Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice pushed the door open to Le Chateau with his good, strong hand, and held it for Mrs. Delacour, Emily, and Jamie, who smiled up at him quickly ran a knuckle up and down a few of his ribs as a thank you. He pulled his lips to one side in a smile, and followed her into the dark steak house.
When he was hit with the waft of sizzling meat and heard the chink of silverware, Patrice realized how hungry he had become over the past few hours or so. His stomach growled expectantly with hunger and churned expectantly with nerves. During his interview they had had cookies and coffee, but he wasn't a big fan of either at the time, and opted for an apple that was too young and not yet ripe enough to have been harvested.
"Daddy!" Jamie squealed, as a a man who reminded him remarkably of Claude Julien in stature and severity stood from his seat at the readied dinner table and wrapped his big arms around his little girl.
"My sweetheart! It's been too long," he said merrily, pulling her away from him, his hands glued to the sides of her tiny head and pulling her in for a big kiss on her cheek. Jamie smiled and leaned her forehead onto her father's chin, her teeth bared in happiness. He wrapped his arms around Jamie's small neck again and hugged her close to her chest.
Mrs. Delacour made eye contact with Patrice, as he stood behind Jamie with his good hand holding his bad across his lap. She smiled at him, and had a twinkle in her eye.
The hour before, the four of them, Patrice and the girls, had sat around the Delacour dining room table and shared wine and ate small pieces of quiche, retelling the embarrassing story of how Patrice and Jamie met.
"So you just almost accidentally ran my daughter over with your car?" Mrs. Delacour asked, leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her fingers wrapped around the base of her wine glass. She looked at him severely. At first, Patrice gulped a bit, and couldn't make out her tone, exactly; he was never a words kind of guy. But then her face cracked into a smile and they laughed at him, desperately trying to get him to warm up to the lax, open lifestyle the three of them cultivated with one another and felt so comfortable in. Patrice had a feeling Mr. Delacour would be a less jovial man, and more of a serious one, from what Jamie had told him about her parents.
"Well, actually, I had noticed Jamie at the Harvard bookstore quite a bit," Patrice admitted, blushing a bit and swirling his glass of wine. "I had been making it a point to go back there for some time," he laughed, reddening a bit and looking at Jamie, one of his eye brows raised in a feeble attempt to not look desperate. She crinkled her nose, giggling, and touched his forearm with her thin fingers, blushing herself.
Patrice had the feeling Mrs. Delacour liked him, and as she smiled at him from the side of her husband, he felt a bit more at ease, about to meet the father.
"Now, I have someone to be introduced to, don't I?" He asked Jamie, looking over her shoulder at Patrice. Patrice gave him a stiff nod and allowed a bit of a smile to play on his lips.
Jamie turned around, her mouth slightly agape in excitement--or was it nerves?--as she reached for Patrice.
"Dad," she said, snaking her arm around Patrice's as she had done upon all of her introductions so far; he was into it. "This is Patrice," she said, her voice high and her smile wide. She gestured to him with her free hand, while delicately tracing his broken fingers tips with her other, their wrists and forearms pressed together. He stroked her palm with his thumb, unrestricted from the velcro splint.
Patrice extended his own hand and received a firm handshake, which he returned by placing his bad hand on top of the shake, even if it hurt his fingers, and even though he had to leave Jamie's reassuring embrace.
"Hi Mr. Delacour; I'm very pleased to finally meet you."
"And I, you!" Mr. Delacour said, laughing. His accent wasn't as Parisian as Patrice had imagined it to be. He had had nightmare day dreams all day about whether or not he'd be able to understand him as fluently as his own native tongue. Maybe he had spent all day at work with Quebecois and dropped his accent out of habit...
"Not that I've heard much," Mr. Delacour said, giving Jamie a disapproving look. Patrice's heart leapt--what did that mean?
Did Jamie not call home about him?
Was it a bad sign that it didn't look like she had?
He had told his parents about her... Well, Guill had so he couldn't get out of it with his mother.
Was he coming in too hot on this relationship, though?
Was-- Emily's voice cut him out of his thoughts.
"Dad!" She exclaimed, taking a seat at the round table set for them in the dim light. A candle in a red vase burned in the center of the table. "Jamie's a big girl now, you don't get to know everything!" She scolded him, gesturing to him with a butter knife and a mock disapproving grin. "You ought to thank Patrice for bringing her home for the night!"
Patrice and Mr. Delacour dropped hands. Patrice was thrilled because he was starting to become covered in a cool, thick sweat and was worried Mr. Delacour would notice.
"Exactly," Mrs. Delacour agreed, her hands sliding over Emily's shoulders as she took a seat between her youngest and her husband. She gave her husband another look, and said "and yes, you should," approving of Emily's suggestion.
"Thank you both," Jamie said triumphantly, nodding at her sister and her mother, sitting between Emily and leaving the seat next to her father open for Patrice. He noticed her legs, lean and tight, glistening as she folded them underneath her seat at the ankles, not wearing tights despite the freezing temperature outside. He adored the maroon dress hugging her thighs and hips and fitting just perfectly around her breasts. She was too small for any cleavage but he could hardly tell, for he was desperately in love with her collar bone and her olive skin exposed above the top of the dress.
As the family sat, he quickly closed his eyes and took a steadying breath as he pulled his suit jacket off and hung it on the back of his chair, just as Mr. Delacour had. Surprisingly enough, now was not the time to be enamored with Jamie, now was the time to impress her father--a cause for another steadying breath.
"Forgive me if I like to be aware of my daughter's endeavors!" Mr. Delacour laughed, filling Patrice's wine glass with a dark red.
Wait.
He was an endeavor?
What did that mean?
He sucked in a quick breath, startled at the warm hand he felt gently squeeze his thigh. He looked toward Jamie who smiled apologetically. He was so confused; Mr. Delacour had gladly offered Patrice a seat next to him at the table and had poured him a generous serving of wine, but, on the other hand, had called Patrice an endeavor and he wasn't the kind of thing to be endeavored; he was a person after all, he was a good guy... plus, it was obviously far from true that Jamie was the kind of girl who collected notches on her bedpost.
...He let his mind wonder a bit about how he probably would actually very much enjoy being an object of Jamie's endeavors for a night or so... God... he blissfully imagined being endeavored... would she tie him up? A quick image flashed through his heads of having his hands tied and Jamie crouching before him, her hands running up his thighs. No, he quickly answered himself. Jamie would never tie him up--he wouldn't be mad about it, though, if she did... and then he quickly snapped out of it as his cell phone vibrated in his dress pants pocket. What's the matter with you? He asked himself, frustratedly. Focus, no time for fantasies. He placed his heavy hand over the blackberry to determine that it wasn't just a text as it continued to rumble, it was an actual call.
He thought for a moment about whether or not he should check it; maybe Marchy was in a bad place and needed to talk, but selfishly decided against being rude at the table in front of the Delacours.
He also kicked his dirty thoughts, as Mr. Delacour happened to sneak a look at him as he imagined Jamie tying him to the bed; it's like he knew, Patrice gulped and internally apologized profusely.

His phone had rung an additional three times.
He felt as if he was sweating profusely, but every time he raised his broken hand to wipe presperation from in front of his ear, there was nothing there but his soft skin or the tear in his cheek.
"Looks like you've been a bit roughed up, there," Mr. Delacour said, nodding to Patrice's bad hand as he dressed his salad. Talk had turned from Jamie and her time at Harvard to how she had bumped into Patrice. Now, it looked as if Mr. Delacour was ready to shift into hockey talk.
"A bit; sort of an accident during our last game," Patrice said, showing him his fingers taped together and the velcro splint wrapped around his palm and wrist. "There was a brawl during a line change and I took a high stick and was in the wrong place at the wrong time," he shrugged. "Two were broken and then these three were dislocated," he said, gesturing to his three damaged digits.
"Yikes," Mrs. Delacour said, setting her fork aside from her finished salad. They had had only one course and his phone had silently vibrated in his pocket four times.
Patrice took a chance.
And, he definitely needed a breather.
Mr. Delacour was very much so a family man, but he could see why the girls enjoyed their time with their mother so, and how they were able to be much more open with her as compared to their father, as they were around the dining room table before dinner.
He was clearly a man that valued hard work and effort, and probably never understood failure. It was clear that Jamie's dedication was streamlined from him. He was an intriguing and very powerful man, not just because Patrice was aware of his profession, but by the manner he carried himself in and the way he spoke; Patrice could tell. He wanted to emulate such professional behavior.
The only thing was, Patrice couldn't tell if he was being successful or not, in Mr. Delacour's eyes. He couldn't tell if he thought he was some meathead hockey player, or if he was taking him seriously.
He wanted to assure Mr. Delacour that he was a smart man, a good man, the best lover; especially for Jamie. He'd be anything Jamie asked him to be; honest, he would; even though he felt as if Jamie liked him as he was, mostly. He desperately wanted to talk to him about his recent business endeavor, about how he was a soon-to-be part-time owner of a nordic spa two hours out of Quebec City, but, he didn't want Jamie to know yet; it's where they were spending Patrice's day off.
Valentine's Day.
The waitress cleared their salad dishes and as his phone went off again, Patrice excused himself, headed for the bathroom.
As soon as he was out of ear's reach from the table, he pulled his blackberry out and was shocked to see Guill was calling him.
"What?" He whispered urgently. "You keep calling; I'm out to dinner with Jamie's family!"
Guill cursed. "Really?"
"Yes!"
He cursed again. "I'm freaking out, Patrice."
"Why?" Patrice folded his arms and leaned on the wall, facing down the hallway toward the bathroom, away from the set tables full of people, drinks, and steaks. He was thankful for the 5 star restaurant's dim lighting and soft music, hopefully obscuring him from being heard or seen by the Delacour table. "What's wrong?"
He heard his brother heave a sigh. "I... I'm going to ask Gretta to marry me."
Out of instinct Patrice raised his hand to his hair in disbelief. He swore as his broken fingers tangled in his strong tuft.
"No? No? I shouldn't? I shouldn't..." Guill said, anxiously "I have the ring, already, though!" He cried "Oh, god. I shoudn't, should I?"
"No, no, I did something to my hand, no. Really? Like, you're going to propose?"
"Really? What do you mean "really"? Yeah? Should I?"
"Well I mean you guys have been dating long enough; you live together; you love her, obviously, yeah?"
"Yeah!"
Both men sighed, unreasonably overstressed as they overanalyzed every minute aspect of their life. There were a lot of ways in which the Bergeron-Cleary brothers were different, but there were a lot of ways in which they were the same, too. Although Patrice was the more level headed one, he could easily be set off into a panic with Guill. They both had a tendency to over-think things and distrust anything they themselves hadn't solidified. It seemed as if although Guill had made the decision to propose, this time, his over-thinking was taking over.
"Can we talk before tomorrow night?"
"But I'll see you in less than 24 hours," Patrice sighed, pressing the pads of his good fingers into his eyes; he wasn't even hungry anymore he was so stressed.
"But we'll be with people; I want to tell you before mom and dad; please? Help me out here bud," Guill pleaded.
Patrice heaved a sigh and was painfully aware of the throbbing pulsing up and down his fingers. He needed food so he could crack a pain killer in half so he wouldn't get too doped up; but he really thought he needed it.
"Let's go running in the morning, yeah? Six outside the Commerce Centre?"
"Thanks bud."
"You go it, man."