"You do the world a disservice by not allowing me to photograph you." His distinctive accent was no longer a challenge for me to understand.
I turned to see him with his shoulder propped against the wall as he stared at us. Esmée's head lazily lifted from my shoulder at the sound of her father's voice, but soon her head had returned to its resting place.
"The world, or just you?" I asked, unsuccessfully fighting back a smile.
"Same same," he waved away the semantics with his hand as he pushed away from the wall and stepped towards us.
"I doubt a photo of your babysitter doing her job will compare to your other masterpieces," I pointed out as I continued my slow waltz about the room with his daughter.
"You're right. You'd be in a class all your own," his voice was lower, but his proximity permitted it.
I turned to face him, refusing to shy away from his intense gaze.
If there was anything I had learned in my months of working as Esmée's babysitter, it was that Gaspard loved to flirt. I'd often see the tell-tale blush creep up the neck of a flustered model after he plied her with a compliment, words dripping in that notorious French accent.
