S I X T E E N
- Oliver -
M y chest tightened when I saw her sauntering up the sidewalk, the frilly bottom of her short green dress swinging just above her knee. She seemed more beautiful every time I saw her, and while there wasn’t much that rattled me, an uncomfortable pressure weighed on my shoulders as reality sank in. I liked this woman. I wanted to show her a good time. I wanted her to like me back.
A nauseating concoction of hope and hormones swirled through me as I greeted her, my eyes appreciating her body in the way my hands couldn’t. After all, I’d promised to be a gentleman, and if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that I wanted to keep my promises to her. Not just because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t, but because she deserved that. That, and so much more.
Granted, people said yes to me all the time, mostly out of fear or sycophancy, but her yes felt lucky, generous, and enlivening. I couldn’t recall the last time I felt so struck by a sense of gratitude.
“Hi,” she said, eyeing me like I was a warm brownie. Perhaps that was a poor analogy, but I didn’t know her well enough yet to guess what lit her up. All I knew was that I was determined to find out, determined to discover what made her caramel eyes flicker.
“You look positively moreish,” I said, cocking my head in the direction we were headed.
“Why thank you,” she said, her eyes bending into little crescents at my—hopefully correct—use of the word she’d taught me. “I felt the same about the menu you sent me. My mouth was watering just looking at it.”
“I know the feeling,” I said, my appetites surging as my eyes fell from her skinny gold earrings down the delicate column of her neck.
She was silent for a few seconds, and I fought the urge to force conversation for as long as I could. “Everything good?”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing my way. “Great. I’m just… hungry.”
I hoped it was the truth. It would be a shame if she was having second thoughts when I’d been sincerely looking forward to this, least of all because it had been months since I’d asked a woman out. After Raven and I broke up, I tried to date, but I wasn’t exactly emotionally available. I was using sex as a distraction. As medicine. As an escape. When I realized how unfair that was, I stopped, deciding it was better for everyone if I slept alone until I met someone I felt a real spark with. “We won’t waste any time ordering then.” I reached over and set a hand on her lower back, leading her down the next narrow alley we came to.
“You didn’t tell me it was a hidden gem,” she said, her eyes scanning the tagging on the brick walls on both sides of us before straying towards the unassuming sign for Chez Mimi’s up ahead. “You come here a lot?”
“I come here on special occasions,” I said, opening the door for her.
She stepped inside and her eyes doubled in size as she took in the impressive space, which was decorated to look like a countryside French restaurant. Soft yellow furnishings were enlivened by poppy-colored accents, both of which lent an unexpectedly cozy atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the ugly alley we rambled up to get there.
“Bonsoir, Mr. Harrington,” the hostess said when we arrived before welcoming Avery with a warm smile.
The thought crossed my mind that my next-door neighbor could learn a thing or two from her. “Bonsoir.”
She led us to my usual table, which looked even more inviting thanks to the extra chair, and I pulled it out for Avery while the hostess set skinny menus across each place setting.
Avery thanked me and scooted closer to the table while I took my seat.
“The specials today,” Natalie said, her lips puckering to support her French accent. “Are the filet de turbot and the filet de boeuf chateaubriand. The soup du jour is lobster bisque.”
“Would you bring a double portion of my usual appetizer for us to enjoy while we peruse the menu?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll put your order in right away and return in a few minutes.”
I thanked her with a nod and turned my attention to Avery.
“I’m surprised they didn’t roll out a red carpet, Mr. Harrington,” she said teasingly.
“They offered, but I’d rather you were impressed by the food.”
“What’s your regular appetizer?” she asked, dropping her eyes to the narrow menu.
“I should’ve warned you,” I confessed. “My job’s made me a fussy eater.”
Her eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
“I’m so used to tasting a little bit of everything that I tend to insist on it like a spoiled child now no matter where I go.”
“And restaurants oblige?”
I shrugged. “Haven’t been denied yet.”
“Do you think it’s out of a desire to please you or out of fear?”
“Fear?” I asked, as if the thought never occurred to me.
Her eyes searched mine as if the next words out of my mouth were especially important. “Yeah. Of the repercussions?”
“Other people’s motivations are none of my business,” I said. “My aim is purely to determine whether their food is worth the trip and calories.”
Her lips twitched, but I couldn’t tell if she found my answer satisfactory. “So are the contents of the tasting platter a surprise or can you reveal what they are?”
My lips twitched towards a smile. “They’re the first three items on the menu.”
She cast her eyes down to see what she had to look forward to. Baked camembert with berries, paté du canard, and oysters. “Oysters?” She lifted her face. “Aren’t they supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”
“Supposedly,” I said. “Though I can’t imagine anything being more of an aphrodisiac than the way you look in that dress.”
She blushed. “I’m glad you like it. I hope you’re not disappointed I skipped the pigtails.”
“Not to worry. The image of you with your hair in pigtails is burnt into my memory.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked. “Red or white?” Please say you like wine.
“Maybe white?”
“Because you actually prefer it or because you don’t want stained lips?”
“The latter.”
“Red it is then,” I said. “Life’s too short to drink the wrong wine for the wrong reasons.”
“Can I count on you to tell me if my lips turn purple?”
“Of course. I was going to steal glances at them anyway, and now I have the perfect excuse.”
“You’re coming on a bit strong, Mr. Harrington.”
“Subtlety isn’t really my style.”
“Good,” she said. “Life’s too short, as you already pointed out.”
“Remind me when our wine comes that we should toast to that sentiment.” Our server arrived on cue, and I ordered a bottle of the house red.
“I’m surprised you ordered the house red instead of something off the wine menu.”
“I’m not as difficult to impress as people think,” I said. “Most places just have lousy standards. Fortunately, this restaurant isn’t one of them.”
“It is adorable,” she said, looking around as a different server slid a lit candle between us. “If the food is half as pleasant as the ambiance, you’ll definitely have exceeded my very high expectations.”
It was exactly what I wanted to hear. “Maybe we’ll check out their other location sometime.”
Her brows lifted. “Oh? Where’s that?”
“Paris.”
The pink of her cheeks deepened. “My boss is in Paris right now.”
“Your best boss?”
She nodded. “I only stuttered the other day because she’s my best friend, too.”
“I get it. I have a best boss, too. Technically, he’s supposed to work for me, but it doesn’t often feel that way.”
“Interesting.” She leaned back in her chair, studying me for a moment as her collarbone rose and fell with her breath. “Mind if I ask how you got into the fault-finding business?”
“That’s not exactly the business I’m in,” I said, feigning a scowl to let her know I wasn’t crazy about that diagnosis. “But it happened… organically.”
She cocked her head.
“My dad’s a chef and my mom was an English teacher, so restaurants and words have always been a big part of my life.”
“So you enjoy what you do?”
“The perks are second to none,” I admitted, “but I’d like to start branching out a bit more.”
“Hence your surprising appearance at the Star Baker Festival?”
“Exactly,” I said, pouring two glasses of water from the carafe at the edge of the table. “Apparently, being a jerk isn’t as à la mode as it used to be.”
Her laugh rang out like a bright bell. “Good to know.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Did you always dream of spending your days shaping other people’s buns?”
She shook her head. “No. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer.”
“So you could put buns behind bars?”
“Not quite.” She ran a hand through her shiny hair. “I started working as a paralegal in a family law firm and realized all the people working there were as miserable as the clients they were dealing with all day.”
“And you figured life’s too short.”
“Pretty much,” she said with a shrug. “So I dropped out of law school, asked Grace if I could help out in the bakery, and haven’t looked back. I’ll probably never be wealthy, but I’m time rich, and isn’t that why people work their butts off anyway?”
“I suppose so.”
“I mean, I know there are other reasons to be ambitious, but I didn’t like who I was becoming as a result of doing that job.”
“How so?”
She sighed. “I just felt like I was turning into a capitalist sheep. I had nothing to brag about except for how busy I was and how little sleep I was getting. And the only thing I had time to do with the money I was earning was shop online for stuff I didn’t need to impress people I didn’t really care about. It was such an unfulfilling hamster wheel, and… I don’t know. The price of choosing that life felt too high for what I was getting.”
“I admire that. It couldn’t have been easy to make that decision.”
“It wasn’t,” she said. “But as soon as I made it, I felt so much lighter. Until I told my parents, but they’ve come around. They can see I’m much happier now. Healthier. Less negative.”
“It says a lot about you that you chose your happiness over your profession.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe it’s easy to make a change when your comfort zone isn’t comfortable anymore.”
“Either way, I think you did the right thing.”
“Thanks,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the edges.
“And not just because we mightn’t have met otherwise.”