Chapter 21
Luxury does something to a person, I’m learning. Not even luxury, but simple enjoyment.
I’d honestly forgotten what it was like to just sit and eat and drink and enjoy another (very hot) person’s company without having to rush.
Or worry about all the things I usually worry about.
Like how much it’ll cost, or whether I’ll get fired for doing it, or what if I get caught sneaking around and get myself evicted?
How will I survive by myself on the streets?
I hadn’t realized how heavy all of my constant and real worries have been, or the toll they’ve taken.
Until now.
For now, for the afternoon or maybe even the weekend, I can relax.
I don’t have to be anywhere at a specific time.
I know where my next meal is coming from—and it’s the best I’ve ever had.
I don’t have to deal, for the moment, with what so often feels like trying to balance the weight of the world on my shoulders.
The food is beyond delicious. The waiters bring dish after dish and each one is more spectacular than the last.
“I mean,” I take another bite, “I’ve never really thought of cheesy grits as a delicacy before, but these are next level.”
“You know, I’ve never had grits before,” Dallas tells me, steering my fork to his mouth—which is what we’ve been doing.
Sharing. Feeding each other. Sitting so close our thighs are pressed up against each other.
Dallas and I seem to have a way of falling into easy levels of intimacy without it feeling awkward or too soon.
It’s fun, it happens naturally, and we both want it to.
The glass and a half of champagne I’ve had isn’t hurting either.
For once, I’m just going with it and not questioning every goddamn thing, and it feels outstandingly good.
But his admission stops me in mid-chew. “What? You’ve never had grits?”
I love his eyes. I love how they soften when I say something that charms him, like now, even though he’s so big and built and freaking … male. “No. They don’t really do grits in New York.”
“Well, that’s completely unacceptable. Why not?”
“It’s exclusively a southern thing.”
I didn’t actually know that. “Shit. You Yankees don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
“Watch who you’re calling Yankee, Boo. You forget I spent most of my youth in Boston. You’re talking to a die-hard Red Sox fan over here. And I’m originally from California, so I can’t technically be classified as a Yankee anyway.”
The banter comes so easily, it seems unreal that I’ve known him for less than a day.
“You went to college in Boston?” I’ve never been, obviously.
It always sounded like such a cool, historical place to go, to see where they poured all that tea into the harbor and the old cobbled streets where Paul Revere made his midnight ride.
“Yeah. I went to Harvard as an undergrad. And then Harvard Business School.”
“Oh.” Wow. He’s Apollo Wilder’s brother.
Hattie Carson’s son. A billionaire many times over.
He went to Harvard. He could tell me he’s colonized Saturn and it wouldn’t surprise me.
All of it—him, the helicopter, the kiss, the meal—have an unreal quality, like the whole thing is still part of the dream I never quite woke up from.
“Anyway, you’re missing the entire point.
What I’m saying is that this changes everything. I can no longer move to New York.”
“You’re moving to New York? When?” He’s clearly exceptionally intrigued by this piece of information.
“Not really. My best friend Sadie’s sister lives in Queens.
Sadie’s moving up there—this week, in fact—to try to join a dance company up there.
She’s a really talented dancer and she has a contact.
She was waiting to hear back about maybe getting an audition.
And she wants me to come with her, since things haven’t actually …
well, you know, been going that well for either one of us.
She’s been very insistently trying to get me to agree to it. ”
“We could hang out.” He says it playfully, but there’s a lot going on behind his eyes.
I honestly don’t know if I was ever seriously considering moving to New York.
The whole idea is overwhelming. Especially considering the non-existent contents of my bank account.
“I can’t, now that I know they don’t have grits up there.
They’re literally all I eat.” I don’t bother mentioning the reason for this is because there are always grits on tap in our kitchen and the chefs have to throw them out at the end of the day anyway.
So they’ve become my staple because I can get the leftovers for free.
“I’ll hire a personal chef for you who specializes in New Orleans cuisine.”
“Sure.” I’m getting used to laughing off his grandiose promises. “Throw in a chauffeur, a team of housekeepers and a Swedish masseuse and you’re on.”
“Done.”
But now they’re bringing dessert and the Death by Chocolate is aptly named. Because I might literally die with ecstasy. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire freaking life,” I mumble between mouthfuls.
Dallas grins. “I’ll make sure your chef knows his way around a chocolate cake too, while we’re at it.”
“Make sure he can whip up a killer gumbo too. I love gumbo. You want to know something crazy?”
“Yes.”
“It was our gumbo that won our old chef the Michelin star. The whole menu was fantastic, but that was his signature dish. People used to come from all across the country just to get a bowl of it.” I don’t know why I’m rambling on about this, but he’s just so easy to talk to, and so beguiled by everything I do and say, it’s connective and endearing.
And a little addictive. “People said you couldn’t get a Michelin star for what’s basically a soup.
But Marcel proved them wrong. It was the perfect recipe.
And one he never wrote down. So the new chef couldn’t replicate it after he left. ”
“Why did Marcel leave?”
“He got poached by another restaurant. In Paris, of all places. Once you get a Michelin star, as it turns out, you’re in hot demand.
And we couldn’t pay him what some of those other restaurants offered him.
So he left. That’s when things started to …
” I hate thinking about it. “Anyway, our glory years had a shelf life. Maybe the new owner will hire a better chef eventually.”
The head waiter appears and asks us if we want another bottle of champagne. Dallas tells him we’re good and hands him a black credit card. The waiter rushes off to take care of the bill.
I hate to think about how much this meal would have cost. And I hate that I have nothing to contribute.
But Dallas, as though reading my mind, eases his warm hand under my hair to grip the nape of my neck, just holding it there.
“I’d like you to come back to my hotel with me. Before we leave for the river cruise.”
“The river cruise is a dinner,” I remind him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat again until next Tuesday.”
“True. Maybe we can do that tomorrow night instead. It did say on the website that a favorite local jazz band plays live on the Sunday night cruises.”
“Oh.” There’s a lot of time between right now and tomorrow night.
“Come back to my hotel with me. We can have some more champagne. You can tell me about your plans for New York. It can be good to talk through options before you make any major decisions.”
I don’t have plans. But I have made a decision. And I think we both know what will happen if I go back to his hotel with him.
I don’t have a lot of prior experience with the feeling I’m inhabiting.
I’m wearing the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen.
I’ve just eaten the best meal of my life.
I’m giddy with champagne. Not drunk, just …
loosened. Like all my gears that have been wound so tight for so long have been given a quarter turn the other way and my equilibrium is still figuring out what to do with the magical slack.
I feel recklessly, wildly good.
I want it to be him.
“Okay, Dallas Wilder,” I whisper.