by S. M. West
I smile at his text and hop into bed, waiting for his next text, but instead, my phone rings.
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, I get it. I got worried and wondered if something had happened. I miss you and need to see you, soon.” The urgency is obvious in his voice.
I want to see him too, although I haven’t told him so. A trip to Montreal this month isn’t possible for me because of things with the hotel—there’s no Monday to Friday, nine to five now that construction is nearly complete—but I’ll have more breathing room once I get over the hurdle of the next few weeks.
He’s said several times that he misses me, but I never reciprocate, although I feel the same way. I think it might be too much given that I want to keep things casual, but the part I can’t figure out is why he hasn’t made plans to come here. I would’ve thought he’d have come to visit me by now.
On one hand, I’m okay with that—the distance can sometimes work to my advantage at keeping things cool—but on the other hand, if he’s into me, why hasn’t he made the trip to Toronto? Does he expect me to visit him all the time?
“Where are you tonight?”
“I’m at Beaulieu’s going over some of the orders for the week, then I’m heading home. Are you in bed?” he asks suggestively.
“Um, yes.”
“And what are you wearing?”
“A nightie.” The thought of where this could go heats my chest.
His voice gets low. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s white, cotton.”
“Livvy.” His tone is a deep rumble with an edge. “Give me more.”
With a nervous laugh, I say, “It’s short, just covering my panties, with spaghetti straps.”
“Spaghetti straps?”
Forgetting that most men don’t have a clue what that is, I smile and explain, “Think tank top, but the straps are a lot thinner, almost string-like, or like spaghetti.”
“Gotcha. Hmmm, I like the sound of that. I can almost picture you,” he muses. “But you know what would really help?”
“What?”
“If you sent me a picture.”
My breath hitches, I love the idea that he wants a picture, but at the same time, my stomach twists because he wants a picture!
“Um, Sam, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? I do.”
“Ah, um, I don’t want a picture of me in my nightgown on your phone for just anyone to see.”
“My phone’s password protected and I promise you, no one will see it. Would it make you feel better if I sent a picture of me?”
It’s silly to have these concerns, I trust him, and it’s not like I’m sending him a picture of my naked body. No way!
“Okay, but you go first.”
“Alright, hang on a sec.” He chuckles.
There’s some rustling, silence, and a whoosh of air or something before I get a ding indicating I have a text. Clicking on the icon, the gorgeous Sam Beaulieu’s smiling—no, beaming at me with his ‘no-panties-required’ dimples.
The sight of him tugs at my heart as I’d love to see him in person right now, to touch him, then I remind myself that this is better. We’re taking it slow and the fact that we live in two different cities helps. It helps keep me from losing myself or falling heart first into something I might never recover from.
“Olivia?” Sam calls through the phone.
“I got it, love your smile.” I let a rare, raw moment slip through. I do love his smile, and it’s definitely the highlight of my day.
“Your turn. Where’s my picture?”
“Hold your horses. One sec.”
With a deep breath and a few mental words of positive encouragement, I look into my phone, making sure my nightie is in the pic, and click. Before I give myself the chance to examine the picture, I hit send.
“Look at you.” His low, smooth tone hits me as I bring the phone to my ear. “Beautiful. Damn, I wish I was there. Now you’ve made my night—no, actually, you’ve made my week. I’m going to have naughty dreams tonight,” he teases.
“You and me both.”
“I like the sound of that. Tell me more.”
Sam
“Bloody hell, would you cut out the racket,” Bas hollers, shuffling slowly into his kitchen.
“What are you going on about?” I mumble, turning back to the stove so as not to reveal that I witnessed his awkward, sluggish, and likely painful gait.
The ragoût de boulette simmers, small bubbles rising to the surface of the rich, brown liquid. Stirring, I patiently and nonchalantly wait for him, fighting the urge to help him. Slowly, he sidles up beside me, resting his forearm on the counter and slumping over.
“What’s got you tearing my kitchen apart? What happened?”
Hot anger roils within my stomach at how much weight he’s lost. I see him every day and even at that, there’s no missing he’s rail thin. It’s noticeable and disturbing. He’s being eaten from the inside and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
He won’t talk to me about it, even when I push, and I’m lucky if I find out about his appointments or what the doctors are saying. I’ve had to force him to let me tag along. He won’t say it, but he’s given up. Even with treatment, it’s only prolonging the inevitable. It’s obvious, he’s preparing to die.
“Nothing, and I wasn’t tearing your kitchen apart. Exaggerate much?” I quip, trying my hardest to be natural, to fall into our easy banter and frank jabs, to enjoy the time I have with the man I consider a father.
“Look Samson, come clean and save both of us a lot of trouble. I’m not letting it go. You’ve been here nearly three hours now and from the moment you stepped foot in my house, I’ve known something’s bothering you. Is it the new restaurant?”
“Not really. I mean, I still don’t have any investors. Thibault’s interested, but he wants to know the location before he’ll commit, which is understandable. I’m just not sure where I want it to be yet. I’ve been thinking Toronto or Vancouver.” I float the idea by him, preparing for his objection.
Bastien Villeneuve is as Canadian as they come, but first and foremost, he’s Quebeçois. I deliberately held off on sharing my thoughts about opening a restaurant outside of the province because I didn’t want to hear how much of a fool he thinks I am.
“Daniel Thibault?” Bas asks, throwing me for a loop. I nod. His ocean blue eyes darken. “Find someone else.”
I pause, waiting for further explanation. When it’s apparent he doesn’t intend to offer any, I press, “Why?”
Bas runs his hands through his short silver hair; that too is thinner than it used to be. His formidable jaw appears less pronounced with his gray skin tone and sunken cheeks. He grimaces as he shifts from one foot to the other, the pain etched in the hard lines of his face and tight lips. He deeply inhales, pushing off the counter in the direction of the kitchen table.
Without thinking, I reach to help, but Bas bats my hand away. Two more steps and he gingerly lowers himself into the chair with a smug expression, proving he doesn’t need assistance. I grin without any feeling behind it. I’m trying to hide my worry, trying to give him that triumph, and his pride. He deserves it, and I’ll let him have it as long as I can.
“Daniel Thibault is a bloodsucking leech. He will invest in your restaurant, then think he owns you. And I hear his daughter—what’s her name?”
“Yasmine.”
“Yes, that’s the one.” He points, nodding. “I hear she’s a chip off the old block. The price of their backing is always answering to them. They don’t know the meaning of silent partner,” he vehemently states.
“Hmmm, yeah, I’ve seen some of that.” He’s just described Yasmine. I’ll definitely keep it in mind, although I’m not thrilled with potentially having to start from scratch in finding an investor.
Robert Simard and Sabine Boucher have backed my two existing restaurants and if only the timing was right, they’d be in
again. I could wait to open my third and final restaurant, but now is the time.
I’m coming off the success of three seasons on the Chef’s Network; they wanted me to sign for another season, but I wanted to get back to cooking. My brand is at an all-time high, and I need to capitalize on that. Besides, I’m itching to start a new project. There’s nothing like opening a new restaurant, working to see your vision come to life. Bas knows all about that.
“Sam, walk away from them. Let me invest.”
Not this again. From the day I decided to open a restaurant, Bas has wanted to invest. I want to do it on my own. As much as I love him, I needed to prove to him, and most of all to myself, that I could do this on my own. I know he understands. Still, he always tries to offer.
“Bas, no. I’ll find someone. I’m not saying no to Thibault. I’ll ask around some more and feel him out before I decide to walk away or not.” I sigh. “Dinner’s ready, let me dish it out.”
“I’m not hungry,” he grumbles, resting both elbows on the table and looking pensively at the grain of the wood. “So, Toronto or Vancouver, eh?”
“Yes.” Here we go. He may be sick, but he’s still as sharp as a tack and not easily derailed. “What do you think?” I want to know his opinion even though I may not like it.
“I think that’s a good idea. Either location will need someone you trust to run it and a seasoned executive chef. Vancouver may be harder because of the distance.” He voices all the things I’ve been mulling over.
“Yes, I agree. I do have someone in mind to run things—Pierre Gagnon.”
“Good choice. Pierre can be trusted. The question is, will he want to leave Montreal?”
“I know. I haven’t broached the subject with him yet. I want to determine the location then feel him out. I’m going to Toronto for an upcoming fundraising competition and I’ve got a few locations to look at. After that, I’ll book a trip to Vancouver.”
“Excellent. Good approach. If you want, I have some thoughts on an executive chef, when you’re ready.”
“Great, thank you.”
“Okay, now come sit, eat, and tell me her name.”
“What?” I stop midstride. He looks my way, and his sage gaze holds so many unspoken words; there is not enough time or courage for either of us to delve into the depths fully.
“Get your food and come sit.” Without another word, I do as he says.
Seated across from him, I blow on my stew, the dish I made for him. It’s his favourite, but he has no appetite to enjoy it.
“Who is she? The woman that has you preoccupied, has you taking out your frustration on my kitchen.”
I chuckle; of course he’d catch on without me having to say a word. He knows me well.
“Her name’s Olivia. I met her two weeks ago at Beaulieu’s.” Bas now raises his eyebrows, both in shock and in encouragement, prompting me to continue. “She’s from Toronto and I can’t stop thinking about her. I miss her.”
With my confession, thoughts of our kiss flash before my eyes. Her dark eyelashes sloped downward, fanning her blushing cheeks. Her lips wet and swollen after I took them, licking and savoring her taste, the gratifyingly subtle sugariness. Oh, to have her enticing flavor on my tongue, in my mouth again. I don’t think I could stop at kissing. I want to taste all of her.
My chest pounds at the memory and like the phantom sensations of a lost limb, my body thrillingly hums as if her small hands are gripping my shirt. Her fingers deliciously pressing into my torso, hanging on for dear life. Her breathy whimpers, encouraging and torturous. Her big, expressive eyes - the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, gazing longingly up at me, so innocent yet beguiling. And now, shit, I want to kiss her again. Taste her again.
“Ah, that is a dilemma. Was it a one-time thing? Do you have her number?”
“I do. We text daily and try to talk once a day, even if only for a few minutes. It’s not enough. I knew I liked her, I didn’t anticipate feeling like this.”
Bas and I have always been honest with each other. Except for his cancer and what it means, we’ve never beaten around the bush, and I’m not going to start now. Besides, I could use his insight. He’s married to the love of his life and has been for over thirty years.
“She must be something.”
He takes my spoon and ladles a small portion of the thick stew. While I carefully observe him, he ineptly swallows, wincing as the liquid slides down his throat. His discomfort likely has nothing to do with the heat of the stew and everything to do with his pain. He tries to hide it, but I see it; I always do. He can’t hide from me.
“Needs some garlic,” he admonishes.
“It doesn’t,” I lightly retort, knowing it’s perfect.
It’s our routine. Any chance he gets, he advises me on how I could improve a dish. After all, he was my teacher, taught me all I know. Even with our shtick, he tells me all the time how proud he is of me.
“She’s something. I’m out of my element here. Chantal was the last woman I dated and that was over a year ago, and even at that, we were over long before we ended it. I never felt like this, and come to think of it, other than Thérèse, no woman has tied me up in knots like this.”
“Thérèse? Who was she?”
I chuckle at the absurdity of what I’m about to say. “Remember grade ten?” He nods. “Thérèse became my girlfriend about a month before school ended. Her family had a place in Canton-de-L’est and she was gone the whole summer. I begged for us to go to your place, but the restaurant was too busy to leave. I was heartbroken, counting down the days ‘til her return, only to discover that Marc Picard had a house across the lake and they hooked up. They were together that school year and it wasn’t until I started dating Martine—or was it Sandrine? Anyway, whoever it was, it wasn’t until her that my heart could mend and I could finally move on,” I say dramatically.
Bas howls with amusement, his frail body shaking and tears glistening in his eyes. My smile widens at the sight. I embellished the story for his benefit, even though the basics of the tale were true. I made him smile—mission accomplished. I knew he’d remember once I started to recount the time because I was an unbearable grump that summer.
In retrospect, I chalk it up to teenage angst; I’ve never felt anything remotely similar with another woman since. Sure, I’ve had girlfriends, some serious relationships, and breaking up was never pleasant or easy. But still, I don’t recall this ache at separation or the deep beat of anticipation constantly and uncomfortably drumming through my chest.
Bas wipes his eyes. “I will never forget that summer. You were insufferable, even with the new neighbor’s daughter, I think it was Sandrine, liking you. Well, if this Olivia is anything like that, it explains it all. Call the woman. Go see her,” he’s still chuckling.
“See who?” Alec asks, entering the room. The tall, striking man elegantly glides to Bas’s side and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “Mon cher, how are you?” His big, perfectly manicured hand cups Bastien’s jaw and lovingly caresses him. Bas grumbles and shrugs.
“Let me get you some food.” I lean over to give Alec a hug.
“How are you?” he asks, his three words pointed and laden with concern and significance.
“Good.” Stepping out of our embrace, I turn my back on him before he can see the truth.
Unlike my relationship with Bas, where we are brutally honest with each other, I’m less so with Alec. I can’t explain it. It has nothing to do with the man himself. I love him and trust him with my life, have known him for as long as I’ve known Bas. When Bas took me in, he introduced Alec to me as his husband. These two brilliant, caring, loving men adore me and raised me like a son, I’ve always gravitated toward Bas in a way that wasn’t there with Alec.
I need to be strong for him, for Alec. Knowing the torment and anguish I battle whenever I think of Bas’s fate, I can only imagine what Alec is feeling. Bas is the love of his life. To watch your partner, your lover, your best friend dying�
��it must be slowly killing him too.
As I dish out the stew, my phone lights up and I catch Olivia’s name on the screen. Unable to wait until later, I read her text.
Olivia: Hey handsome, how are you?
I quickly respond.
Me: Missing you. What are you doing?
The little dots immediately light up and I smile. I didn’t miss the opportunity to speak with her.
Olivia: Just dropped my kids off at their dad’s. All alone. I’ll most likely take a bath and then bed. And you?
Me: You all alone is a missed opportunity. Wish I was there to wash your back, and I could keep you company. I really like sleepovers.
Olivia: LOL. Sounds very tempting. What are you up to?
Me: Having dinner with Bas and Alec.
Olivia: Oh, sorry, I’m interrupting. Get back to them. Talk to you tomorrow.
Me: You are never interrupting. Think of me in your dreams and the tub ☺
Olivia: Night, Sam
Me: Night, Olivia. Sweet dreams
“Hey, how long do I have to wait for my meal?” Alec jests. “This restaurant has shoddy service.”
Chuckling, I put my phone down and pick up the bowl. My chest feels a little less hollow now that I’ve heard from Olivia.
“Gee, maybe the service would be better if I knew there was a generous tip at the end of it all.”
The three of us talk while Alec and I finish our meal. It feels like old times, when I lived with them, but it also doesn’t. There’s this undercurrent of urgency and tension that coats each glance, word, and moment. We’re living on borrowed time, and I fucking hate it. It fills me with such hopelessness and rage. I’d do anything to take Bas’s cancer away.
As I sit with the two men I love like the parents I never had, a melancholy and worry descends. If I had met Olivia two years ago, I’d have already been to Toronto to see her by now. I wouldn’t have let these two weeks go by with us apart. Now, I want to be with her, to visit, but I don’t want to be far from Bas. I don’t want to miss a minute with him because I don’t know how many we have left.