Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  “I don’t remember you being so cynical. I believe it was true love. I certainly fell in love when I heard you, even before I turned around and saw you. But I’m not going to deny that while you looked and sounded an angel, my thoughts had nothing to do with heaven. Perhaps lust is merely fate’s way to get us to pay attention to the person we’re supposed to fall in love with.”

  “I’ve never met a man who says the L word so easily,” she said.

  “Known a lot of men, have you, cher?” Bastien took a bite of bruschetta she held out to him.

  “Most of the students in pastry classes admittedly tend to be women. But I’ve met my share of male bakers, and both students and restaurant chefs tend to sit around and drink late into the night talking about all sorts of different personal things. Sex included, naturally. But love is never mentioned.”

  “Now see, that’s the difference. It’s not like I throw it around like confetti or Mardi Gras beads. Had I been with other women before you? Yes. Had I ever told any other woman that I loved her? That would be a hard no. It was a word I was saving. When I went back to the guys in the band the next morning, I told them that I’d not only found our front girl, I’d found the girl I was going to marry.”

  It had been the same for her. Except she’d been a virgin when, the third night after she’d joined the band, they’d made slow, tender love on a lumpy double bed in his small, three-floor walk-up studio apartment on Dauphine Street.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I moved too fast,” he mused. “Being that I was your first lover, perhaps you thought sex always felt that special, that right, and maybe took our love, not for granted, exactly, but as something you could feel for any man you were attracted to. Any other man who you might want to be with.”

  “You have it backward,” she said. “You’re right about me always connecting sex with love. I still do. I used to think it was my Catholic upbringing, but now I believe I’m just hard-wired that way. I always knew that when I did have sex with a man, he’d have to be someone I loved. And could see myself loving forever.”

  “Okay.” He blew out a breath. “I promised myself that this time, I’d tell you how I felt and give you time to get used to the idea. So, demonstrating that I do have a degree of self-control where you’re concerned, I’m not going to make love with you tonight.”

  “Well, for once we’re on the same page,” she said, not quite truthfully, remembering that flash of fantasy about him taking her up against the door.

  “We always have been, cher.” He looked at her over his wineglass. “Sometimes we just get a bit lost in translation.” He turned down the stock pot. “We’ve a while yet before I need to make the roux. Why don’t we enjoy our wine outside on that pretty little New Orleans balcony and enjoy the sunset?”

  It was a perfect evening. The sun had turned the blue water to gold and copper. Sailboats skimmed across the gilded water, while more energetic kayakers paddled closer to shore.

  “I’ve been thinking of taking sailing lessons,” she said. “It looks so freeing.”

  “Maybe we could take them together, and then I could sail you to some hidden cove where we could drop anchor and make love in the moonlight.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about sex.”

  “I said we weren’t making love,” he corrected her. “But I don’t remember you saying we couldn’t talk about it.” He took another bite of the crunchy bruschetta. “This is delicious.”

  “It’s simple,” she said. “But fresh herbs make it so much better. I was thinking of putting my garden on the patio, but then I’d have to go all the way downstairs any time I wanted something, and the pots would take up room I needed for customers. The balcony was Seth’s idea.”

  “He’s very talented. I’m glad there’s someone local with the talent and vision to create my space for Sensation Cajun.”

  “As I said, his family built most of this town. Each generation has taught the next. They and the Mannions are Honeymoon Harbor.” She told him of the ancient feud.

  “So now he and Brianna Mannion will be connecting the family in a more personal way,” he said.

  She smiled, then took a sip of wine. “I’ve been told there have been inter-family marriages over the years, but John and Sarah Mannion beat them to it. She was Sarah Harper before she married John. He’s mayor, she’s the principal, and together they run the Mannion family Christmas tree farm. They have a big festival from the day after Thanksgiving to until Christmas Day. It’s a wonderful community tradition.”

  “We’ll have to go and celebrate my first Northwest Christmas together.”

  “If you’re still here.”

  His eyes met hers and held. Her hormones were pinging around like steel balls in a pinball machine, and he was positively radiating testosterone. “I told you,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What if I leave? I had some very good offers in Seattle and Portland before deciding to settle here after a visit.”

  “Then I’ll move to Seattle or Portland.”

  “Even if you’ve finished building your restaurant?”

  He lifted his broad shoulders and took another, longer drink of wine. “I’m betting that you have no intention of leaving. It’s obvious you’ve woven yourself into the fabric of this town’s life. But, it’s only a building, Desiree. To be with you, I could walk away from it, as I did the one I sold to my cousin to come here, without a backward glance.”

  He put his glass on the little bistro table between them, turned toward her and took her hand. “Here’s the thing you need to understand,” he said. “I already let you leave twice.”

  “You never asked me to stay. Not even after Paris.” And hadn’t that hurt?

  “Only because I was afraid you might. I knew band life wasn’t for you, even though you could have been a star.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “It’s true. You were the whole package, Desiree. But you hated the touring. Being crowded into that old van before we could afford to lease a decent bus. Never having a moment to yourself. The crowds, the fans. They weren’t for you.”

  “You enjoyed them.”

  “I did,” he admitted. “More so after you left.”

  “Well, if you’re trying to make me feel better, that certainly doesn’t.”

  “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It was because I didn’t have to watch you fight your growing stage fright every night. And I no longer woke up every morning wondering if that was the day you’d leave.”

  “I never told you I had stage fright. And it was more anxiety. I’m a quiet person at heart, Bastien. That’s one of the things I love about baking. I do it early in the morning, when it’s dark and the town is still sleeping. It’s a special, silent time when I can have my thoughts to myself.”

  “Not so silent, I suspect,” he said. “Since you sing while you work.”

  “You’ve caught me,” she admitted with a smile.

  “You hid the anxiety well,” he said. “But I knew. There were so many times I thought I should lie and tell you that I didn’t love you because I knew how we’d eventually turn out. But I was selfish and wanted every minute I could have with you.

  “The first time you left, I understood that you needed to go to school and learn your craft. Having grown up working in a kitchen, I totally got that. Which is why I didn’t say a word to discourage you. The second time, you were flush with your shiny new culinary diplomas and ready to spread your wings in the big city. No way was I going to try to deny you that...

  “But now you’ve reached the stage in your life when you need a place to settle. Nest. Make a home.”

  How well he knew her. As she gazed at Bastien, Desiree felt all her excuses leave her heart with the setting sun.

  “And I’m going to do everything I can to convince you to allow me to be part o
f your home. To let me back into your heart.”

  “You’ve never left.” The admission in her soft voice vibrated with emotion.

  He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and although she hadn’t realized that he’d been stressed, she could see the tension leaving his body. “I made a promise. Back there in the kitchen.”

  “You did,” she said. “And I had every intention of holding you to it.” She laid her free hand on the one that was holding hers. “But haven’t you heard? It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

  He stood up, bringing her with him. “The shrimp stock gets better the longer it simmers,” he said.

  “Then it’s going to be the best stock ever made,” she said, lifting her lips to his.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I HAD A FANTASY,” she admitted as they walked, hand in hand, into her bedroom. She’d painted it an eggshell buff that added a golden glow. A wrought iron four-poster bed added to the antique feel, while the draped netting created a lush, dreamy vibe. The room looked like it was bathed in champagne.

  “I’m a big fan of fantasy,” Bastien said in a voice as silky as her duvet. “What a coincidence,” he said as she confessed the sex-against-the-door scenario. “I had the same one when I walked in. Perhaps because I attacked you the moment that bellman had left our hotel room in Paris.” The sex had been quick, hot, and the memory of that ravishment possessed the ability to thrill after all these years apart.

  “I attacked you right back,” she reminded him.

  “That you did,” he said as he closed the bedroom door. He pressed Desiree against it, causing every muscle in her body to quiver with memory. “Brace yourself, cher.”

  Before she could respond, his head swooped down and his mouth was on hers, the kiss hard, deep, erotic. There was no soft, slow seduction as there’d been their first night. No playful sex as they’d had so often shared, too high on life from performing to go to sleep. This was what she wanted. She needed him to take her, to claim her, to break through the last of those emotional protective barricades she’d built during their years apart.

  She couldn’t tell if the room or her head was spinning as his mouth broke away from hers and nipped first one bare shoulder, then the other, just sharp enough that she knew her skin would show his marks in the morning.

  Then, just as he had in her fantasy, he caught her wrists, lifted her arms above her head, pressing them against the wood of the door as his other hand dove beneath her pretty flowered tea-length dress, pushing aside the bit of lace she wore beneath it to slide his fingers into her. She was already wet, needy and ready. Desiree arched her hips to that wicked hand as his mouth reclaimed hers, swallowing a sound that was part moan, part laugh at how, yet again, their minds and bodies were in perfect sync.

  “There are some men, with lesser egos, who might find being laughed at in such a moment emasculating,” he said. “But I take it as a challenge.” He thrust deeper, bringing her to climax with a flick of his thumb.

  “That’s one.”

  He released her arms, turned her around so she was facing the door and unzipped her dress, allowing it to fall in a flowered puddle to the floor. Her bra was next with a single snap of the hook, and then he slowed the pace, kissing a line from the nape of her neck, down her spine, and lower, as he pulled her undies down her legs.

  “Step out of your shoes,” he instructed. The lace underwear that was down around her ankles was next. Then he kissed his way up her body again, his mouth tasting what his fingers had readied.

  “I want to watch you.” He nipped at her inner thighs, the way he had her shoulders, branding her with his teeth, then soothing the skin with his tongue. “I want to see your eyes, watch your face, when I take you.”

  Her knees were weak as he turned her yet again, to face him. As he did, she saw herself in the tall mirror leaning against the wall. She was naked, and her skin, deepened to a dusky rose, gleamed with moisture, while Bastien remained fully dressed. The erotic contrast had her feeling helpless as his hands moved over her, cupping her breasts. His fingertips, roughened from years of guitar strings, scraped her nipples, causing an ache between her thighs.

  “Tell me you want me,” he said, his hands growing more possessive, more arousing, as they moved over her, demanding more.

  “I do,” she managed.

  “Say it.” He pressed the straining zippered placket of rough denim against her bare flesh. “Say my name.”

  Lost in a world of slick, sinful sensation, she could deny him nothing. The ability to trust completely, to give every bit of herself, was born from knowing she was deeply, truly loved. “I want you, Bastien. I need you.”

  She gripped his shoulders and moved her hips against him, drawing forth a ragged male groan that was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard. He reached between them, freeing himself, then, taking a condom from the pocket of his jeans, tore the wrapper open. He was big, stone hard and, miraculously, hers.

  “I’m going to take you,” he said as he rolled the latex over himself.

  “Finally.” She panted the word.

  It was his turn to laugh. Then as Desiree clasped his shoulders, he drove into her, filling her, ravishing her against the door of her pretty champagne-colored room, setting off an orgasm that streaked through her like flaming, brightly colored Mardi Gras fireworks.

  * * *

  THEY FINALLY MADE it to the bed. Lying on the one-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets Sarah had given her for a housewarming gift, Desiree watched Bastien pull his T-shirt off to reveal a deeply tanned chest with the same mouthwatering abs she’d loved to run her hands over. She could easily spend the rest of her life watching him undress over and over again. Like a GIF, she thought with a laugh. She could use it as a screensaver on her laptop, although she’d never get any work done.

  “You’re laughing again,” he said, as his hands pushed down his unfastened jeans.

  “Not at you.” As her wandering eyes followed his happy trail down to his obliques, she wondered how anyone who cooked for a living could maintain such an amazing body. “I’m just happy.”

  “I’m glad.” He kicked off those pricey Italian loafers, leaving his long, lean feet bare. She’d never realized how sexy bare feet could be until today. He pushed a pair of navy boxers down his legs, stepped out of them and joined her in the bed. “Now that we’ve taken the edge off and fulfilled that fantasy, let’s see if I could make you even happier.”

  * * *

  MUCH, MUCH LATER, after he’d proven to be a man of his word, they were sitting in her kitchen eating the best étouffée she’d ever had in her life. And having grown up in New Orleans, that was saying something.

  “Your grandmother taught you well,” she said. She’d claimed his linen shirt as her own and was wearing it with her undies, while he had, sadly, put that T-shirt and jeans back on for cooking. “You also chose the name of your restaurant well. This is truly sensational.”

  “Thanks, but the company is what really makes the meal. I’ve missed being with you.”

  “Me, too. With you. And not just for the mind-blowing sex. When I left Paris, it felt as if I’d torn off a limb. I kept waiting for you to show up in New York.” She took a piece of bread and spread it over the plate to mop off the last bit of sauce. “You never did.”

  “You weren’t ready.”

  “You had no way of knowing that.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. But it was the opportunity of a lifetime for you,” he said. “It’d be like me being able to study under Lester Young, John Coltrane or Charlie Parker. How many people can say they were there, in that very kitchen, creating pastries with arguably the most famous pastry chef in the world?”

  She laughed. “I don’t think that’s the type of thing that will make it into my obituary. Fortunately, I have no desire to be famous. While you, on the other hand, are a world-ren
owned musician.”

  “For songs I wrote for you.”

  “I wondered about that,” she admitted. She’d also sung along while baking, which had made her heart ache, at the same time the songs had her feeling as if he was still with her. Just a little. “You know how the French call an orgasm la petite mort?”

  “The little death.”

  “That’s it. That’s how I felt. But not in the amazing orgasm way. But in a lonely way. As if you’d died to me. I grieved for a long time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “I was the one who left.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I felt the same way. Which is why I wrote the songs. They served as somewhat of a catharsis as I’d imagine I was singing them to you.”

  “Once again we’re so in sync,” she murmured, no longer fighting the fact that in so many ways, they fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a beautiful puzzle. “Because I’d sing along and imagine I was singing with you.” She blew out a long breath. “So here we are. Where we belong, if you’re honestly set on building your restaurant here.”

  “I never say anything I don’t mean,” he said. He gathered up their plates, took them over to the dishwasher, then made two cups of espresso with hearts in the foam.

  “How long did it take you to learn that?” she said, duly impressed.

  “I’ve been practicing awhile,” he admitted. “To show off for you. Here’s the idea I was thinking about earlier and was going to mention to you before we got sidetracked... What would you say to us singing again?”

  “Professionally? Even I if wanted to, which I don’t, what would we do with our businesses?”

  “You mentioned Brianna’s uncle is renting out space to artisans.”

  “I did and he is.”

  “What if I had a studio built there? That album you bought, my last one? I produced it at a studio in New Orleans and had it engineered there. We could do the same thing.”

  She thought about that. “Wouldn’t we have to tour to promote it?”