by S. M. West
“Whatever,” I say dismissively, trying to tamper my simmering anger.
Erin doesn’t understand why I ended things with Pete. She acts like my marriage was perfect. Sure, from the outside looking in, we appeared happy, and Pete’s good looks certainly added to the perception that everything was roses, never mind that he could also be funny and charming. He always was when we were out with company.
But she didn’t have to live with his neglect or indifference, or the countless times he stood me up simply because he forgot about me. My personal favorite—not—was how he’d ignore me at social gatherings while flirting with women like he was single.
I’ll never forget years ago when we went to his first office Holiday party. He’d recently joined the firm, so it was my first time meeting his colleagues. Upon arrival, he disappeared, leaving the hostess to introduce me to people. I was alone the entire party, and one guy even asked across a large space, “Where’s your husband?”
He was practically shouting given the distance between us, and I think he was drunk. Awkwardly, I said, “I don’t know.”
He then loudly responded, “What a fool. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”
Everyone around us stopped talking and stared at me. I wanted to disappear. I later found Pete talking to some blonde in a corner. Of course, he apologized profusely, and I stupidly let it slide.
I wasn’t going to share those moments with Erin; they were too embarrassing. Besides, something told me she’d say it was my fault. She was a huge fan of Pete’s.
After the separation we argued a lot, then finally, we agreed to disagree. Now, she gets upset with anything I do. I’m hoping this trip will help us get past that.
“No,” Sin strongly interjects. “You’re working night and day to get Cassidy Designs off the ground. Don’t downplay all the sweat and tears you’re putting in to it. You deserve to recharge,” she ardently states, deliberately demonstrating her displeasure at Erin.
“Thank you, Sin.” I grin, reaching to squeeze her hand.
My relationship with Sin is different. While I’ve known Erin longer, Sin and I are closer. When necessary, we tell each other like it is, but it’s not behind a wall of indifference or attitude. We met first year of university, two strangers living together in a dorm on campus.
“Yes, I’ve been working hard and I do deserve this trip,” I respond with conviction.
“Liv, I’m sorry. You do deserve it,” Erin chimes in with a sheepish grin, likely realizing she came on way too harsh.
Fiddling with the stereo, Erin taps the screen and the rumbly voice of John Kay fills the car with the classic and empowering words of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild”.
From that point on, the ride is entertaining and goes by quickly. We arrive in Montreal at after eight in the evening, and once we’re checked into the hotel, Erin insists we hit a nightclub. Sin tries to bail, claiming fatigue and wanting time to soak in the mammoth tub. Despite understanding her desire to chill, I coax her out, begging her not to leave me with the teenager locked in Erin’s body.
Our night is fun and reminiscent of our university days, and we call it a night at after one AM. The next morning is spent at the spa followed by shopping at Mile End, then we head back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. Erin made reservations at some restaurant she can’t stop raving about.
Our shopping was fun and successful, and I found a chic, vintage, A-line floral swing dress to wear to dinner. Erin’s wearing a quintessential little black dress, and Sin’s lovely in her simple yet classic, red high-waisted pencil dress. We’re all dolled up and ready to hit the town. Our hotel is close to our destination, but thanks to the three-inch heels we’re all wearing, walking is easily vetoed in favor of an Uber.
Beaulieu’s is nestled along a narrow cobblestone street in old Montreal. Its fieldstone exterior in browns and grays and deep red front door are eye-catching. Entering the building, the space looks to have been the living and dining room at one point in time. It’s inviting and almost pastoral with its wide-planked, uneven wood floors and small, quaint tables, each adorned with a single pink camellia in a petite glass vase. Contrary to its languid atmosphere, the sound of an alternative band, Arcade Fire’s “Here Comes the Night Time” fills the air, adding an upbeat vibe to the dining room.
We’re seated beside a huge, beautiful fireplace that anchors the room. While not lit, there are charred white, gray, and black ashes and wood remains in the open hearth. Coupled with the faint, welcoming scent of smoke, there’s a homey yet stylish charm about the place.
Seated in the middle, a counter-high wall runs along one side of the open kitchen, enabling patrons to see the culinary magic unfold. On the adjacent wall, there’s a diner-style order window. Instead of aluminum, it’s made of dark, burnished wood, complementing the rest of the décor.
“This place is lovely. Great choice, Erin,” I praise. She’s the foodie among us and is constantly inviting us to one restaurant or another to discover the latest up-and-coming chef. I love food, so it’s no hardship to join her on these gastronomic adventures.
“I’ve been dying to come here. I’ve heard so much about Chef Samson Beaulieu. He’s one of Canada’s top chefs,” she gushes. I’ve heard those words perhaps a dozen times already on this trip.
“It’s real nice,” Sin adds. “And I’m starving.”
“When are you not?” Erin says jokingly.
We order champagne and a platter of oysters, and we all choose either seafood or fish for our main courses since Erin tells us that’s what the restaurant’s known for. I wonder if the meal will live up to the hype. We’ve been to restaurants where the notoriety of the chef creates so much expectation that nothing but perfection will do. Inevitably, it falls flat.
Every five seconds, Erin eagerly glances in the direction of the kitchen. Strategically seated, she faces the kitchen, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the chef. Sitting beside her, I also have a direct line of sight. Try as I might, I’m unable to determine who he is. Sin sits across from Erin with her back to the hustle and bustle of the culinary creations underway.
By the time our entrees arrive, we’re having a great time and on our second bottle of wine. My seared scallops with Swiss chard and leeks in a garlic brown butter sauce have me salivating from looking at them. The aroma is decadent and with my first bite, an involuntary moan releases from my mouth at the explosion of rich flavors. Erin gasps beside me. Thinking my inappropriate sound shocked her, I turn to apologize, but she’s frozen, mesmerized by something in her line of sight.
Straightening my spine, I take notice. The room’s atmosphere has shifted. It’s electrically charged with a buzz, and a different kind of babble zips through the air. It’s not the usual din of dinner conversation; it’s now exhilarating and gleeful. Sin and I notice the uptick in energy at about the same time, sharing an alarmed and curious look. As if synchronized, our gazes glide in the direction of the vortex, of what has Erin’s undivided attention and the room in an uproar.
A tall, definitely over six feet, broad-shouldered man with short brown hair casually saunters toward the kitchen carrying a basket of vegetables. Hello, hottie. He is remarkable.
Like a moth to a flame, all eyes in the room follow him as he enters the kitchen, the invisible pull strong and palpable. Seemingly oblivious to being center stage, he gets to work; if he does notice, he certainly hides it well.
Even with the dim lighting, I can tell his eyes are light. Vivid and intense, they’re either blue or green; I’m not sure which from this distance. His face is striking, almost as if it’s carved out of stone. Flawless. Symmetrical with chiseled cheekbones and a matching strong, square jaw.
At first glance, you’d think each feature would be too angular or severe to be attractive, but somehow, they combine in an eye-catchingly perfect way. And his lips. Kissable. Full and pillowy. If even possible, what makes him more attractive is his open and relaxed manner. Without an
y effort, he oozes confidence.
“Fuck me sideways, he’s even more gorgeous in person,” Erin says in a husky tone.
“Who is he?” Sin asks.
I look to Sin briefly before I find my gaze flitting back to the formidable specimen of a man, and I gawk as he slips a chef’s jacket over his tight black tee. The starched white material clings to him, encasing his defined muscles. Broad, fit and defined, but not excessively muscular. He’s completely at ease being the main attraction, managing his staff without so much as a glance at the dining room.
“That’s him,” Erin says, transfixed on him. In fact, almost every person is looking in his direction. Scratch that, every woman is craning her neck to see him, the striking chef who is now tasting what looks to be a sauce.
All three of us silently stare as he removes the spoon from his mouth and his tongue sweeps across his luscious upper lip. Simultaneously, we all exhale a breathy sigh when his tongue darts out to lick his lip for a second time. Phenomenal.
Despite him being younger, I’d be a fool to not appreciate his beauty. A woman can admire no matter the age; as long as he’s an adult, there’s no harm in that. It’s not like I’m jumping into bed with him, although the thought does send warm tingles to my nether regions.
Reining in my foolish fantasy, I notice Erin is still in her trance. “That’s Samson Beaulieu?” I state the obvious. “Wow, forget the food. My appetite is quenched just by the view,” I quip with a sip of my wine and another appreciative glance at his outstanding side profile.
“Oh, my God, I have to meet him,” Erin declares, shifting back into woman on a mission.
“What?” Sin and I simultaneously ask.
Oblivious to our question, Erin wipes her mouth with her napkin, then reaches for her purse. “You can’t go over there. That’s stalkerish and gauche,” I state.
Applying her lipstick and running her fingers through her hair, she acts like I’m not even there. Sin chimes in, “Erin, let the man work. We can admire him from afar.”
Several women have left their tables—husbands, partners, and dates be damned. They are lining up around the kitchen counter and I grumble at the human barrier blocking our view.
The hostess approaches the mob of women, directing them to stand at the order window. Damn. That’s why they designed it like that. It’s not for table orders; it’s for the gaggles of women ogling and attempting to harass the chef.
“Shit,” Erin mutters, a hard glint in her eye at what I’m sure she’s seeing as her competition. “Let’s wait ‘til it dies down.”
Sin and I nod in agreement and dive back into our divine meals. No surprise, the line-up of women neither dwindles nor dies. No sooner do a few women go back to their tables than new ones join. It’s amusing to observe some of them shamelessly flirting and lingering well after the chef has returned to his work.
At one point, the hostess interrupts the mob to talk to the chef. Entering the kitchen, she turns her back to the diners, and his face is front and center. Wow. The room gasps in appreciation at the sight.
During their conversation, his gaze wanders from the entrance to the far corner, then in the direction of our table. His eyes fleetingly click with mine. It’s only a second, maybe two, yet the intensity has me squirming in my seat and preparing to shy away. He beats me to it and moves on.
My gaze remains stuck on him. A mere second later, his roving eyes stop and swing back to me. Our gazes lock. My breath hitches, palms clammy. All noise, movement, even the air dims and slows as he notices me. His subtle grin widens to a bright smile complete with two panty-melting dimples.
Heat rises from deep within me, spreading like wildfire, and my heart threatens to pound right out of me. Just as quickly, our connection is broken when the hostess says something, snapping him out of our moment. He abruptly reverts to her. With a curt nod, he turns his back on me.
What just happened? Forcing my gaze anywhere but at the kitchen, at him, I glance around the room. This is silly. He’s a young pup. I’m now gawking at younger men. Great. Clearly, it’s been too long since I’ve had sex if the good looks of a younger man kick my heart rate into overdrive and heat body parts. I need to get laid.
Erin sharply scrutinizes me; Sin does too, although hers is with a cute and amused expression on her face. It’s obvious they noticed what went down. Terrific. Refusing to acknowledge anything, I ignore them and finish my meal.
My willpower has left the building. Without realizing, I find myself glancing in his direction and sometimes, our eyes even meet. When they do, he pulls out his sexy smirk or a full shit-eating grin, dimples and all, as if to say he caught me red-handed. In each instance, I’m inevitably the one to blink and turn away first.
Through this all, his adoring fans continue to show up, and though I’m unable to hear what he says to them, he is charming and polite, nothing else. Despite his professional manner, it’s embarrassing—although not surprising— some of the women try to touch him or climb through the small opening. All the while, he remains calm and friendly, but keeps his distance.
We are finishing our dessert when Erin says, “That’s it, I’m going. There’s no way I’m passing on a chance to meet him. And who knows? I might just entice him to try my tasty delights,” she says suggestively with a waggle of her brows.
Sin licks her fork. “You should go too.” She points the silverware at me. “I saw the way he was checking you out and the looks you were giving him.”
“What are you talking about?”
She laughs, her soft blonde curls bouncing. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
“You’re delusional. I gave him no looks,” I emphatically state. Standing, I place my napkin on the table, and without a second glance, I say, “I’m going to the restroom.”
Sam
The sexy brunette with long shapely legs strides briskly past the doorway, toward the restroom, head held high. Despite the half-dozen women crowding the kitchen window, she’s the only one I’ve got eyes for.
I don’t usually do this—actually, I’ve never done this. I’ve never glanced twice at a guest or even thought of one with personal or sexual interest. Since becoming a celebrity chef—something I still can’t willingly admit to being—my one and only rule is to never overstep the professional boundary. Up until this moment, I’ve never even flirted with the idea, let alone actually wanted to approach a patron for personal reasons.
Yet this woman I only just laid eyes on makes me want to break that rule. I’ve never been so immediately taken with a woman before. Sure, she’s lovely, and watching her is interesting and revealing, her posture’s self-assured yet approachable. She’s intriguing, but I don’t lack for attractive women. I have beautiful women around me more often than not. Some would say I’m fortunate, but it’s a nuisance.
She is not your average pretty woman, though. That’s what has me staring, going back for a gander or two when I can. It’s her vibrancy, her warmth. Her bright, pure smile illuminates her whole face, like the blinding colors of an unforgettable sunset or the hypnotic timbre of falling rain. She’s alluring. I want to talk to her. To know her. To touch her. To taste her.
Shaking my head in hopes of knocking some sense into me or at least ridding myself of the temptation, I inhale deeply, preparing to get back to work. Maybe I’m just horny—it has been a while since I last had sex, and my dry spell is probably messing with my head. I can’t stop imagining her under me, me in her, us together, wrapped in sheets. Shit, I must stop these torturous visions or else it’s going to be a long night.
With a forced grin, I step to the window and greet the eager eyes and beaming smiles of the two women anxiously waiting to meet me. Talking to these women is work; yes, I’m truly grateful for the attention, but at times it’s exhausting. It takes away from the reason I became a chef: to cook and share my passion for divine food and flavors.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful. If anyone told me years ago that I’d be a celebrity chef wit
h two restaurants and my own show on the Chef’s Network at the age of thirty-five, I would have laughed in their faces. It truly is a dream come true. It’s a tough, fickle business, and I must make the most of my high; I’m well aware that I could as easily wake up tomorrow and find myself forgotten and discarded by all these fans.
The two women who were sitting with the enthralling brunette step up to the window. The sleek Polynesian one is ballsy, brashly stepping in front of the two ladies already at the window. The blonde appears to be the opposite of her friend, demure and uncertain. It’s obvious she’d much rather be back at their table—or cleaning toilets for that matter—than here.
“Excuse me,” says one of the ladies, indignation apparent as they are pushed back.
Neither shy nor put off by the snide comments from the women behind her, Ballsy stares at me with what I’m guessing are her fuck me eyes.
Wanting to prevent the catfight that is likely mere seconds away from breaking out, I say, “Excuse me, if you’d kindly wait your turn, I’ll be with you in a minute.” I motion for her to step back, now looking to the redhead who has shoved her way back to the front.
Ballsy is about to clock Red when Blondie grabs her arm, whispering something inaudible in her ear. Blondie’s posture and expression are terse and reproachful—thank goodness one of them has some sense. With an eye on both sets of women, still wary as to how this could go, I sign the cookbooks in front of me. With my charm at full throttle, I’m hoping to placate and eliminate any lingering animosity among the women.
Gushing profusely with thanks, Red and her friend return to their table, leaving Ballsy and Blondie staring at me expectantly. Surprisingly, they are now the only ones milling around.