Chapter 5 Fable #2
“You are?” Why was I so surprised? He was Canadian, and Canadians were notoriously nice.
He was just being nice, like he would to any old stranger; it had nothing to do with me specifically.
My heart fluttered in my chest as if no guy had ever been nice to me before…
and I hated that it was probably true. “French toast, please.” And my choice had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that a certain French accent was currently tying my insides into knots.
Guy carried both our plates over to a table by the front window, offering a breathtaking view of a snow-covered vista, the Cascade Mountains’ peaks cutting a sharp outline into the clear blue sky, and I felt a vague urge to go skiing, even though I knew from past experience that it was not a skill I possessed.
“So… tell me about yourself,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. For such an innocuous question, his eyes sure seemed to be boring deep into my soul.
“Um, well, I’m 28, and I work as a claims adjuster, and in my spare time, I have a food blog.
I grew up around here, but I moved to California for school right after graduation, and now I’m back for my ten-year reunion.
” I tried to smile like I was glad to be here, but it was nearly painful to pretend that hard.
Guy’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, and his eyes said he missed nothing. “Hmm,” was his only response.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped defensively.
“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be loads of fun.” He shrugged, then shoved his forkful of hashbrowns into his mouth, likely so he wouldn’t have to say what he really thought. He was more focused on me than he was his own food.
I itched with the need to explain the whole thing.
The lies I’d told my old friends, the escort I’d hired, all to make myself look more successful.
But that would mean admitting all my insecurities, and no matter how comfortable I found myself around Guy, he was still a stranger, and I didn’t want his judgment.
So, instead of blurting out all the things I refused to share, I turned the tables on him. “So, what about you, what brings you to Pinevale, Oregon? It’s not exactly a tourist hub.”
Guy kept his eyes on his plate as he cut up his pancakes, but his wide shoulders crawled up toward his ears. The big man wasn’t immune to his own insecurities, it seemed. “I’m here for a convention. I make maple syrup.”
“What, like the stuff in the bottle shaped like my granny?” I asked.
Guy reared back, aghast. “Non! Nothing like it. That fake syrup is an abomination to nature.” He turned in his seat to reach into the inside pocket of his coat that was draped over his chair and pulled out a small glass bottle of amber liquid.
“Do you actually walk around with a bottle of maple syrup in your pocket?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, lips twitching. “You never know when you might have a breakfast emergency,” he said, turning my own words back on me.
I laughed. “You mean like this?” I gestured at the subpar food in front of me. It was standard buffet fare, which was fine, but it had been sitting in warming pans for too long and was all soggy. And it was in serious need of saving.
“If you’ve never had the real thing before, you have to try this. I insist.” He uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount over my breakfast—not just the French toast but also the hashbrowns and bacon.
The first thing I noticed was that the consistency was entirely different.
And then I put a bite of food in my mouth, and I swore my entire world was turned on its axis.
I saw heaven, I tell you! Sweet and rich, a hint of maple without the overpowering artificial flavors.
The gastronomical glory! I swore my eyes rolled back into my head.
I was ruined for all other syrups for the rest of time.
“Ohmygods,” I mumbled around my mouthful, finally coming back to my senses. “How much time has passed? What day of the week is it? I might’ve blacked out for a second. How have I never tried this before?”
“Don’t they sell it in your stores?” he asked, genuinely fascinated by my reaction.
“Well, I mean, yeah, but it’s so expensive, and I just assumed it would be the same.
This, though… Mmghffh.” I let out a guttural near-orgasmic moan, drawing attention from the other diners.
Guy didn’t seem concerned about their attention, though.
No, his eyes remained firmly fixed on my mouth as I licked the syrup from my lips, then my fork, before moving on to my fingers.
“And French toast is just the tip of the iceberg,” I said, my mind whirring on all cylinders, gears chugging to life and building momentum. “Muffins, with an oatmeal cinnamon crumble on top, cookies, tarts. Not just dessert, though. I could do savory too!”
“Salmon,” Guy said, and I slammed my palm down on the table with enough force to rattle the cutlery.
“Yes! Salmon!” I agreed.
I shoved back from the table, the legs of my chair grinding against the floorboards with an angry squeal.
“Where are you going?” Guy asked.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing his hand without a second thought and dragging him from his seat.
There wasn’t really anything for him to do, but it just made sense that he had to come too.
“I need to write down all these ideas before I forget what the syrup tastes like. Sauces and spreads!” I shouted on the way out of the dining room, towing Guy behind me. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”
He was a large man, he could’ve pulled his hand from mine easily, but instead, he laced our fingers and came willingly. Eagerly, even.