“I don’t want you to think I’m a man whore,” Jonathan announces, wrapping a towel around his waist after the two of us finally step out of his steam-filled bathroom. A quick shower turned into a forty-five minute nookiefest.
“A man whore?” I repeat, standing with only a towel wrapped around my head, playfully snatching the towel off him.
He lifts me up and lays me onto the bed. “Yes, a man whore. In other words, I don’t want you to think I sex up any beautiful woman I just met.”
I sit up, “Wait. Does that mean you think I’m a woman whore?”
Jonathan laughs and shakes his head, “Oh no…there is no way I’m thinking you’re a whore.” He yanks the towel off my head, gently pushes me down, and lays on top of me. “I made you cum for the first time last night” he says, lowering his voice to a hum, “and that my sweet Kennedy, is totally non-whore status. And super-fucking sexy.”
Chapter 21
Trying not to be incredibly conspicuous, Jonathan saunters downstairs fifteen minutes before I do, in an effort to prevent Aunt Becca from jumping to any conclusions about how the two of us spent our evening.
And when I finally make my way down, I find them both in the kitchen, cooking breakfast together.
“Good morning, Kennedy! How did you sleep?” Aunt Becca asks, whisking up a bowl of eggs.
“Yeah, Kennedy, was your bed cozy enough?” Jonathan adds, one eyebrow raised, clearly being a smart-ass.
“I slept just fine, thank you,” I say, looking only at Aunt Becca. “Best sleep I’ve had in years, in fact. I actually feel brand-spanking new,” I add, glancing at Jonathan.
“Lovely to hear! I hope you’re hungry? Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Thank you, I’m starving,” I admit.
After breakfast, Jonathan and I load up The Beast, in preparation for the ride back into the city.
In all actuality, I’m sad to leave. So far I love everything about The Hamptons, Brier Hill, Aunt Becca, and…being close to Jonathan.
I give Aunt Becca a meaningful hug goodbye.
“You are more than welcome to come back here anytime, sweetheart,” she tells me, handing me a small, brown paper bag. “I baked more cookies early this morning.” She winks.
I smile generously, feeling grateful to have had the opportunity to meet her.
“You ready?” Jonathan asks, grabbing a hold of my hand.
“Yep.” I fib and he leans in, giving Aunt Becca a kiss on the cheek.
We climb onto the bike, and Jonathan revs up The Beast, waiting until she quiets to a purr before he backs her down the long driveway.
We ride for a only half a block, reaching the corner when Jonathan stops and lowers his boots to the ground. “Hey…” he rubs the side of my thigh, “…are you okay? You looked a little down back at Brier Hill.”
He noticed, even though I tried hard to conceal it.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?” I ask, being slightly coy.
“No. Not really.” I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. He grabs my hand and kisses it softly. “Come on, Ms. Prescott. Let’s head to the beach. I think you and I need a little more time together before we ride back.”
Main Beach is right off Ocean Avenue in East Hampton. I’ve read about it in vacation magazines, vowing to visit if I were ever lucky enough to step foot in The Hamptons. Thanks to Jonathan, Lady Luck is smiling down on me.
He parks The Beast and the two of us climb off, removing our helmets, both taking in the refreshing morning sea breeze.
Taking my hand in his, Jonathan leads me up a narrow path. “I’ve got a cool spot where I sometimes hang out, looking down at the waves, while I sit and think.”
And a cool spot it is. We sit, inside of an empty lifeguard station, our legs hanging over the ledge with our eyes glued to the picture-perfect view of the ocean.
He puts his arm around me and I lean into his shoulder.
“So, what’s bothering you, Ms. Prescott?”
I look up at him; he smiles and kisses my nose.
“I told you I’m fine, remember?” I keep my eyes on the crashing waves, hoping to God he doesn’t keep probing.
Truth is I’m a tad emotional. Combine all that he shared yesterday about his goals and dreams with how we spent the evening, it’s a lot for me to soak up.
He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. “Well, for some reason, I’m not fine. I don’t know how to explain it, Kennedy. I feel as though something is missing, like I can’t get enough of you.”
I turn to look at him, wondering if he means that in a sexual way.
“And I don’t mean sexually, ” he clarifies as if the look on my face told him exactly what I was thinking. “Although I do believe I can spend an entire week holed up in bed with you…and still crave more.”
I laugh at his honesty. “So, if not sexually, what do you mean?”
“It’s like you’re this intoxicating stimulant that makes me do and say things I wouldn’t with anyone else. Take yesterday for instance; you’re the only person I’ve opened up to about my thoughts on the restaurant and my desire to open up something here. You and I are the only two on earth who know that side of me. And then last night. Believe me, when I invited you in my room, the last thing I planned to do was make love to you—even though I pretty much surmised how hot you are the day I saw you standing over my desk in my office—which, of course, was only two days ago. And yes, Kennedy, I made love to you—it was more than just sex to me. Still, being that close to you, mentally and physically, I feel like I can’t seem to get enough of you. You’re like a damn drug.”
He takes a hold of my chin, turning my face to his, and deep within those hypnotically alluring blue eyes, I detect pure veracity.
We kiss, with the sound of waves crashing in the background like a stadium of spectators cheering us on.
And when our lips finally unlock, he says, “So, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind? I know you said you’re okay, but I don’t think so.”
“Jonathan, I really think you should give The Hamptons a chance—a dry run, if you will.”
He shrugs. “I’d love to, but I have no idea where to begin.”
“Right. Well I gave it some thought this morning, while you were sleeping. Have you ever heard of a Pop-up Restaurant?”
“I have, sort of,” he says, unsure.
“Well, they are temporary restaurants—a fabulously ingenious way to provide a glimpse of what your permanent restaurant will be like. Think of it as speed dating: you and your potential client base can learn about each other in a short amount of time and ultimately determine if you’re a fit.”
His eyes widen, and he brushes the hair from my eyes as a small wind gust blows past us. “It certainly sounds intriguing. You think I should try this Pop-up concept? And if so, when and where?”
“How about now…well at least this weekend, at the place you showed me yesterday? I mean, we’re already here. And maybe not by happenstance.”
“You mean lease the space for the weekend?”
“It will probably have to be for a few days before you open for the weekend…you know, to set up and everything.”
“Winfield Bank and Trust are the leaseholders, according to the sign,” Jonathan says, his mood shifting to bothered.
“Right. Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not sure they will grant me anything. Seems I’ve lost whatever status I had with them, when I fell behind on some payments last year.”
I rub my hands across his firm chest and kiss him softly.
“Don’t you worry about them. I know the Winfield family extremely well.”
Chapter 22
Riding around with Jonathan in The Hamptons produces a mighty feeling of exhilaration, intimidation, and captivation all bundled up in a ball lodged somewhere between my heart and my gut.
I keep kicking myself mentally, for not visiting sooner although ending up here with Jonathan has p
roven, so far, to be serendipitous, in many more ways than one.
Much like he shared with me, I too feel like I can’t get enough of him. The realization scares me—I haven’t felt like this for a man, ever.
We turn on Main Street and Jonathan pulls in front of the empty building up for lease, rolling to a stop.
“You up for this, Ms. Prescott? I’m gonna need your help from start to finish.”
I lean in, still straddling him as I nestle behind him on the bike. “You bet I’m up for this. Can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
He grabs his cell phone and calls the phone number listed on the sign in the window to request an appointment to view the building’s interior.
“They’ll be able to meet us here in two hours,” he says, looking at his watch.
“That’s fine. What shall we do until then?”
He smiles curtly, puts his helmet over his head and says, “I’ve got just the place for us; hold on tight, pretty lady.”
We end up at Herrick Park, comfortably settled under a tree, after stopping at a local supermarket for picnic fixings: pasta salad, cheese, crackers, grapes, plastic goblets, white wine, and a small blanket.
How I got so lucky, I don’t know. I’m expecting this Cinderella experience to be cut off anytime now. Jonathan’s bike is sure to mysteriously change into a pumpkin sometime during our duration here.
“Kennedy Prescott, you’ve learned a great deal about me over the past couple of days. Let’s say you share a little about yourself?” Jonathan says, pouring us both half-filled goblets of wine.
Yeah, like how your real name is not Kennedy Prescott? My conscience resurfaces, saucier than ever.
I shake my head, freeing it from annoying distractions, “Sure. What would you like to know?” I say, taking a bite of cheese and crackers.
“Where were you born?”
“Okinawa, Japan. My parents, both in the US Air Force, met, married, and had me while stationed in Japan. We lived there until I was one.”
“No kidding? That’s fascinating! Ok, ready for the next question?” Jonathan asks, eating some of the pasta salad.
“Yep. Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“What made you decide to become a restaurant consultant?”
I nearly choke. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to reply without throwing myself under the bus?
Pretending to chew on some crackers, I cleverly buy myself a few seconds, as I shrewdly pull a believable response right out of my ass.
“Well, its funny. I never thought I’d be a restaurant consultant—I certainly didn’t go to college specifically for that—but it’s something I sort of fell into by chance. And…since then, I quite realize I enjoy helping someone take their business to the next level.”
Jonathan nods, seeming to have bought the pile of crap I dished up on the fly.
“Ok, where did you go to college and what was your major?”
Shit. I can’t lie about that, especially about my major. Being Kennedy Prescott is harder than I thought.
“I went to NYU with Sebastian and Gracie Winfield. My major was Journalism and my minor was Food Studies.” I take a swig of wine, wishing it were something stronger, like tequila. Or poison. Anything to put me out of my misery.
Jonathan chuckles slightly. “Journalism and Food Studies? What an interesting combination. Olivia has her heart set on majoring in Journalism. How was NYU?”
“It’s a great school. Hard at times, but I suppose that’s not different from any other college,” I answer, grateful he didn’t probe deeper.
“So you and Sebastian, from Manifique, are pretty close?”
“Yep. We met at NYU and have been close ever since. I have no siblings, and any relatives I have are distant. He’s filled in as friend, brother, and at times a parental figure, especially when it comes to advice.”
Jonathan takes a sip of his wine and looks at me contently. “How did you find out your ex had cheated?”
I scoff, as I remember Garrett and that dumb chick. “I caught him in the act. And the event has been added to my ‘why I hate Monday’ list. At the time I was heartbroken. But now I see it as a blessing.”
“How so?”
“The jerk fired me after I caught him with his assistant. And then Sebastian asked me to come on board as an independent contractor for the firm, and you are my first client. You, Jonathan Knight, are my blessing.”
Jonathan smiles and kisses me. “Then I have to be sure to thank Sebastian for assigning you to me.”
Time flies, as we chat more about me and my list of reasons why I hate Mondays, in which he finds amusing, The Hamptons, his troubles with Olivia, and Gracie Winfield.
“How do you know the Winfields?” Jonathan asks as we begin to pack up our picnic party.
“My parents and the Winfields, Randolph and Judy, served in the military together, for twenty years. They stayed in touch even when the Winfields fell into money and began investment banking that turned into the banking empire they operate today. Gracie went to NYU, but ran into trouble there, so Randolph threw her into banking. She operates the Winfield Bank and Trust branch near my house.”
“Talk about a small world,” Jonathan says with a pensive gleam in his eyes.
“It’s a small world indeed.”
We ride back to the building, making it just in time to meet the leasing agent.
“Mr. Knight?” the tall older woman says as we approach the building.
“Yes, thanks for meeting us here on such short notice. This is Kennedy Prescott,” he says, and I shake her hand.
“Great to meet you both; I’m Valerie Mitchell, the leasing agent assigned to this property. It’s been on the market for years. I almost forgot it was here, actually.”
She takes us around the back, granting us entrance through the kitchen.
There are two grills, a four-vat deep fryer, a bunch of pans and utensils, dust everywhere and the usual prep sinks, hand sinks, dish sinks, walk-in cooler, walk-freezer, a storage room, small office, and an employee restroom.
A wall and swinging door separates the back from the front where there is a long counter with a cash drawer, some tables, chairs stacked in a corner, more dust, cute mini-chandelier lights dropping from the ceiling, two small restrooms, and a mini bar. The space is definitely larger than I expected.
“What do you think?” Jonathan asks, grabbing my hand. He looks like a kid locked in a video game factory.
“No, what do you think?” I ask.
“Well, it needs some work, but I think the space is ideal for what I’m hoping to achieve.”
He looks to Valerie, who is heavily engaged with something on her iPhone. “What are the lease terms, Valerie?”
“Oh yes.” She lays her iPhone on the counter and retrieves a file folder from her purse. “Let’s see here, the owner lists it as a month-to-month with an option to purchase. The month-to-month is $6000, which includes space rent from the land owner.”
“Who is the land owner of this property?” I ask, curiously.
“We are–that is Winfield Bank and Trust.”
“Of course,” Jonathan remarks under his breath. He walks over to the window and peers outside, seeming to be in deep thought.
“Valerie, we’d like to see if we are a good fit, before committing to a traditional lease. Will the owner be interested in leasing the space to us through this weekend?” I ask, sensing Jonathan is too caught up on the fact the Winfields own the land this building sits on. “We’d clean up the place, and leave it in move-in ready form, should we prefer not to move forward.” I add for good measure.
Jonathan turns to face me, smiles, and mouths the words thank you, to me.
Valerie takes a deep breath, in and out, as if my question has induced a mini panic attack. She picks up her iPhone, keying in a number. “Let me find out what I can do. This place has sat here, empty, for too long. Perhaps the owner is up for something–anything, that may help get this place leased, or
better yet, sold. I’ll be right back.” She heads to the back, iPhone glued to her ear.
I walk over to Jonathan and rub his tense shoulders. “It will all work out, if it’s meant to be,” I say, unsure if I’ve helped put him at ease.
He pulls me into his arms, embracing me tightly. “I know, beautiful. I know.”
Part Three
“Eventually all the pieces fall into place… Until then, laugh at the confusion, live for the moment, and know that everything happens for a reason.”
Carrie Bradshaw - Sex in the City
Chapter 23
As a renowned food critic, never in my wildest of fantasies did I ever conclude I’d become a temporary partner in a new restaurant adventure.
Then again, never did I think I’d get fired, become a restaurant consultant to an irresistible chef I gave a poor restaurant review to, and fall head over heels for the irresistible chef—while pretending to be someone else.
Did I admit I’m head over heels?
Uh…yeah.
And who the hell knows how I’m going to get around Jonathan not knowing who I really am. I can’t worry about that technicality just now. Although I did research the price to change my name to Kennedy Prescott. It may be a cost-worthy expenditure.
Now, my focus is how to support Jonathan as he toys with developing his Pop-up restaurant. The owner didn’t want to venture into a concise short-term lease for one week. However, it was agreed to lease Jonathan (and his anonymous silent partner) the building for one month.
Oh and that anonymous silent partner? Yours truly. There was a snafu in the bank approval process that called for Jonathan needing a) someone to guarantee a loan b) a substantial down payment—which he could not pull together in the time needed to make this all happen—today.
So, I offered to assist and when I did, Jonathan was extremely reluctant. “I can’t have you fund my venture.”
And to that I opened up, explaining that for the last two years, I have been afraid to spend one dime of the money I inherited when my parents died, and how his project has proven to be my purpose.
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 12