said, shouldering her bag. She looked up at him and beamed, her eyes bright and shinning.
"Hi, pleasure," Patrice said, a bit nervously. "I've heard so much about you." He could tell very quickly that Emily was the more free-spirited of the two sisters, and he could definitely see the creative dancer in her. She donned a beautiful grey, shin length peacoat and wore a stark black, big scarf wrapped around her neck. He couldn't place her age, although Jamie had told him she was merely 22; the sister's were only two years apart. He extended his hand and gave her a full smile, increasingly aware of his crooked K9 as the two beautiful women smiled with their perfect bites.
Emily pressed her lips together, but ultimately failed in suppressing her laughter as she completely disregarded his hand and wrapped her arms around his tall, broad shoulders, pulling him down and into a friendly hug.
"Careful of his hand, Emily!" Jamie scolded, quick to attach her own gloved hand to the back of Patrice's winter jacket. Emily squeaked and pulled away quickly, and as they shared a laugh and an apology, Patrice couldn't help but notice the familiar smell that hung around Emily, the ways her laugh lines appeared around her mouth and eyes before she covered her face with her gloved hands, embarrassed for her strong, belly laugh, and the way her nose crinkled when she first started to smile, before she showed her teeth.
Just like Jamie.

Although the girls had a bit of an accent, Patrice felt right at home as the three spoke solely in French in the 90s edition of the BMW Beamer that Emily drove through the snowy streets of Quebec City.
Luckily, Emily knew the studio that Patrice had to be at within the hour, so she had no problem navigating the city and shuttling him there in time for his interview. He insisted on taking a cab to the family's apartment after, so as to not bother either of the girl's with having to come pick him up. He punched their address into a memo in his phone as Jamie promised to let the doorman know he was coming.
"And what's this interview for?" Emily asked, eyeing Patrice through the rearview mirror.
"A local magazine is writing an article about me, being from right outside the city and stuff," he said, sitting with his broken hand in his good one, looking outside the backseat windows. Every once in a while Jamie would turn around from her passenger seat and smile at him, making sure he was still as excited as she was.
"What are they going to dress you up in?" Emily asked, inquisitively.
"I think something like this, but they're taking pictures tomorrow," he shrugged, making eye contact with Jamie, raising his eyebrows in nonchalance. "Would this be good for dinner tonight? Do you know where you'd like to go; a place your parents would like?" He asked, pulling on his sport jacket. He donned a light grey suit and sported a white button down underneath it, with the first couple of buttons undone. "Or something more formal, yeah?" He though aloud, looking down at himself
"We're going to Le Chateau; daddy already said he wants to take you there--he gets out of work at seven so we'll meet him. You'll be dressed perfectly, Patrice," Emily assured him.
"Isn't it Saturday?" Patrice asked, inquisitively.
" 'The Embassy never sleeps!' " Both the girls said in a low voice, mimicking their father and erupting in laughter.
"Wait, is your father an ambassador?" Patrice asked, finally understanding what Jamie meant when she said her father worked for the embassy.
"Oui," Jamie said, flashing him a smile.
"He is the ambassador to France," Emily chipped in.
"Wait, seriously?" Patrice asked, incredulously.
"Seriously," Emily laughed, looking at him confusedly in the mirror.
"Jamie!" Patrice said, his mouth open. How come she had never been upfront with him before about such information?
He was dating the ambassador's daughter?
And he didn't know it?
Well, technically, you're too chicken to actually ask her out... He teased himself.
Wait, is the ambassador's daughter allowed to date? Is he on a suicide mission?
"What? You couldn't tell I was Parisian from my accent?" She asked, laughing.
"You don't have an accent when you talk with other French-Canadians!" Emily scolded her. "You didn't tell him? Daddy's already intimidating enough; you should've prepped him!"
"I did prep him! Dad's overly self-employed; it's not a big deal, really, Patrice," Jamie said, turning around and giving him a compassionate smile.
He heaved a sigh and tried to smile back.
He knew they were a fortunate family, but he didn't expect any kind of wealth or prestige like this.
His heart raced with new nerves. Jamie and Emily must've grown up speaking Parisian French and unknowingly slid out of it and into French-Canadian when amongst their friends or out of the house. Patrice didn't know much about the French, but he knew that there was tension between them and the French-Canadians for superiority; which one could be the snobbiest, in his opinion.
Oh god, and her dad is a Parisian.
But he can't not stand the Canadians--why would he be an ambassador here, otherwise, right? He reasoned with himself. There must be something special about Quebec that keeps him here, yeah?
He pinched the base of his nose with the good fingers of his broken hand.
He wondered how much of a Mack truck Jamie's father would be to get through.
He was a strong, very good natured guy; but would he be good enough for her? For the ambassador to France's daughter?
As the car slid to a gentle halt in front of the Fairmont Le Chateau, Patrice shook his head and deemed to worry about the situation later, as he posed for the blinking red light and answered overly personal questions about his childhood and personal time in Quebec.
He slid forward from his backseat, his good hand wrapped around the back of Jamie's seat. He pulled himself between the two sisters and charmingly thanked Emily for the ride, and turned his head to kiss Jamie on the cheek before sinking back and stretching out the car door, pulling his briefcase with him.

"He's wonderful," Emily said as he shut the trunk and waved goodbye to them, making his way up the front steps of the hotel. "Quiet--but wonderful."
Jamie blushed, pleased with herself and Patrice. She quickly pushed away the little bit of guilt she had keeping some of her family information from him private in light of how excited she was to be in Quebec City again; she only did it because she was worried he would worry himself sick and invent some kind of fire-breathing dragon of a father image in his head before he even met him.
She sighed and forced herself to smile, looking out at the old, snow capped buildings rush by. She was so content with everything! She was home, with her sister and soon her parents, with Patrice! He was going to see her family's apartment, meet them, spend time with them; everything!
"He's so... so soft and gentle but he's so big! And strong! And mm!--that five o'clock shadow, James," Emily said, clenching her fist triumphantly as she referred to Patrice's stubble. "Mum's going to die," she joked, hitting the blinker and submerging the car into the family's parking deck.
"Mo-om!" Jamie called, opening up the door to their family's penthouse apartment not more than a few minutes later.
"Jamie?!" Her tiny mother exclaimed, stepping backward out of the kitchen, a warm mug of pipping hot liquid cupped in her hands.
"Hi!" Jamie squealed, dropping her bag on the table and wrapping her arms around her mother. Jamie was the slightest bit taller and buried her nose as she always did her in her mother's big, Portuguese curls.
With a parting rub on the back, Mrs. Delacour pulled away from her daughter and looked around, anxiously. "Where's the boyfriend?" She whispered, excitedly, making her eyebrows jump. Emily laughed, having discarded her coat and entered the black and white tiled kitchen. She gave her mother a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. Although she didn't live at home anymore, Emily still saw her parents quite frequently.
"He ran away; I scared him off," she joked, crinkling her nose and smiling in jest.
"He's got an interview first, mum; remember?"
"But when do I get to meet him?!" She asked, frustratedly, leading the girls into the kitchen, where brass pots and pans hung from the ceiling and a pot of tea steamed silently over a gas burner.
"Didn't daddy tell you?" Emily asked. "We're going out to dinner at Le Chateau; he's meeting us there. Patrice will be back here before though, to freshen up."
"So... what did you think?" Mrs. Delacour asked, looking at Emily with a mischievous grin. Jamie laughed, feeling completely at ease with her mother and her sister. Emily sat on the countertop, despite their mother's dismay and played with the small spoon that rested in the sugar. Mrs. Delacour leaned up against the counter space next to Emily, and Jamie took her usual seat at the breakfast bar on a high stool, facing the two.
As a family, they were very close, and the resemblance the girls' bore to their mother was striking. Mrs. Delacour was darker than Jamie and Emily, being strictly of Portuguese descent. Her hair was less kinky but just as curly, and her eyes were a deep brown. Her hair, as with age, was a dark salt and pepper. She wore fashionable clothes, her knee high boots framing her skinny legs and her big sweater hanging down past her knees. Around her thin neck hung stone beads of dark blues and greens, which brought out the few flecks of other color she had in her eyes, which were framed in dark, forest green glasses.
"He's absolutely adorable, mom!" Emily gushed. "He's so fit! And he wears his clothes so well and he's soft-spoken and shy and he has this five o'clock shadow...!" The more Emily described Patrice, the more strong her Parisian accent became as the girls began to transition from the French-Canadian dialect and into the Parisian one within the comfort of their own home.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait! What's a five o'clock shadow?" Mrs. Delacour asked, curiously, mimicking Emily's hand gesture over her cheeks and neck.
The girls giggled.
"Like when he hasn't shaved for a day or two, mum; he grows a nice stubble," Jamie helped.
"Oh, I like a man with a nice goatee!" She said, rubbing her hands together. Emily tipped her head back in a full belly laugh, while Jamie tried to scold her mother but couldn't help but laugh.

Patrice pocketed the international blackberry he took with him when he traveled, getting perfect reception in Quebec City.
Cab called, he thought to himself, mentally checking off his to-do list.
Now, to remove the stitches, he decided, ducking into a men's restroom just shy of the front entrance to Fairmont Le Chateau. He locked the private bathroom's door behind him and tossed his duffel onto the countertop, fishing for his toiletries kit with his good hand, while examining his face closely in the mirror, bent forward.
The make-up artist had done well to remove all of the foundation she had caked on his face, but he still felt self-conscious about the stitches Babs had mended him with the night before.
His heart felt heavy when he remembered it had just been last night that all of this had happened. His fingers sadly throbbed, tired and beaten with the busy day. His stomach felt queasy, his mind beginning to rethink his last minute surgery decision.
The stitches were still so fresh; his skin hadn't had anytime to heal; pulling them out wouldn't just be too soon... it would be counterproductive to his healing.
He heaved a sigh and tossed the nail clippers onto the tile countertop in a frustratedly defeated way.
He had gotten ahead of himself again.
He was all worked up Jamie's dad wouldn't approve of him. I mean, sure, he was physically fit. Sure, he had some money. But if he didn't like HIM there was no getting around that. Patrice figured he might've had an in with the whole being a hockey player thing, but, now that he knew Mr. Delacour wasn't even Canadian, his hope on that front had dwindled somewhat. That's when he decided he'd take his stitches out and glue the skin back together; that way, at least, he was a bit more clean cut and there weren't bits of blue medical string poking forward from the side of his face. Overall, glue was a little easier on the eyes; it looked more like a scar, and less like an open, flesh wound.
But... he thought. What if... using his good fingers on his broken hand to stretch the skin held together with the blue string and his good hand to hold the nail clippers, he leaned forward over the sink, as close to the glass as he could.
It could work...
It'd be like he never had the stitches at all, and he could superglue it back together just as he had wanted Babs to do last night...
His stomach dropped at the first click of the clippers and the immediate loosening of the blue string that followed. He clumsily grabbed hold of the thin rope between his thumb and forefinger, and closing his eyes, he gave a hard, quick tug, and sucked in a breath of air through his gritted teeth.
He opened his eyes to examine the damage.
It came out clean.
He uncapped the Guerrilla glue he carried in his toiletries bag and thumbed out a dot of the milky substance, guiding it into the fissure in his skin with the spout of the bottle.
It stung like hell and he pinched the living daylights out of his split skin until the apoxy dried...
But it worked.
Six stitches left.

Jamie's heart hammered against her chest as the apartment door bell rang.
"HE'S HERE!" Emily sang, bounding out of her bedroom and toward the foyer, sliding on her sock clad feet to answer the door.
Jamie quickly slid the quiche onto the silver serving platter and set the hot cooking tray on the stove. She met her mother's excited eyes and she blushed profusely as she heard Patrice and Emily exchange welcomes.
His voice gave her butterflies.
Jamie picked up the quiche and her mother the bottle of white wine and they left the kitchen and made their way into the dining room which connected to the foyer with its light, hardwood floors and high ceilings.
"Ah, Mrs. Delacour," Patrice said, jumping and making his way right over to her. He extended a hand and as Jamie's mom beamed and took hold of it, he bent down and gently embraced her with his other, broken hand.
"Patrice, this is my mum," Jamie said, smiling and biting her lip.
"I've heard so many wonderful things about you, Mrs. Delacour. You have a beautiful home," Patrice said, his voice husky yet smooth, low and charming.
"And mom, this is Patrice," Jamie said, snaking her hand up the inside of his arm and holding onto his bicep.
"Thank you, thank you," she said, smiling and blushing a little herself.
"And thank you for extending your home to me for the evening; it's just wonderful to not be in a hotel," he laughed, running a hand through his hair nervously.
Jamie noticed the pink tear running parallel to his ear through the meat of his cheek.
He had taken his stitches out.
She had had a sickening feeling he would.
"Well here, sweetie," her mom said, offering to take his briefcase and gesturing to the table. "We thought you might be hungry; Jamie and I made quiche. And then we have a white to share before we head to Le Chateau," she said, handing his personal bag to Jamie, who collected his duffel, shouldering them both. "We'll be leaving for dinner in about an hour, so, Jamie..."
"I'll show you your room for the night, Patrice," Jamie picked up where her mother left off, extending a hand, motioning for him to follow her down the old, narrow hallway.
"Thank you," he said to Mrs. Delacour. "I'll be just a minute."
"Take your time," she smiled. She turned to pour herself a glass of wine and swatted Emily, who had taken a seat on the dinning room table and was picking at a piece of quiche, scolding her.
Jamie laughed and rolled her eyes, smiling at Patrice as he reached for his duffel to relieve her of the weight. She backed into her old bedroom door, opening it to reveal a newly renovated library, with floor to ceiling shelves packed with books on one end, a fireplace on another wall, a great, bowed window, and a velvet couch, pulled out into a double bed, made for Patrice.
"Mon amour," he grumbled, letting his duffel fall onto the bed and giving her a passionate stare. Jamie rested his briefcase next to it. He approached her, towering over her and gently taking her by the waist, he pulled her close to him.
"Your home is beautiful," he whispered, kissing her cheek, just below her eyes, his thick hand finding its way along her soft neck.
They sighed and Jamie let out a soft giggle.
"I find myself falling for you harder and harder, every second, of every day, Jamie," he breathed, pressing his lips to hers delicately and feeling the stinging pain in his face, the throbbing bother in his fingers, and the nervousness that quickened his heart all ebb away.