Chapter Six
Nick
I’m shocked at my hasty behavior. The idea of asking Bethany to accompany me to the Food Network gala burst into my head and gushed out my lips. No hesitation. When I stopped to talk with her after class, the moment I looked into her gorgeous brown eyes, I was done for. She intrigues me. She’s beautiful, funny and smart. Everything I want in a woman. Her only flaw is that she’s a terrible cook. I can overlook that.
There hasn’t been a special someone in my life for a couple months. The woman I dated for over a year was a fellow chef. She not only broke my heart, but our breakup put me off dating for a while. Yes, I’ve had gorgeous women accompany me to parties and events since then, but I don’t have someone to relax and hang out with and just enjoy her company.
Despite all the complexities of a relationship with Bethany Bacon Hunt, I’m hoping we can build on our “date” this evening. This realization is unexpected and surprisingly quite pleasant. My heart is filled with anticipation and excitement that there could be more to my rash invitation than a one time, no repeat, outing.
My driver pulls up to her condo complex. The neat rows of identical 2-story buildings surround a pool and clubhouse building. Everything blends, the only unique identifier being the numbers painted on the front door. I conjure up a vision of Bethany living in a cozy restored Tudor, with her husband, two kids and a dog. Something like what I plan to purchase in Cold Spring after my restaurant takes off. A man can dream, right?
Walking to unit 203-B, I knock on the door while the black limo idles at the curb. The woman who flings open the door instantly takes my breath away. She’s wearing a figure-hugging red gown that exposes her creamy shoulders and shows off her long sexy legs. The neckline provides a peek at her delectable cleavage. Bethany’s beauty hits me like a punch to the gut. I remind myself to breathe.
“Would you like to come in?” she asks shyly.
She opens the door wider, and I step inside. Her apartment is tiny, but she’s decorated the small space tastefully with pops of color. A neutral color sofa and love seat fill the living room. Several bright pillows in yellow, red, orange and turquoise spill across both pieces, as if they were thrown randomly on the furniture, but most likely were carefully placed. A huge modern art painting hangs behind the sofa pulling all the colors from the pillows. The geometric shapes remind me of a Picasso, but with softer lines and angles.
Turning to her, I smile while my eyes wander from the top of her head to her toes. “You look stunning,” I say after several seconds of gazing at her.
“So, do you.” She replies as she surveys me from head to toe. Her smile tells me that she likes how I look in my custom-fitting black tux.
Time stalls for a moment. I’d love to stand here and gaze at her all night, except my gala obligations encroach on my consciousness, bringing me out of my trance.
“My driver is waiting, so we should get going.”
She turns to pick-up her tiny purse and a coat that is flung over the coat rack in the corner.
“You don’t need a coat. We’ll be in the limo the whole time except for a few steps to the door. I can keep you warm,” I add with a waggle of my eyebrows.
Bethany giggles and blushes at the same time. I find everything this woman does to be charming.
She takes my arm and we walk to the waiting limo.
***
“So, Bethany, what school do you teach at?” Turning on the plush limo seat, I drink her in as she sits beside me. My question is heart-felt, I want to get to know this woman better. It would've been nice to have had a few dates under our belt before this gala, but timing didn’t allow for that.
She smiles, warming instantly to the topic. “I teach kindergarten at Northwoods Elementary School. As you know, my job requires no cooking skills.” Bethany crosses her heart and mouths, “Thank God.” I chuckle.
“Mandy teaches there, too. My days are filled running after twenty-five rambunctious 5-year-olds, wrangling them and trying to make them behave.”
“You must have some great stories to tell with that age group. I’m very familiar with that age, as I mentioned, my niece is five.”
A self-deprecating laugh escapes. “If you’re interested in paint spills, potty mishaps, and an occasional fight, I can talk all night.”
“The kids fight?” I think about my sweet niece and can’t imagine her hitting anyone.
“The kids have little scuffles which then causes their parents to fight. Arguments break out over the silliest stuff. Things can get nasty in the kindergarten ranks.”
“Sounds like you need hazard pay.”
“Don’t I wish.” A thoughtful expression flits cross her pretty face, and I file away a “to do” item to ask more details about these arguments.
“Enough about me, does your niece live in New Orleans?” she asks.
So, Miss Hunt knows my background. Very interesting .
“No, I lived in New Orleans for years, but my family is from Ohio. Lucy is my brother’s first child. They live in Columbus.”
She leans closer to me, whispering in my ear. “Your southern accent is very sexy. Don’t lose that.”
The temperature in the car rises at least ten degrees.
Throwing me a side-eye look, she adds, “But I bet you’re the one with great stories to tell.”
My heart nose-dives wondering whether she knows about the altercation behind my firing. I really don’t walk to talk about that tonight.
The limo pulls to a stop at the curb. “Sir, we’re here.”
Saved by the bell, so to speak.
The driver hops out and walks around to open the limo door.
Bethany slides out first, then I join her, firmly grasping her hand. The clamor of the crowd could be heard when I was still inside the limo, and once I’m outside it’s nearly deafening. A total madhouse.
Flash! Flash! Flash!
Photographers snap multiple pictures of us as we stride down the red carpet. Noise bombards us from all sides and the media shouts out questions.
“Nick DeLuca! When does the next season of Cooking with Passion start?”
“Who’s the gorgeous brunette? New girlfriend?”
“Is it true you’re no longer working at Brenman’s?”
I clench my jaw, barely holding myself in check from hitting one of the rude journalists. I ignore every question as we continue to work our way down the red carpet, Bethany’s hand still firmly clasped in mine.
Fans are contained behind a flimsy rope barrier. Someone could easily breach it if they wanted to. The fans strain to get my attention. Waving papers and cookbooks at me, they loudly request my autograph. One overly fanatical woman ducks under the rope, runs up beside me and nearly hits me in the chin with a voluminous cookbook grasped in her hand. Is that even my cookbook?
Bethany squeaks as the woman aggressively shoves the cookbook at me. I pull my date behind me, so she doesn’t get hit while at the same time dodging the heavy tome.
“Please sign this, Nick! I love your show!”
I catch a glimpse of the cover as she waves the book in my face. Another Food Network star smiles back at me. There’s no way I’m signing this book, even if the lady asked politely.
Two burly security guards rush over, grabbing the fan by her arms and returning her to the other side of the rope. She wails as they hustle her away, “But, I just want his autograph.” She looks back over her shoulder, adding, “I love you, Nick!” before the guards block her from sight.
I put my arm around Bethany’s waist and tug her closer to my side, trying to shield her from the boisterous crowd as we continue the walk into the hotel. She’s trembling and her face has gone pale. The commotion continues to swirl around us. It is my fault that she’s not prepared. I didn’t warn her about the media and overzealous fans that typically surround events like these. I quickly propel us forward to the entrance in an effort to make a fast escape. Bethany matches me stride for stride, her long legs eating up the red carpet along with mine.
A tall man in a black jacket opens the brass plated doors and we rush inside. The doors swoosh shut behind us. It’s a relief to get away from the rabid fans and the vultures that call themselves journalists. The decibel level inside the hotel is half what we just experienced outside. Much more tolerable and less stressful.
“Are you okay?” I look into her eyes and put both my hands on her arms, holding her still for a few seconds so she can recover from the frenzy we just walked through.
She blows out a breath and gives me a weak smile. “Is it always like that?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I should have insisted we come in a back entrance. But I thought you might like walking down the red carpet.”
Bethany laughs. “It would have been fun minus the crazies.”
I frown as I drop my hands from her arms. “Does this mean you’ll never go out with me again?” The words go straight from my brain to my lips. No filter. I’m partially teasing, but partially serious. Did I just blow my chance for a second date with her?
A blush creeps across her cheeks, and she gently grabs and squeezes both of my hands. “No, Chef Hottie. But how about we enter through that back entrance next time?”
The hottie comment warms my heart and breaks the tension after escaping the throng outside. Smiling, I turn her towards the Grand Ballroom. She holds my hand as we walk down the hall. Her hand feels so right, so natural snuggled in mine.
“Okay, Cinderella, let’s go enjoy the ball.”