by Eva Luxe
I watched Dana's curvy body sashay out of the bathroom. She roughly dried her hair, bending forward, giving me a great view of her nice, round ass. She quickly wrapped a towel around her head to let her hair finish drying and wrapped another towel around her pink skin, covering all of my favorite parts with terry cloth.
As soon as she had finished, she reached over to pick up her phone so that she could make her call home to her parents. I loved hearing the happy banter back and forth, her easy laughter despite missing them.
I heard her sigh with relief at the news of her son doing well and even making a new friend at school. The way that she expressed surprise at her son having a friend over to play video games let me know that he probably didn't have friends over that often. When Dana hung up the phone, she sat on the end of the bed, processing everything.
"Huh," she exclaimed, deep in thought.
"It seems as though things are going well at home for both of us,” I told her. “I just got off the phone a bit ago with my nanny and she said that Olivia has been very well behaved in my absence."
Nodding, Dana said, "Yeah. It seems like Scott is doing really well and even invited a new friend over from school. I have been hoping that he would start interacting more with kids his age, rather than spending so much time with his grandparents and I. He's really an awesome kid, don't get me wrong, but I have thought that he would be happier around more kids his age. It looks like I was right."
"Yeah, well, I guess maybe we need to plan more trips like thee and leave our children to their own devices. They might fare better than if we were there."
We both laughed at the irony of the situation, that despite our less-than-favorable circumstances, things still seemed to be working out in our favor. It made it easier for us to enjoy our moments together, almost like were on a planned vacation rather than a near death experience.
I couldn’t believe I had suggested more trips together. But she seemed to welcome the idea.
She climbed back into bed and into my arms and we settled in for the night.
"Is it just me or does it seem like all of this is happening right on time?" mused Dana, happily.
"It really is. I must say that I am amazed and happy. This is real, right? I'm not going to wake up and find out that this was all a dream or some cruel joke? Are there hidden cameras somewhere that I don't see?"
I pretended to look around, lifting up the pillows to search.
She laughed and hit me playfully.
"You are so hilarious! I would have never guessed that you would be so charming."
"I'm just glad that you stopped calling me Mr. Roberts," I said, teasing her and winking.
That got a hearty laugh from her.
"Me, too," she said. She caught my gaze and held it there, like she was trying to look into my eyes to see if it was all just a cruel joke or if it was really happening.
I kissed her tenderly, hoping that she could feel the depths of my passion and know that it was real.
I didn't know what would happen once we got back home, but I was enjoying myself so much, I figured that we would cross that bridge when we got there.
Before we had a chance to talk further, there was another knock and, used to it now, we both called out, “Come in!” Then our door swung open and our gracious host and her husband ushered themselves into our room.
"Dinner time!” Maggie said. “I noticed that you didn't join us for dinner tonight, so I didn't want you to go to bed hungry."
They each brought over a tray to our bedside, where we lay with the blankets pulled up to our necks. It was a steaming plate of homemade chicken pot pie. It was bigger than any pot pie that I'd ever seen.
“Thank you so much, Maggie,” Dana said, smiling. “We went into town earlier and had a great time.”
“Oh, too bad I didn’t run into you!” Maggie said. “We could have done some last-minute Christmas shopping. But I suppose you kids had other things to do.”
She winked at us and Dana winked back. I remembered the taste of the ice cream on her breast and how I couldn’t wait to get her to a private spot to have my way with her.
“We did,” Dana agreed. “We weren’t there long. But we did have fun.”
“Have a great dinner,” Maggie said, and they left our room.
Smelling the delicious aroma of the food they had brought reminded me that we hadn't eaten in hours and after all the great sex that we had, I looked forward to filling my belly with the hot, satisfying meal and drifting off to sleep. I couldn’t believe what a good day we had had, despite being stranded in the woods.
Chapter 11 – Dana
That night, I had a dream about Kurt and I. In the dream, he bought us a house and we moved in together with our children. It was so much like a fairy tale. Both of our kids were happy, and we were happy in every way imaginable. I woke up with a huge, cheesy grin on my face and rolled over to cuddle with Kurt.
Only he wasn’t there. I looked around the room. The room was empty. No Kurt in sight.
What if it was all a dream? I thought What if I’d had some mental breakdown and I’d imagined the whole thing? Was I in a coma? I pinched myself. I felt it. It was real.
What if Kurt had changed his mind, finally came to his senses, realized that he’d made a tragic mistake, and left, unable to face me? Before that thought had a chance to take root, I looked around and saw that his things were still there.
Calm down, Dana. There must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. I slipped on my shoes and walked down the long hallway. I headed toward the kitchen where I could see the light on. As I got closer, I could smell the aroma of some delicious food and hear the clanging of pots and pans.
Rounding the corner, I saw who our chef was that morning: Kurt. He looked so capable, whisking around the kitchen, focusing on the stove, making sure that the temperature was set just right, and taking care not to burn anything. I stood there watching him for a few minutes in silence, completely blown away by this man with these wonderful surprises that I kept finding out about him.
He was definitely not some snooty rich guy, with no real, practical skills. In fact, he was quite the opposite. If it weren’t for my knowing him from the many television interviews and magazine covers that had been plastered everywhere, just judging him from this weekend, I would venture to say that he seemed like a regular guy.
Yet again, I found myself putting him in a category all his own. I had never been with a man who knew his way around the kitchen quite like Kurt did. As wonderful a man as my husband was, he was all thumbs when it came to anything related to food or cooking.
In fact, we would often joke about it, me wondering how he’d even survived up to the point of us getting married because he would somehow manage to burn a cup of noodles. But, I never minded taking care of him in that way and never even considered what it would be like to have a man who could work a kitchen like Kurt did.
I stood there, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but get completely turned on. He was very much in control and held an air of confidence that was impressive. But, there was something else that I felt as I stood there watching him. It was a deep level of respect for this man for taking the time to do something so sweet that he could have easily left up to our host or someone else to do while he slept the morning away like I had.
I stepped forward and sat down on a stool that sat underneath the counter next to the stove. Slightly startled, he looked up and smiled.
“Aw, man! I was hoping that you wouldn’t wake up and I could surprise you with breakfast in bed,” he said, looking a little disappointed.
It was my turn to feel embarrassed. Of course, he wanted to surprise me! Here I was, thinking the worst, that he’d somehow abandoned me in the wilderness when, really, he was doing his best to show me one of the sweetest gestures that anyone could ever extend. I was kicking myself mentally, wishing that there was a way that I could rewind time and get back in bed so that I could be laying there as he surprised m
e.
By the smell of the food I could barely contain my surprise at how capable he was in the kitchen. If I hadn’t walked up and saw it for myself, I might not have believed him if he had told me that he’d prepared the food himself.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just turned to find you in bed and when I didn’t see you, I wanted to see where you’d gone.”
I decided to leave out the part about me throwing myself into a mild panic. As far as I knew, this was just a fling that might be over the moment that the plane was ready, and we could be on our way. Even though I was trying to relish every moment of it, pretending like this was some sort of planned vacation, the reality of it was that everything that had happened between us probably would have never happened had our plane not malfunctioned.
For all I knew, this was all just something to do to pass the time. Or, maybe Kurt had been in such a state of shock and fear, that it made him take a stupid risk with the nearest person and I just so happened to be that person.
Pushing those sad thoughts from my mind, I leaned closer to see what he was cooking. It didn’t look like anything that I’d ever cooked. Hell, it didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen cooked anywhere.
“What are you cooking?” I asked inquisitively.
“Well, mademoiselle,” he said in a very distinct French accent. “You are in for a delectable treat this morning. And Maggie and her hubby are too, because I’ve made a lot of fucking extra food for them, to repay them for all their kindness.”
I beamed at him and his thoughtfulness. Then, I couldn’t help but add, “Yeah, but what is it? You haven’t answered my question.”
“Touché, fine lady,” he agreed. “This is no ordinary breakfast that you would find in one of your disgusting American greasy diners. No, no. This is something most magnifique. You are looking at an incredible masterpiece. Crepe Suzettes and quiche a la Kurt.”
He looked so funny, much like many French chefs that I’d seen in movies or on TV. He poured milk into a baking dish, taking special care to make sure that his pinky was up, with his lips pursed into a comical scowl, trademark of an overconfident chef creating a special masterpiece in his kitchen.
I was thoroughly amused, and I know that it showed in my smile that reached all the way up to my eyes. I sat up, teetering on the end of my chair. Kurt was putting on a great show and I was enjoying every minute of it.
“So, tell me, Ms. Dana,” continued Kurt in his mock French accent. “How was your sleep last night? Good, I hope?”
Smiling, remembering our activities from the night before, I said, “It was wonderful. It was very satisfying, and I had some of the most incredible dreams.”
“Tres bien!” he exclaimed, doing a little hop and clicking his heels together. I laughed heartily.
Breaking from character, he softened his voice and asked, “What were your dreams about?”
I guess I hadn’t expected him to ask that question and I wasn’t prepared to give an answer. There was no way that I was going to tell him that I’d dreamt about us moving in together and living happily ever after.
Even though I cared for Kurt a lot and really enjoyed our time together (especially all the sex), I felt like it was just too soon for me to be confessing my love for him and scaring him off like some psycho stalker.
“Oh, I just dreamed about my family,” I lied. “We were all together, having dinner, and my son, Scott, was so happy. And seeing all of them happy made me happy.”
Kurt’s shoulders seemed to fall slightly, and his smile seemed to falter. It was almost as if he expected me to say something else. Was I imagining that?
“Well, good,” he said pleasantly. “I had some amazing dreams myself. But, mine were mostly like reenactments of us in the bedroom last night.”
He licked his lips hungrily, staring me straight in the eyes. I was starting to warm up and I knew that it had nothing to do with the heat of the stove and everything to do with the heat that was beginning to build between my legs as I watched Kurt watch me.
Breaking from our trance, he turned back to the stove and fell back into his character as the French chef.
“No matter, my dear. Right now, my priority is making this delicious meal made just for you with love. You will sing. You will dance. You will be completely overjoyed, and I will have the pleasure of knowing that it was I who prepared this special meal for you from the heart of my home country, France. Just be sure to kiss the cook, as you Americans like to say.”
We shared a laugh. I couldn’t help but feel more drawn to him, more endeared. Not only was I moved by this gesture, him cooking for me, but the care in which he did so made me feel special. And it wasn’t just the cooking. It was also the way that he tuned into my feelings, showing me that he cared.
Even though I tried to dismiss it away as some fly-by-night, I couldn’t help but feel that it was something much more than that. While I could stay the thought of us running off to get married, I knew that something real was beginning to grow, not just for me but for him, too.
It made me think about my husband. When I married him, I was sure that I would always be loved and cared for. And I was. He never gave me any reason to doubt him or feel like I was missing something. In fact, I felt like I had the whole world and I made that known to anyone who came into earshot of our perfect little world.
And yet, here I was, sitting in the kitchen, thousands of miles away from home, with a man who was virtually a stranger just days ago, feeling a level of admiration that I’d never felt, for anyone other than my husband.
As wonderful as my husband was, he had never paid this much attention to me. Not like this. I think that he’d done it in different ways, choosing to spend more time working and showing me how well he could provide for us. But, here was a man who had so much more responsibility, who was pulled away from his company, where hundreds of people relied on him for their livelihoods, and he stood in the kitchen making a gourmet meal for me.
I was turned on, on so many levels.
I sat in silence, watching him in curious amusement as he measured, poured, flipped, scooped, and finished up making the food.
Then, he started singing Ave Maria. I recognized the song because one year for our anniversary, my husband had surprised me with tickets to the Italian opera on Broadway. I had never been, but it was so beautiful and such an amazing experience. Hearing Kurt do a perfect rendition of the song made my mouth literally drop open in awe. What does this man not do?
I listened intently as his voice lilted through the vaulted ceiling and came back down, reverberating throughout the kitchen. When he was finally finished and I could finally find my words, I spoke.
“Where the hell did that come from? How do you know how to sing opera so well?”
He laughed lightly, with a sheepish grin on his face.
“That, my dear, is a long story,” he said. “But, rather than bore you with all the details, I will just say that I have studied Italian opera since I was a little boy. My parents had dreams of me becoming an opera singer. Well, my mother did, mostly. My father just supported her dream. I always loved singing, so in my years abroad, they had me studying with the most esteemed vocal coach. I trained with him for many years until he passed away. I still have a great love for opera. In fact, I am at an opera at least four times per year. Now, it’s something that my daughter and I do together. But, I’m almost embarrassed because I haven’t sung myself in many years and have never sang in front of someone else.”
“It was really good!” I gushed, almost cutting him off. “I am simply blown away by you, Kurt.”
“Thank you,” he replied, graciously bowing his head. I could tell that he was just as moved by the compliment as I was of his awesome performance.
“Now, I have so many questions about you, Kurt. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Stick around and you’ll find out everything that you want to know. And then some.” He winked playfully.
Just then, a time
r went off.
“Just in time,” he said. He rushed over to the cabinet and searched until he found two plates. He took great care to place the food neatly onto the plates. It really did look like something out of a French magazine.
Putting forks on the plates and coming around to my side of the counter, he said, “Bon appetit.” He waited for me to take my first bite, watching my face carefully.
It was so delicious! I had never tasted anything like it anywhere. I was truly in awe.
“Oh, my goodness, Kurt! This is absolutely amazing! Where in the world did you learn to make this?”
“France, of course,” his mock French accent making another appearance.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Your parents got you cooking lessons from one of the world’s greatest chefs.”
“Well…yes,” he answered, matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “I was just kidding. I didn’t know that that was what had happened.
He chuckled softly and said, “It’s okay. I’ve long since stopped apologizing for having such a privileged life. I am very grateful to my parents for all of the great opportunities that they made possible for me to enjoy. They are the reason that I am the man that I am today. I only hope that I can help my daughter to become a great woman, even though she doesn’t have the luxury that most children do: a loving mother to help care for and guide her through womanhood.”
My heart almost shattered to pieces as the most forlorn look was etched on his face. I couldn’t imagine how helpless he must feel to be raising a daughter on his own without the mother of his child. Even though I was a single parent, I had my own father to help show my son a great example of a man. His little girl would never see a good example of a mother since her own mother had discarded her like yesterday’s news.
“I’ve only been to France once,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to take you again soon. That is, once my plane gets fixed.”
We finished eating our meal, chatting away happily about happier times. I told Kurt about my disastrous night in France, where I’d also lost all my luggage and spent the night with no way of communication with anyone because I had no idea that the electrical outlets in France were different than ours. Kurt promised that our trip to France would be nothing short of magical.