A/N-Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments on my first mini-piece of writing in the Scrapbook! Here's another, a Christine determined to capture someone's attention. Again, please let me know if you've enjoyed it!

The Taste of Strawberries

2017

She was late to her lesson and he would not be pleased, but Meg had told her of the tiny market and she could not resist going. Christine lifted her skirts and hurried along. It was raining in Paris, a warm drenching spring rain.

He insisted on her choosing between them, but how could she choose when he was always the perfect gentleman? Raoul held her hand, offered his arm, and had kissed her—kissed her!—she blushed to think of it. There were always flowers and often tiny gifts, carriage rides in the park, an easy acceptance and laughter. Her maestro had none of these qualities. He did not laugh, could not make small talk. He never touched her, except perhaps the briefest brush of icy fingertips against her arm or back, when they walked through the tunnels.

"Why are you so cold?" she had whispered once, and he had looked at her with those glowing golden eyes, eyes like incandescent suns.

"I burn…here," he said and touched his chest, and she shivered.

It was that velvet on smoke voice, those burning, intense eyes that spoke of adoration and made her the center of his world, and the music, the music which pulled her in. Her maestro had the voice of an angel, a fallen angel, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless. And those hands, those long graceful thin hands...what might they feel like against her bared flesh? She blushed and hurried onward.

He was waiting for her, arms folded and radiating disapproval, his tall, austere figure dressed in formal black, blending into the shadows.

"I have brought you a gift!" she announced breathlessly, before he could speak. "Meg told me of a farmers' market near the park and I went to see, and oh, Erik, they had them." She held up a fragrant basket of strawberries, tiny red ovals nestled in fresh damp leaves, strawberries like she had had at home in Sweden, long ago.

"You are very wet," he scolded. "It is not good for your voice."

He took the basket from her as she struggled from her heavy wet cloak. Erik set the berries on the kitchen table and stepped behind her, his long hands quickly unfastening the catch, cold fingers just barely brushing the warm skin above her collarbones.

Her skin. Stunned, he turned back to her. A new dress, the neckline plunging to show the curves and swell of her breasts, her skin creamy ivory in the lamplight. He swallowed hard. She brushed back her loose, heavy tresses, scooping them up in one hand, a few tantalizing curls gracing her slender neck. She turned slightly, glancing up at him through long dark lashes, her hip just barely grazing his own.

How do you know if a man is interested in you? she'd asked the girls, and Sorelli had laughed, though not unkindly. You must first catch his attention, she'd explained, and then…you'll know, little Christine. He won't be able to keep his eyes off of you. But first, sometimes, he needs help to notice. And so, the new dress.

She had his attention now. She leaned past him, barely brushing his suddenly still body to reach into the basket. Erik watched with fascination as she raised the berry to her lips, lips red as the strawberry, and took a bite, her small pink tongue darting out to catch the juice. Her eyes locked with his, and slowly she raised it again, deliberately biting into the fruit. Eve with her apple could have been no more tempting. She could see the sudden shuddering rise and fall of his chest, and his inadvertent step toward her.

She placed one small, square hand on his chest, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her palm. "Erik," she whispered, raising her face, "have you ever thought you might want to take a risk and try something…new?"

As his mouth came down on hers, he tasted strawberries for the first time on her lips.