by S. M. West
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word, and I wait. Silence ensues. He’s still smiling, clearly entertained. I remain silent, waiting for him to tell me his age…or maybe he needs a bit more time, then it will hit him. He’ll realize this is crazy and walk away. We continue to stare at each other in awkward silence, or at least I think it’s awkward. His sexy grin widens. He’s mouth-watering.
“And you are…?” I ask, refocusing on my mission, losing patience with his persistence.
He cocks an eyebrow as if he has no clue what I’m getting at and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’m what?”
“How old are you?”
“Does it matter?” he challenges.
“Yes,” I state, my tone emphatic.
“I don’t think so,” he volleys. Instinctually, I give him the stink eye and grumble as his suggestive grin grows in contrast to my concern.
“I tell you what, go out with me, and on our date, I’ll tell you how old I am.”
“Seriously?” I’m now a mixture of incredibly tickled and irritated by his determination. “You know I could Google you, right? I’m pretty sure I could find out your age with a few clicks, Mr. Hot-Shot Chef.”
“I’m sure you could, but where’s the fun in that? Go to dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asks sweetly, his irresistible dimples teasing me. Clenching my thighs, I attempt to ease my achy core.
“Coffee,” I counter, and my stomach flip-flops, surprised I didn’t say no.
Now I’m bargaining? What the? It’s not supposed to go like this. There’s only one answer for me to deliver: no. Plain and simple. No. Clearly the fool in me has taken over.
“Lunch.”
Our negotiations are now in full swing. In the glow of the streetlight, the dusting of scruff on his prominent jaw and assertive stature make him dark and even more alluring.
“Coffee,” I repeat with less conviction.
What am I doing? I need to walk away. I can’t go on a date with this man—or should I say boy, given our likely sizeable age difference? Damn. No, he’s definitely all man. Confusion and the giddy exhilaration of riding a roller coaster attack my mind and body. Why can’t I just say no?
“Dinner,” he starts again.
“Fine, lunch,” I relent, folding like a house of cards.
So much for my conviction—though I did change the meal on him. Ha! Like that’s some big win. While I certainly did fold, I do feel some victory in making it lunch instead of dinner. That evening meal comes with too much pressure and expectation. I don’t want him to think I’m easy, because I’m not, although he is awfully tempting.
“Excellent. Give me your phone and I’ll text myself so I can contact you with the details.”
As I rummage in my purse, girly squeals sound from behind me. Ignoring their childish behaviour (to be fair, I’m biting back a silly grin myself), I hand him my phone.
After a few taps, he hands the phone back, not letting go of my hand. The warmth and strength in his hold calms my nerves and excites me. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say with a shaky voice.
“This is for you,” he says, pulling the pink flower from his jacket lapel.
I hadn’t even noticed the camellia, the same flower used as centerpieces in his restaurant. Tucking the delicate bloom into the buttonhole of my jacket, his fingers lightly graze my collarbone, sending sparks shooting to the tips of my toes.
“Thank you.” My reply is breathy, my heart racing.
“It’s a camellia,” he states, his stare warm and penetrating.
“I know, it’s beautiful.” I must be in the Twilight Zone; this is all so surreal. It’s exciting and naughty, yet also a bad idea all around. “Thank you,” I say with a small smile, truly moved by his sweet and romantic gesture.
“Do you know what a pink camellia means?” he asks coyly.
I shake my head. Captivated. Hanging on his every word.
“It means longing and desire,” he rumbles. A startling quiver ripples through my low belly as if there’s a direct connection between his deeply sexy voice and my insides. His smoldering eyes drill into mine. “Goodnight Olivia, I look forward to our lunch date.”
Leaning in, he softly kisses my cheek, his warm lips lingering on my skin longer than necessary. Relishing every second of contact, I deeply inhale the intoxicating aroma of spice, freshness, and something undeniably masculine emanating from him. His mouth trails from my cheek to my ear, his lips tickling my flesh along the way. “I’ll be longing for you,” he whispers huskily.
Sam
Fourteen hours. It’s been fourteen hours since kissing Olivia. Seeing Olivia. Pathetic—that’s what I am. It might as well be fourteen days for how restless my night was and how my morning is dragging. Kissing her cheek last night wasn’t enough; I found it difficult to leave it at that, and it also left me hard and agitated.
I have a ton of work to do before stealing away for a few hours for lunch with Olivia. I need to get this paperwork done, but my mind isn’t cooperating. I can’t concentrate on one simple task without being bombarded by thoughts of the sumptuous brunette who has cast her spell on me.
I’m not sure what lunch will bring and I haven’t thought much further than that, though I need to figure out this distance thing. Lunch won’t be enough, and I have a feeling I won’t be satisfied.
Olivia is waiting in the hotel lobby at eleven thirty. It’s impossible to miss her, her glossy, espresso locks tousled, softly framing her fresh face. She’s a vision of sweetness in a soft, pink jersey top that perfectly drapes her torso. The curve of her breasts taunts me, and her long, lean legs are clad in faded, tight jeans, practically painted on. Her cute, black ankle boots and the Ray-Bans perched on top of her head complete her casual yet sexy look.
“Hey there.” I greet her with a brush of my lips on her cheek. She smells divine and while I want to linger longer, I can’t handle the temptation.
“Hi.” She releases a soft sigh and looks at me with a smile.
I take her hand and as we leave the hotel, she falls into step beside me easily, comfortably strolling the streets of downtown Montreal. As we’re walking, her phone rings and we stop for her to answer it. She looks down at the screen, hits a button that stops the ringing, then tucks it back into her purse.
“Everything okay?” I ask. Her pretty face is scrunched in what looks like annoyance or irritation as she nibbles on her bottom lip.
“Yes, it was nothing,” she says dismissively. “Where are we going?”
“To one of my favorite restaurants. Do you like Portuguese cuisine?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had it.”
“You’re in for a treat. The food is out of this world. I thought it would be a great place to enjoy the afternoon and get to know each other.”
Glancing at me as we enter the restaurant, she goes quiet and remains so as we are seated. She’s contemplative. Once we’ve ordered sparkling wine, she breaks the silence. “You’re really passionate about food, aren’t you?”
I’m unable to help the big smile that spreads across my face. She mirrors me with her own lovely smile. “Yes, I love being a chef.”
“It’s obvious from the way your face lit up when talking about this place.” I chuckle at her observation, clinking our glasses in anticipation of our meal. Our server waits expectantly to take our order.
“Do you know what you want?”
I nod, asking, “Can I order for you?”
I’m not sure how she’ll react. Some women love it and others hate it, thinking I’m going all chauvinist on them. It’s not that; it’s that I know this menu almost as well as my own and want her to experience the best dishes.
“I don’t usually let men order for me, but go ahead, I trust you,” she shyly states.
“You do?” She nods with a small smile.
“Sam,” the owner—a friend of mine—calls from across the restaurant. We both turn to look in his direction. Befor
e I can say anything, he’s upon us, hugging me, shaking my hand, and introducing himself to Olivia.
In his usual gregarious manner, he dominates the conversation and orders for both of us. Of course, who better than the owner to order for you, but he’s cramping my style and try as I might, he doesn’t get the hint. I love the man and usually enjoy his company, but right now I’d rather he be anywhere but at our table. Finally, twenty minutes in, when our appetizers arrive, he says his goodbyes. Alone at last.
“Sorry about that,” I whisper when he’s out of earshot.
“No, don’t be. He’s funny, and it’s obvious he likes you a lot.”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. We worked together years ago, before we got our own kitchens. You’ll love the food.”
While waiting for our meal, I take the opportunity to get to know her better, find out more about this captivating woman I know so little about but have such strong desires for.
“So, why Montreal?”
“Pardon?”
“Well, it seems like you’re on a trip with your friends, so I just wondered, why Montreal?”
“Oh, it’s a girls getaway. We wanted to leave the city, go somewhere fun that wasn’t too far.”
“And lucky me, you decided to eat at my restaurant. Montreal is fantastic for amazing restaurants, so why Beaulieu’s?” I’m asking for selfish reasons.
Yes, I want to know because I want to know everything about Olivia, but I’m also a restaurateur and thus want to know what drew these out-of-town women to my spot. A part of me knows I, Samson Beaulieu, may very well have been part of the allure, regardless of the food, and while the thought brings some disappointment, I’m not destroyed—not when I’m just as interested in her.
Taking a sip of her sparkling wine, she stalls. “Um, I didn’t know about Beaulieu’s,” she answers awkwardly, a slight tinge to her cheeks. “In my defense, I usually let Erin do all the planning and I tag along. She’s the one who knew all about your restaurant.”
I feign offense with a scoff and clutch my chest. She giggles, her shoulders subtly shaking as a few strands of her dark hair fall into her eyes. Resisting the urge to touch her, to brush her hair away from her face, I clasp my hands in my lap.
“I’m kidding, although you could have lied and gone easy on my ego,” I jest. “In all seriousness, what did you think of it?”
Sitting straighter, all joking aside, she looks at me with her earnest coffee-colored eyes. “I loved it. The food was fantastic. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.” Her compliment warms me.
“Did I make up for my brutal honesty?” she quips, a grin gracing her lips.
“Ah, so it was just a ploy, telling me what I want to hear?”
We laugh and talk a bit more about what she’s seen and done while in Montreal. I share a few must-sees and some of my favorite spots.
Our lunch arrives and while eating, she asks, “So how did you discover cooking was your calling?”
“Wow, that’s a loaded question.”
I don’t usually share my entire story with many, and she has no clue what she’s asking for. Never one to play games, I don’t want to hold anything back, but I also sense we need more time together before I give her all the details.
“Well, it’s a long story. My mother died when I was two.” She gasps, putting down her fork and giving me her undivided attention. Things just got too heavy for my liking, and I’m only giving the highlights.
“My grandparents raised me. They were good people, and while we didn’t have much, they gave me plenty of love. My grand-père died when I was seven and my grand-mère when I was fourteen. At that point, I had no other family, so I was put in foster care. I hated it. I constantly ran away, got into trouble. I never could stay with one family for too long and most were just in it for the measly government check. One night, I was starving. I’d been on the streets for over a week and food was scarce, so I snuck into the back of a restaurant and raided the kitchen. I was ravenous and not very smart, making a ruckus as I ransacked the fridge. The chef, who also turned out to be the owner, caught me.”
“Oh no.”
“It was the best thing that ever happened to me. He could have called the cops and I would have been put in juvie. Instead, he put me to work to pay for my crime and, I believe, to keep me out of trouble. We both knew he was taking a risk on me. I think we both needed it at that time. He made me go back to foster care and made sure I was put in a good home, using his connections and good name to get me in with a decent family.”
“His good name? He was well known?”
“Yes. Have you heard of Bastien Villeneuve?”
“The Bastien Villeneuve?” she asks, astonished. I nod, and her shining eyes widen. His reputation precedes him and her reaction proves it. “Yes, I’m not a foodie, but I saw a best-of show and he was featured. He’s the only chef in Canada to get a Michelin rating.” She’s in awe and I can’t help but beam with pride.
“Yes, the one and only. He’s like a father to me, the only one I ever had.”
She rests her petite hand on top of mine and gently squeezes. Our eyes meet and she smiles warmly. “Tell me more,” she eagerly says.
Her willingness to hear my story is heartwarming and I fall more in like with this woman. “He arranged it so I could work after school and on weekends at his restaurant. At first, I hated him. I was a difficult teenager with a huge chip on my shoulder. I didn’t appreciate this old man stepping in and telling me what to do. He worked me to the bone, making me do many of the menial but crucial tasks of the kitchen. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way I grew to look forward to those afternoons and weekends in his kitchen, and over time, it became my passion. I worked in Bas’s kitchen throughout high school, then went to culinary school. After graduation, I went to France and worked in a few kitchens. It wasn’t glamorous, but I learned a lot that year. I then worked at a few more restaurants in Montreal before opening my first restaurant five years ago, then Beaulieu’s three years ago.”
“I’m so impressed. You’re so accomplished. And all this at your age.”
I don’t miss the challenge in her tone. She expectantly watches and waits for my response, reminiscent of last night. If she thinks I’m going to give away my leverage and the one thing I fear might end this all too soon, she’s sadly mistaken.
“Seriously, how old are you?”
“You didn’t Google me?”
She laughs. “No, I didn’t. I wanted to and had the question typed in, but I didn’t hit enter.”
Her age doesn’t bother me at all. It’s her hang-up, and it rubs me the wrong way. I don’t want her hesitant. I’ve never been one for an easy lay—perhaps that’s what she thinks I want. Sure, I’ve had my share of one-night stands, but few and far between. While I love sex as much as the next guy, I want to know who I’m sharing a bed with. It doesn’t have to be a long-term relationship, but I want some kind of connection, if only for the night.
With Olivia, I want to get to know her. Badly. The want sits as deep within me as the Marianas Trench. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Truly, I finally know what they mean by someone getting under your skin.
“Well, you’ll have to wait. My age is of no importance,” I reply in an aristocratic British accent. “Let’s order dessert and you can tell me more about yourself. Tell me something that would surprise me.”
“I have a son and a daughter,” she says boldly, like she’s lobbing a grenade. I’m not fazed and nod for her to continue. “Drew’s nineteen and just finished his first year of university. Paige is sixteen going on thirty. She’s in high school and doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life except torment her mother,” she quips, though it’s easy to see her pride and love for her children. There is a luminosity to her eyes and her smile grows as she continues. “Drew is smart, level-headed, and my rock. Paige is my sweet girl, lots of fun and always up to something, but…” She sighs and her smil
e falls a bit.
I wait anxiously, hoping she’ll continue. She doesn’t. She picks up her coffee mug, and her pink lips pucker and blow over the hot liquid. It’s a herculean effort to not lose it to thoughts of the myriad ways and places I’d like her lips on me. “Go on,” I request.
“I really don’t want to get into it. It would only be a downer. What I will say is, Paige and I are going through a rough patch right now. I’m not her favorite person, and it’s got nothing to do with the whole mother-teenage daughter dynamic.”
With a sigh, she looks at me, perhaps wanting me to change the conversation. Save her from dwelling on something that is obviously difficult and painful for her.
“Drew sounds like a good guy. What’s he studying?”
“He wants to be a lawyer. He’s got his whole educational path mapped out.” She chuckles.
“And their father?”
“I’m divorced.”
“Phew, I’m not out with a married woman.” She laughs at my light-hearted tone. “Tell me about your passion. You know mine—what’s yours?”
“I recently started my own business, Cassidy Designs. I’m an interior designer.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, very much so. I love it.”
“And you just started it? Why not sooner?”
She pauses reflectively before answering, “I guess because after I graduated, I got married and worked at a design firm, briefly. When I found out I was pregnant, starting a family became my priority.”
I nod, not knowing how that would feel, but imagining the commitment and energy needed to raise children. We move on to lighter topics on the way back to her hotel. I’m tempted to hold her hand but stop myself, sensing the gesture would be too forward and too soon for Olivia. While we had a great lunch and she’s dropped the age thing for now, it’s still the elephant in the room.
In the lobby, she gives me an easy, open smile. “I had such a great time. Thank you.” She squeezes my hand.
“I’m glad.” Flipping my palm up, I capture her hand and she glances down at our entwined fingers. With my gaze on her, she raises her head, trepidation lining her lovely features. “Go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”