Page 3 of Blue Gold

His brows pulled tight, forming a sharp crease above his straight nose. “Bridge? What bridge?”

Oh, dear heavens.

I was about to ask him if he knew we were currently in the center of Manhattan when the cashier cleared his throat, grabbing my attention.

“If you’re not going to order anything, can you move aside?” he grunted with the impatience typical of this city.

“Yes, of course,” I told the cashier in English before turning back to my fascinating stranger.

“Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” I switched back to French.

He quickly shook his head. “No, I don’t drink coffee.”

“Tea, then?”

His blue eyes seemed hesitant at first before he nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

I moved closer to the counter, my eyes going over the pastries sitting on top.

“Would you like one of those croissants?”

His nose scrunched up before he snorted. “Those are not croissants.”

Confused, I looked back at the pastry—they sure looked like croissants to me. Then it hit me.

“You French and your obsession with that pastry,” I said when he huffed.

“That pastry? I beg your pardon, but nothing comes close to a fresh croissant that has just come out of the oven. Also, it’s a viennoiserie and not a pâtisserie.” He stopped for a moment, almost like he was remembering something important. “I’m being so rude… just tea is more than enough,” he chuckled.

Once again, his sweet smile put me under a spell that was almost impossible to break free from. Yet, with much effort, I collected myself, and after placing both our orders, he and I moved to wait aside. Thinking it was time to properly introduce myself, and only because I was curious to learn his name, I took off my glove and held out my right hand.

“Daniel Williams,” I said as he took my hand. While his skin was soft, his grip was strong, indicating his youthful strength. He was at least several years younger than me, which made me feel incredibly old despite only being thirty-three.

“Daniel Williams.” He repeated my name in a way that sounded almost criminal. “So American,” he said in broken English and with a heavy accent, which was delightful to my ears. But then, he switched back to French, which came out of his mouth like poetry.

“My name is Elliot. Elliot Dufort.”

Elliot.

What a melody.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

When Elliot’s eyes dropped to our joined hands, I realized I was still shaking his. “I’m sorry about that,” I said, clearing my throat and finally releasing my grip. “I was just wondering what a Frenchman’s doing here in such bad weather.”

His lips curled up before he pushed back the hair that had fallen over his brows. “I had a casting this morning and got lost on my way back.”

“Casting?”

He nodded. “Yes. For modeling.”

That makes sense. With a face like his, he should be on billboards all over Times Square.

“So you’re a model?”

He shook his head. “So far, I haven’t had much luck.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Would you believe me if I said I’ve missed every audition I’ve had since coming here?” An awkward laugh escaped him. “I just can’t seem to understand how the metro works. Everything is in English, and I… well, I keep getting lost.”

With each new detail he shared about his life, I had a dozen more questions to ask him. This sudden interest in getting to know him was unlike me. While I did find him attractive—something everyone would agree on—my curiosity went deeper than that. It brought me back to when I was a kid and my parents first took me to church. Learning about some God lurking in the heavens, one I could neither see nor hear, filled me with a vibrant curiosity to find proof of his existence. Over the years, I’d abandoned my search and faith, but perhaps Elliot was a sign of such a divine being, as I doubted such beauty could exist on its own.