Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  Sneaky bitch.

  "Right. So were you going to walk by tables and ignore writers because you had never heard of them before? I never thought you were so heartless."

  "I'm not! How can you say that?"

  "Because you're being an ass, and you're so stuck in your own insecurity that you're allowing it to cloud your judgment. You would never do such a thing, so why do you believe others would?"

  I'm a little dumbstruck at her logic, but I can't really refute it.

  "Most of the readers there just want to geek out and feel like they're part of an author's world. They like books. You write books. As long as you have fun, they'll have fun. Maybe you won't get swarmed like the big writers, but I hardly think you'll be ignored. There are too many kind hearts like yours out there. Find your people, and give them the chance to find you."

  A coil of tension I didn't realize I was holding relaxes deep inside me. She's right. Focus on the fun and introduce everyone to my world. It's up to me to give them a reason to fall in love with my characters, and then it's in their hands.

  Releasing a long breath, I finally stop fighting and accept this opportunity for the amazing gift that it is.

  "Okay. Let's talk swag. What do you think I can manage on a small budget?"

  * * *

  Unknown: Are you free for dinner?

  I'm distracted from writing as a message pops up on my phone from an unknown number. It's not Heath, because he's already in my contacts. Unless he's using a different number for some reason.

  Me: Heath?

  Unknown: 1-Yes, 2-No, 3-Only if you want me to be

  Confusion sets in, until I realize there's only one lie buried in there.

  Me: Mark! What are you up to?

  I quickly save him in my contacts as ‘Sexy Chef.’

  SC: Trying to lure a sexy woman to dinner

  Me: Do I know her?

  SC: Most definitely

  Me: Is Heath meeting us?

  The long pause that follows makes my pulse hitch.

  SC: Does it matter?

  Now it's my turn to pause. Does it? Is this just a dinner between friends? Does my accepting constitute anything more than that?

  Me: No

  I'm lying. Does he know I'm lying?

  SC: Good

  He just called my bluff. Christ, Josie, now what? Realizing that we do need to discuss the details for the culinary class he's promised to do, I relax. I remind myself that's all this is—a friendly business dinner. Nothing to see here.

  Me: Where?

  SC: Lulu's

  Me: When?

  SC: 8:00?

  Glancing at the clock, I realize that leaves me a few hours to keep writing and still have time to get ready for dinner.

  Me: See you then

  A thumbs up is the only acknowledgement I receive before dropping my phone back on the desk to return to the scene I was writing.

  Is Lady Sydney becoming too dependent upon Lord Cedric, now that he has declared himself? After years of being subjected to a controlling husband, would she just naturally fall for the first man who shows her kindness and swears his devotion? Is that someone who can finally accept real love, or does that make her a weak woman so desperate for affection that she just wants a loyal man to defend her?

  I continue on, trying to answer these questions for Lady Sydney as she reenters the fashionable world, attending a house party at Lady Sampson's.

  When did Lord Roderick arrive? Why is his wicked grin meeting hers across the card room? She knows better than to enter his sphere. His lack of regard for the fairer sex is well-known. Furthermore, the number of women rumored to have been his lover are legendary. That rakish grin reminds me of someone…

  The tweet of my phone alarm alerts me to the time as I look up and realize several hours have passed. Damn! I really need to finish this chapter. Although, I must admit I'm not certain where it's heading. Lord Roderick was not supposed to make an appearance here. I hate when characters hijack a scene.

  Switching gears, I head to the bedroom to put on pants and pretend to be a normal human being again. It's finally beginning to get a bit cooler at night, now that we've moved into October, and I'm definitely not in the mood to dress up. Besides, this is a casual, friendly dinner. I don't want to send mixed signals.

  After ten minutes of indecision I settle for jeans and a long, v-neck turquoise sweater that does great things for my eyes. Then, I add just a few quick swipes of makeup—enough to kill the dark circles and emphasize my eyes without looking made up. My hair…well, that's a lost cause. I decide on pulling it back tightly into a low ponytail. He'll just have to deal.

  Grabbing my purse, I give Daisy a quick snuggle and a kiss before heading out.

  "Be good, Baby Cat. If there's leftovers, there could be a kitty bag in your future."

  Watching her hop back up on the couch and turn in a circle, she settles back into sleep before I'm even out the door.

  * * *

  "Hi, Josie." I'm surprised to have Shana greet me by name. "You know the way back. Mark's waiting for you."

  Her look is curious, and I wonder if she's been relaying all my activities with Heath back to Lori. And now I'm having dinner with Mark. What are they making of all that? Not that it matters, because I'm not doing anything wrong, I assure myself.

  The restaurant is busy as usual as I weave through the intimate tables to head toward the kitchen and my usual seat. What a difference a few weeks make. When did one of the chairs at Mark Isaacs’ chef's table become 'my seat'? It's only the third time I've been here, and yet I feel like I can claim ownership. Maybe it's having been invited by the master himself.

  It's a good thing I don't take myself too seriously, or I could let something like this really go to my head. Slipping into my usual chair on the left, I smile at two other couples who are already seated. That must be it for the night, since they only start tastings at specific times to keep the courses flowing in a specific order, with calculated timing between each plate served.

  The eager but shy looks passing between one couple convince me this must be a first date, they just look too uncomfortable together. I wonder if this is how Heath and I looked the day we had brunch here? Were we as tentative as they appear to be—half-turned toward one another with absolutely no touching? No stray hand on the back of a chair or, god forbid, on the other's hand or knee?

  It didn't take long for us to get comfortable. Heath held my hand without hesitation almost the entire night he met me and Emma for drinks.

  "What are you smiling about?" The wicked voice so close to my ear pulls my attention back quickly to find Mark leaning over my shoulder.

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" I tease, watching his eyes dance with mischief so close to mine.

  Staring at my lips, he replies slowly. "Only if it has to do with me. Does it?"

  Biting my lip, I play along.

  "Maybe. Indirectly." How's that for non-committal?

  "Hmmm." Still staring at my mouth, he finally lifts his eyes again to mine. "When you know for certain, be sure to let me know." My chair spins until my knees are suddenly touching his. "Come on, we have a table."

  "We're not eating here? What about tonight's tasting, don't you need to be in the kitchen?"

  "Nah, they've got it. Besides, we're only a few feet away if they need us. Why? Do you want to sit here?"

  "Not necessarily," I laugh. "It's just that I've gotten used to thinking of this as my chair. The novelty hasn't gotten old yet."

  "Well, we can come back over here for dessert, and I'll do my meet and greet with the other diners then." He nods his head briefly in acknowledgement at the other couples, who are staring at us wide-eyed, before grabbing my hand and pulling me to a more remote back corner.

  A small table sits in solitary splendor, a single cheerful Gerber daisy in a bud vase the only distraction. It's like an oasis of calm in the hustle and bustle surrounding us.

  "I'm glad you came." He steps back from push
ing in my chair to take the one directly next to me the way a date would, rather than seating himself across the table.

  At my raised eyebrows, he twines his hand in my own.

  "You look great. I love that sweater." Eyes roam up and down the v-neck, and I realize that maybe it was a bad choice after all. I forgot how much cleavage it exposed, not that I don't ever have cleavage. It's one of the 'blessings of the F cups,' as one old lover used to call them.

  "Mmm…thanks. I didn't mean to give you quite such a direct view, but hey, they're hard to hide." I shrug a bit uncomfortably. He wouldn't have had such a direct view if he was sitting across the table where he belonged. "Mark. Feel free to look at my eyes when I speak, instead." My tone is droll as he finally stops staring admiringly at my breasts and focuses on my face again.

  "Sure." God, he has such a wicked grin. "I just like to give credit where credit is due."

  "So, let's talk about your culinary class." I'm determined to turn the conversation back where it belongs. "This is going to be the hot ticket of the season. They're going to start dropping the advertising right after Halloween, so we need to decide what type of class you're doing. Do you have ideas?"

  "Oh, we're going to pretend for now? All business, no personal talk?"

  "Don't be silly. We need to talk about the class, but of course I'm interested in you, too. For instance, you must be over the moon about the James Beard nomination! How does it feel to get that kind of recognition? Your family must be so proud."

  "It feels good, although I've never really cared about that kind of stuff. I wish my grandfather could have been around to see it." Mark's voice is wistful. "He would have been proud. He taught me cooking as a craft. He said you should never serve anything that you weren't proud of—it was better that they starve."

  Laughing, he pauses, disentangling his hand from mine when Salvatore stops before us, a bottle of wine in hand. Pulling the cork, he hands it to Mark who sniffs and nods.

  I always love watching the ritual of the connoisseurs like Mark—lifting the wine glass, swirling the small splash of blood red wine before inhaling deeply, and tasting critically for things that mere mortals can't discern. Like a dog that can hear a high-pitched whistle unrecognizable by humans.

  A pleased smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he nods. "That's coming along better than I anticipated. What do you think?"

  Taking the cork and sniffing it himself, Salvatore nods before pouring for me and Mark.

  "A good investment. Let's see if they can repeat it next year." Placing the bottle on the table, Salvatore smiles kindly at me before heading back to the main floor.

  "We've been searching out small vineyards in the hopes of forming a label for Lulu's." Lifting his glass again, he clinks it lightly with mine in acknowledgment, then swallows contemplatively. "This is the first one we've really been happy with, but wine is fickle. Terroir and temperature are everything. Any more droughts or fires in California, and you can be out of business before you know it."

  "You've got your hands in a lot of different pies don't you? I bet you're one of those overachievers who never slow down and juggle ten projects simultaneously. I hate people like you." My smile indicates that's not true. "Okay, I'm in awe of people like you who only have to touch something for it to become the next big thing. You make me feel like a slacker, sleeping through the revolution."

  Mark's laugh only ramps up my own self-mocking.

  "Don't mind me. Move along, nothing to offer here. I'm quite happy leading the pack of the mediocre—the many, the undecided, the ambivalent. Well, at least we have a slogan," I concede.

  "Don't be ridiculous, of course you have something to offer. First, look at you. How many women would kill for those hot curves? Rubens made his reputation painting women like you."

  Hot curves? How ridiculous! Yet my inner kitten stretches her back in an arch, tail in the air, waving seductively like a white flag. No, stand down Hello Pussy! No one invited you into this conversation.

  "Clearly, you're smart. I mean, you did outmaneuver me at two truths and a lie, and I can bullshit with the best of them. Besides, Cliff won't stop singing your praises, and I know he doesn't date stupid woman. He said you're a writer."

  Oh no, no, no… We're not going there. Romance has no place in this conversation. We're sticking with friendly (he did call me hot?), professional (bad, Hello Pussy), and intelligent (what did he just say?).

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  "He said you're writing books about sex and multiple lovers. I approve."

  "He did not! You're deliberately twisting what he said."

  "Are you sure? He seemed pretty intrigued."

  I'm mortified by the color staining my cheeks as Mark looks on fascinated, and I suddenly realize I'm being baited.

  "You are a bastard." I push him slightly away from me, crossing my arms and scooting my chair farther from his. "Don't tease me that way. That's so mean. What is wrong with you?"

  "What? You're the one blushing like you have a guilty conscience." My chair slides closer to him again as he hooks his foot in the rail and pulls it forward with a gentle screech along the polished floor.

  "I'm just making polite conversation and trying to get to know you better. And for the record, I apologize for teasing you that way." I smile at his charming apology, until he grins. "As for the future, let me know how you prefer to be teased, and I'll be happy to oblige. Trust me, I have plenty of ideas of my own."

  The warning sirens blaring in my head sound the alarm. Pull up, pull up. Collision ahead. Abort. Abort.

  Carefully schooling my face, I smile while actively envisioning a mental shield to deflect the charm targeting me like torpedos. If that's what he considers polite conversation, I need to wear battle gear around him. I can't afford to take too many direct hits before my protective wall crumbles.

  "While I'm terribly flattered, let's keep whatever wild tales you and Heath are making up to bait each other out of this. I'm pretty certain they would make me cringe. How about we stay focused on you? Let's talk about what you want to teach during your culinary demo."

  "If you insist, but let me tell you, it was a fascinating conversation." Observing my closed expression, he finally relents. "Fine for now, but I need a favor. Can you keep a secret?"

  Chapter 16

  Cook Play Lust

  What kind of favor could Mark possibly need from me? Intrigued, I wait for the punchline.

  But wait. It's unusual to see a man fidget, but that's exactly what's happening, although he's trying hard to camouflage it as something else. The critical eyes assessing the tables and the wait staff are only a blind. I know stalling when I see it, and his hesitation piques my curiosity. What could possibly make this sexy, confident man look so self-conscious?

  "I wasn't kidding, I'm not comfortable speaking in public."

  "Oh. Well a lot of people aren't initially. I'm sure you'll be great, though. You ooze natural charm. Just let your passion for your food come through and focus on talking through the steps of what you're doing. You really don't need to keep it a secret. What can I do to help?"

  "No, it’s not that. That's just a complication. The real secret is that after the James Beard announcements, I got a call from KitchenTV. They want to discuss a show—a cooking show—with me."

  His uncertainty is genuine. He really doesn't believe he can do it. It's ridiculous that I, of all people, should be the one he looks to for reassurance in this. Me. The one who has never yet managed to manifest a dream into reality.

  "Mark, that's amazing! What kind of show, how does that work, when would you begin filming? Damn, I'm so thrilled for you. What did your family say?"

  "Josie." He stops to collect his thoughts. "Thank you for that. I know you don't know me well, but this is way outside of my comfort zone. I'm excited by the possibility, but I don't want to tell anyone else about it, not even my family right now. It would be really embarrassing to have it blow up in my face. That's where you come
in."

  "Me? What can it possibly have to do with me?"

  "When you asked me to do the culinary class, I realized that it could be a perfect testing ground for me to try out my skills on the down low. If I can pull it off in front of a small crowd, I have a better chance of doing it in front of a camera."

  "Ahhhh, that makes sense, but that's not much of a favor. If anything, you're helping me save my job by doing the class. So we both got lucky on this one. Let's just celebrate that."

  "That wasn't the end of the favor, but hey," Mark says, grabbing my hand to pull me from the table, "if we're both getting lucky, then let's make it interesting. Come on." I barely have time to grab my purse as I find myself propelled through the crowd.

  "Where are we going?" I try to disentangle my hand from his to halt my forward momentum, but Mark yanks me toward the entrance, stopping only long enough to talk to Shana.

  "I'm out. Tell Scott to finish the service and shut down the kitchen for me."

  "You're leaving?"

  "I'm taking Josie to dinner."

  "Where will you be if they need you?" Shana asks reasonably as I look on mystified. Weren't we supposed to be eating dinner here?

  "My place. We'll be cooking at my place."

  The twitch of her mouth makes me want to sink into the floor. Trying to keep a straight face, Shana looks me up and down before remarking. "Try not to set the place on fire."

  * * *

  "Mark, wait." Digging in my heels once we hit the sidewalk, I force him to stop before we can go any farther. "I don't think this is a good idea."