Aaron Dubois was the picture of professionalism. His accent was the icing on the cake-just French enough to maintain the flair without people thinking it was flair. Sophisticated and eloquent. Nothing out of place: his coal-colored hair was perfectly combed; he was impeccably groomed and professionally tailored, and his crisp blue eyes shined bright behind his tortoiseshell glasses. Oddly, standing next to him, introducing myself, I was completely at ease in a white V-neck shirt, faded dark wash jeans with holes in the knees, and dark-blue Chucks, sans socks. With tanned skin and Sylvie's leather bracelets around my wrist, I looked as though I'd stepped off a beach rather than the streets of Manhattan.
Aaron's interest in me was surprising. I expected him to be polite, but the real draw
