Chapter 9 #2
I don’t have a ton of practice in the dating realm, but I don’t think meeting friends on the first date is a thing, or going to somewhere so damn packed. But I could be wrong. Maybe it just bothers me, in spite of reminding myself this is a business meeting.
“I didn’t think it’d be this busy,” Quintin tells me when Willa leaves us. I try not to look at him, try not to give into the weirdness of the situation, try not to be bothered because it just isn’t that big a deal. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” I start. “I just hope you’re serious about working together.
” And it’s true. I’m not sure what kind of businessman he is, but I’m wary, looking down at the menu for the evening.
Willa is talented, digital copies of her paintings on each page with a summary of her inspiration as well as the course, ingredients, and how it all ties together.
When I finish perusing the menu, I glance up at Quintin and catch him watching me. He has his elbows on the table as he leans toward me absentmindedly, like he can’t help the thoughtless action.
“What?” I ask. I try my hardest not to smile, but when he does, I can’t do anything but reciprocate. Then I’m propelled back to my inappropriate sex dreams from the night before, the way he smiled against my skin…
Fuck .
“Am I failing miserably?” he groans and rests his forehead on his palms. “I should’ve known it would be busy.”
It’s my first time seeing him flustered, and I’m charmed by his pinkened cheeks and the way his eyebrows are drawn together over eyes that crinkle in the corners. I like how important this seems to him.
“Listen,” I tell him, leaning forward to meet his gaze just as his settles on my lips, “let’s hash out the minor details, set up a meeting with my client, and we can stay and support your friend.”
“You’re the boss,” he says.
As I take off my coat and pull out my phone, I wish I felt more like it.
I thought this would be easier than it’s proving to be. I think I even hoped I’d find a flaw in her, something to repel me so I can go back to normal.
But the idea of normalcy has nothing on her smile.
I want to kiss her, and not in a way that either of us can easily walk away from.
I want to steal her next breath, feel her flesh beneath my palms, immerse myself in her rose scent. Her eyes sparkle as my thoughts take this turn, and I let myself sink into the warmth of the moment.
I’ve never seen her so at ease, and her smile makes me want to do anything I can to keep it from hiding.
She sits across from me, talking to me about her work in a way I’ve only ever seen from truly passionate individuals. She declines alcohol, and I enjoy a few cocktails. Every time Willa stops by our table, she offers her a small smile.
“This is a nice place,” she comments, glancing at the people walking past our table. While it hasn’t quite died down, there’s definitely fewer people here, making it easier to hear her when she speaks.
We’ve long finished our food and have already tackled the business portion of this meeting. I guess now, we’re on the small-talk portion as she opens her mouth to speak.
“You haven’t said much.” She leans back, and there’s a quiver of uncertainty that thrums.
“I’ve enjoyed learning about you,” I offer, licking my lips before I smile. “But feel free to ask me anything you’d like me to talk about.”
She takes a beat, nodding as she looks around. Then she turns her attention back to me. “How did you become…you?”
“I—” Unsure how to answer, I shoot her a pinched expression. “Um…”
“Why choose food? Why choose to open a restaurant?” she clarifies, bringing her hands together to rest on the table. I stare at her nails and wonder what they’d feel like down my back.
I snap out of those thoughts and focus on answering her question.
If I’m being honest, growing up, food brought me a comfort I’d never experienced from a human being. It made me feel like I could take the two cultures that made me and form a sort of relationship between them, if only so it represents my ability to exist.
But I can’t tell her that.
I don’t want to talk about my childhood and my identity issues. I don’t want to talk about how lonely life can feel when you don’t know how you even ended up here. So, I give her a more palatable version.
Can’t get too personal during a business meeting, right?
“I found out I’m French, so I became obsessed with the cuisine. Then I would take recipes from Puerto Rican culture that I’m dying to learn?—”
“Like flan,” she points out, and I nod with a grin.
“Like flan. And that’s how that happened.”
“What do you think led to your success?”
I scratch at my beard as I debate on how to answer her question. “I…kinda went viral,” I lead with.
“Like an infection?” she asks, and I cough to mask my laughter. I duck my head and laugh into my elbow for a second before sitting up.
“No,” I start with a shake of my head. “Like social media.”
Her brows raise, and she hides her own laughter behind her hand.
“Some kind of hot chef thing?” she asks, and I smirk, happy she finds me attractive.
“In a way. I mean, some girls came in. It was slow, so I served them, and then it became a thing.” I laugh before I decide to just lay it all out there. “Remember Salt Bae? Yeah, they coined me Chef Bae. It was a whole thing.”
She’s laughing while I explain, but “Chef Bae” throws her over the edge.
“You can’t be serious,” she exclaims when she finally catches her breath.
“Look it up if you don’t believe me,” I tell her before quickly adding, “just not right now. I’ve finally gotten to the point of being able to stand myself again.”
We sit there in silence for a moment, staring at each other as the humor fades from our features.
I like her.
Fuck, I like her.
“You’re not a psychopath, right?” she asks, her eyes glimmering with humor as I try not to laugh.
“If I were, do you think I’d tell you? But the good news is, I’m not.”
“That is good news…Chef Bae,” she adds, sputtering out a laugh when I shoot her a glare.
“You’re never going to let me forget it, huh?”
She holds her hands up. “You’re the one who felt safe enough to share.”
“Something about you seemed trustworthy,” I respond, wishing she would tell me more about herself, about her life, her family. “Like I could tell you all my secrets.” I lean in to whisper the last part, and I catch the way her eyes flit to my mouth for just a moment.
She wants to kiss me too.
But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to give me permission to kiss her.
The liquor sits warm inside me, making me bold as I stare at her.
She’s quiet, pensive, sitting inside that troubled mind of hers. Even in this little bit of time, I’ve come to understand she isn’t quiet because she has nothing to say.
She’s quiet because she has too much going on in that fascinating mind.
“Do you drive, Quintin? Do you own a car?”
My eyes widen at the sudden pivot, and I clear my throat.
“Yes and yes. Well, I sold my car, but I intend on getting a new one soon,” I inform her, aware that while Chicago offers many modes of public transportation, I might look a little irresponsible to her as a carless adult.
Dani doesn’t say anything in response, merely nodding as she digests my answer. The restaurant is quiet, and when I look around, I know it’s time to go.
Sadly, I’ve kept her company for as long as I’m likely allowed.