Ian
To my way of thinking, there was nothing more appealing than a self-confident woman wearing a little black dress. Tonight, Shelby looked the picture of classic elegance in a short sheath that flattered her slight curves and showed off her legs. Her silver hair was twisted into a loose knot at the back of her neck. She’d kept her makeup understated and natural, lending her a timeless Parisian charm.
We strolled hand-in-hand along the garden pathway, lit with strings of fairy lights that winked in the moist evening air. Making our way to the main building, where we were twenty-two minutes late for our dinner reservation, we were greeted by a hostess and promptly seated at a corner table. I glanced around the small dining room, which oozed quaint eighteenth-century appeal. Wide plank floors, multi-paned windows, and a fireplace filled with glowing white pillar candles reminded me of similar country inns in England, and at once I felt at home.
Shelby was equally taken with the space.
“Charming, isn’t it?” Her blue eyes glittered with reflected candlelight. “Absolute perfection.”
Gazing at her from across the table, her hair gleaming in the soft light, I had to suppress a gulp, shaken by the depth of my feelings. This afternoon had been, in a word, exceptional. I felt reborn, and anything but old and stodgy, particularly after my “man parts” had functioned to her satisfaction.
How did all of this happen so quickly, especially when I’d sworn off romantic entanglements? Am I setting myself up for another heartbreak?
“You look beautiful tonight,” I told her, receiving a smile in return.
“Thanks.” She searched for my hand underneath the table.
As she fixed her eyes on mine, I was drawn to the thin gold chain around her neck and a miniature kitchen whisk charm that rested happily in the cleavage of her breasts.
“Are you staring at the girls?” she asked in a whisper.
“Aye, lass,” I admitted, my voice inexplicably taking on a Scottish pirate rasp. “And a bonny pair they are, but my attention was taken by ye wee charm.”
She grinned before shaking her head from side to side, causing me to wonder if I’d been too much again. After a moment she looked up, grasped the chain with her thumb and forefinger, and held up her treasure. The tiny replica was adorned with a single small diamond.
“It’s not worth a lot but it has huge sentimental value. I found it in a shop in Paris. It was my graduation gift to myself after culinary school.”
Sensing an opportunity, I enquired, “Would you like to go back?”
Her head tilted as she regarded me with confusion.
“To cooking school?”
“No, Shelby. To Paris.”
“Seriously, Ian? Par-EE? With you?” Chef’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. I was unable to stop smiling at her.
“Of course. We’re working on finalizing the dates in September. Shooting the commercial will take two days at best, then you and I can stay on for a while and explore the city. You’ll be my tour guide.”
“Oh, I don’t know how much of a guide I’ll be. I haven’t been to Paris in years.”
“Neither have I, so, it will be a new experience for both of us. You have a valid passport, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s up to date. Jean-Pierre insisted on it in case we got the urge to visit his family.”
If she had any hesitation about returning to a place likely to trigger some bittersweet memories, she wasn’t letting on. The next step of my plan was complete. After spending a week together in one of the world’s most romantic cities, I intended to own her heart, which she had managed to keep exceptionally well-guarded.
I was still smiling when a server came to take our drink order and I realized neither of us had bothered to glance at a menu.
“Might you give us a few more minutes?” I asked, before he nodded and disappeared.
Shelby picked up a menu and immediately set it down.
“Oh, I can hardly wait.” Her voice trembled with excitement. “The weather in September should be ideal. What do you think we’ll be doing? What clothes should I bring?”
“I expect we’ll be sightseeing, eating, and having more amazing sex.”
A series of sepia-toned vignettes floated through my brain—Shelby, relaxed and laughing at an outdoor bistro table as we enjoyed an exceptional Parisian meal. Strolling arm-in-arm through Luxembourg Gardens, which I’d always hoped to visit. Studying the Louvre’s collection of world-class art. Or, better yet, returning to our quirky Left Bank hotel, where the thought of her lying naked in a luxurious bed sent my pulse racing again.
“You won’t need clothing for the third activity. In fact, if you want, you can bring an empty suitcase and I’ll buy whatever you need.”
She reached for my hand again, this time across the table, and I laced my fingers through hers.
“You’re too much,” she informed me, before focusing on the menu.
I turned my attention to the entrée items, settling on pork tenderloin and grilled octopus, served with my new southern favorites, grits and okra, and accompanied by a Virginia-made Pinot Noir. Shelby ordered pan-seared sea bass with fingerling potatoes and wild mushroom sauté, along with a locally-produced Riesling.
That task accomplished, we returned to the topic of our upcoming getaway.
“I’ll find a small luxury hotel away from the tourist areas,” I told her. “And if you like, I’ll take you shopping at some expensive boutique.”
“I’m not too sure haute couture would go over well in backwater Virginia,” she teased, “but thank you for offering. I’d rather spend our time doing things together.”
Her enthusiasm was contagious.
“The patisseries, those lovely little bistros, and the incredible street food,” she went on, lost in her memories. “My mouth is already watering.”
Mine too. I planned to savor every minute of my time away with her, like a multi-course fine dining experience. If I couldn’t earn her trust during a romantic vacation in the incomparable La Ville-Lumière, I would have to consider myself a failed lover.
Our drinks arrived, and I raised my wine glass in a toast. “To us, and an unforgettable trip.”
“Vive la France,” she responded.
When our food was served several minutes later, she snapped a quick photo of the beautifully presented plate with her phone, “for future reference.” I offered my usual smirk, finding Shelby’s quirky habit of photographing her food to be amusing. After a few bites she asked, “How’s your dinner?”
“The tenderloin is perfectly cooked, but the octopus is chewy. Both the grits and okra are good, but I doubt they would meet your standard.”
She reached across the table, scooping up a forkful of grits to taste. After swallowing, she pronounced the dish “a little heavy and thick, not fluffy like mine.”
“What’s your verdict on the sea bass?”
Shelby speared a piece of limp fish skin on her fork.
“Whoever cooked this made a rookie mistake by plating the fish skin side down, so it soaked up the sauce and got mushy. The mushrooms were great, though.”
A few moments passed before she commented again.
“Tonight’s meal was like a tune from a jazz ensemble with one player sitting out. Pleasant but nothing special. Nice, but no culinary fireworks.”
“Very astute comments, Chef,” I offered, which made her smile. “I predict you will excel at your new business venture.”
I ordered a second glass of wine for both of us before sinking deeper into the upholstered seat cushion, buzzed and happily satiated. She grinned at me as our knees bumped underneath the table, no doubt feeling a little light-headed herself, and I almost let slip what I’d been debating about telling her.
I know the timing isn’t right for us, and I respect your need to grieve over your husband. In a few more days we’ll be living on separate coasts, and although I’m not certain about how this will turn out, I want you to know that I have broken your rules. I’ve gotte
n attached.
I stopped myself before the words tumbled out, not willing to risk spoiling our happy moment.
When the server returned to check on us, we opted to share a piece of olive oil cake for dessert. Moments later, the simply prepared treat, adorned with yogurt cream, blueberries, and pistachios, arrived at our table. Shelby’s phone came out again for a quick snap before we attacked the cake with two forks. The dessert was light and buttery, with the tangy lemon yogurt cream a perfect accompaniment. The addition of berries and nuts was another delicious, chef-y touch.
“This is to die for,” Shelby asserted, while I nodded in agreement, my mouth still full.
She waved our server over and said, “Please let your pastry chef know how much we enjoyed dessert.”
A few minutes later, a tall woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair emerged from the kitchen wearing a chef’s coat, leggings, and clogs embellished with a flame print. She strode over to our table as a wide grin spread across her face. Shelby stood up and the two of them embraced like long-lost friends.
Is there anyone in this part of the world that she doesn’t know or hasn’t befriended?
“Nancy, are you back in the kitchen?”
The woman switched her attention to me for the first time. Her eyebrows rose, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m filling in until we can hire a new pastry chef,” she said, returning her gaze to Shelby.
“It’s so good to see you,” Shelby said, as she sat down again. “Will you join us for a minute or two?”
Chef Nancy glanced around the half-empty dining room and nodded. “Just for a second, though.”
“Ian is an actor who’s been working here on location,” Shelby said by way of introduction. “He’s one of the stars of Sutherland’s Ghosts. I was hired by the TV production company as his personal chef this summer.”
When she looked my way, I noticed that her cheeks were flushed.
“It’s nice to see you out for a change,” her friend responded. “I have to say that happiness looks good on you.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” I added, drawing another glance from my dinner companion.
“How was your meal?” Nancy inquired.
“Very good,” I said, hoping I came off as sincere. “And our room is delightful.”
Underneath our table, Shelby nudged my shin with her foot. Was I not supposed to reveal anything about our weekend rendezvous?
“Nancy and her husband, Frank, own the inn and restaurant,” she continued. “We go way back, don’t we, Nance?
The woman nodded.
“How’s Frank doing?”
“He still has more good days than bad ones, but we’re not sure how long that will last.” She leaned in close and continued in a barely audible voice. “Listen, don’t say anything yet, but we’re thinking of selling while he’s still healthy enough to travel. I know I need to get the restaurant back up to its old standard. Our new young chef is talented and energetic, but she lacks finesse.”
She locked her eyes on Shelby. “What are you doing with yourself these days? Are you back at work, cooking?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve decided not to take another restaurant job, but I have started a consulting business.” She dug in her bag and produced a business card adorned with her new kitchen whisk logo.
“I’d love to help you. I think all you may need are some tweaks and a few fresh menu items.”
“Perfect,” Nancy responded. “I’ll call you next week.”
What a happy coincidence for them both.
“There’s this one thing.” My chef grasped my hand underneath our table. “I’ll be out of the country for a few days next month. I, uh, we…” she stammered, “…are going to Paris. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Oh, Shelby, that’s wonderful.” Nancy’s eyes flickered in my direction. “A trip to your favorite city on the face of the earth. I’m sure you’ll come home inspired.”
“And I shall come home soft around the middle, no doubt.”
Shelby’s nails dug into my hand.
After Nancy returned to the kitchen, I raised my wine glass again and we clinked in solidarity.
“Congratulations, Chef. You’ve landed your first client.”
“It seems so, doesn’t it?” Her feline smile made my heart leap.
“I was surprised to see Nancy back in the kitchen,” she went on. “This was not exactly the way I envisioned introducing you to her, but it’s not as though we were hiding anything. I did feel a little awkward, though. The four of us used to get together occasionally for cocktails and dinner. Nancy and Frank thought the world of Jean-Pierre.”
I winced at hearing yet another glowing reference to the recently deceased, apparently now on the verge of achieving sainthood. I understood that she spent a big part of her life with the man, and I appreciated her loyalty, but I didn’t want to live in his oversized shadow.
On the other hand, perhaps I was being a bit unfair. Grief is not something that begins and ends of its own accord. It becomes part of who we are, sometimes subdued by happy events, but always lingering in the background, ready to surface again at the first opportunity.
Aren’t you dead?
Yes, lover, but I’ll still be here if you need me.
I took some solace in the fact that Shelby seemed enthusiastic about moving on with her life. At this stage of our relationship, I didn’t dare ask for more.
“Ian, did you ever play a Scot?” she asked, steering our after-dinner conversation away from the tender topic of Mr. Chef Durand.
“Aye, many years ago, in a rather dismal made-for-television movie.”
“And did you wear a kilt?”
I nodded.
“Give me a moment,” she murmured, settling into her chair and closing her eyes. “I’m painting a picture of that in my mind.”
Her smile returned.
“Is it true that Scotsmen don’t wear anything under their kilts?” she pressed.
“I wouldn’t know. I wore cycling shorts underneath mine. We were on location in the Scottish Highlands during winter and I was freezing my balls off, so I chose preservation over authenticity.”
Taking Shelby’s hand once more, I paused to study her palm, marked by an irregular burn scar near the base of her right thumb, the result of a kitchen accident years ago. Seeing the small patch of discolored skin made me long to protect her from future injury, both physical and emotional. I pressed her palm to my lips and kissed the scar, while drinking in the sight of her blue eyes fixed on mine.
“Thank you for a wonderful day and evening,” she said, offering her smile once more. “No matter what happens with us, I want you to know I will remember this weekend for the rest of my life.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Shelby
When I awoke the next morning, Ian’s body was pressed close to mine. He had one arm flung around my waist, while his lips tickled the back of my neck. As I stirred and turned to face him, my throat tightened. I’d slept alone for so many nights that the sight of him, naked underneath a thin cotton sheet, was almost too much to contemplate, especially first thing in the day.
It was so unfair. Even while sporting prickly beard stubble and bed head, he looked better than most men did after hours of grooming. In the next instant, I was aware of my stale breath and messy hair.
“How did you sleep?” He leaned in to plant a kiss on my forehead before returning both hands to my waist.
“Great. Best I’ve had in months. Until the middle of the night, when someone woke me up and insisted on having sex.”
“That would have been me,” he asserted with a grin.
My hands slid up his taut belly—which didn’t seem the least bit fat, despite Ian’s complaints—before I pressed myself next to him, listening for a reassuring heartbeat.
“I figured as much.”
We rested in peaceful silence for a moment or two while he finger-combed my hair. If only I could’ve stopped time fo
r a few more hours, we might’ve stayed in our blissful little world and not thought about certain unsettling issues looming on our horizon: living on separate coasts while attempting to make a new relationship work. I wasn’t sure how to do any of that, either.
“We’ve slept so late that I’m afraid we’ve missed breakfast,” he said. “The dining room stopped serving a half-hour ago.”
“That’s okay. I know a place between here and home that serves good chicken and waffles.”
His lips nuzzled the sweet spot at the base of my throat, making my scalp tingle. How did I manage to get in so deep in such a short time? The thought of saying goodbye to him in a few days produced a hard, unyielding knot in the pit of my stomach.
“Chicken and what?”
“It’s a southern thang. A waffle topped with a piece of crispy fried chicken and drizzled with maple syrup or gravy. I know it sounds odd, but it’s actually delicious.”
“You don’t say?”
“Umm-hmm. Thick, rich southern gravy.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Again, I figured as much.
***
After a weekend filled with great food, laughter, and mind-blowing sex, Monday morning arrived as an emotional letdown. One final week remained before Ian’s departure to Los Angeles, an unhappy fact made worse by his heavy schedule. All the remaining location shots had to be completed before Friday, meaning he would be working late every night. Anxiety burned in my throat when I allowed myself to think about our dwindling hours together.
How could I stay composed and in control in the kitchen, yet wilt like steamed spinach at the thought of being alone again? He said he wanted to make things work for us, and as much as I tried to believe him, my doubts lingered. I’d seen glimpses of what it was like to be Ian, and I wondered if he could keep himself in check the next time an attractive woman came on to him. What would stop him from fooling around when I was thousands of miles away? And how would I know if he did?
I never had to worry about Jean-Pierre flirting with our female customers or dallying with the kitchen staff. He was reliable, steady, and devoted to his family. When it came to Ian, however, I wasn’t so secure.
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