Chapter 5 Samantha #4
I point. We made them leave the plates when the staff tried to clear them so I could check things again. “I finished that whole thing.” I point at the one on the dutch blue and white china.
“The sweet one,” Richard says. “I should’ve known.”
“I’m a sucker for strawberries, but I also love goat cheese.”
“Good to know.” He nods. “And the soups?”
“This one, for sure,” I say, indicating the phenomenal onion soup in the rose china. “But the others were very good, too. I’m just not a huge fan of leeks.”
“How American of you.” He smirks. “And now, which main dish?”
I’ve voted for two of the three chefs. Since I liked the duck and both chicken dishes are about the same, I pick the one that’s by the chef I hadn’t voted for. That forces him to pick the chef he likes as the winner.
“No fair,” he says. “You picked one dish from each.”
“Richard, it’s your chef. You have to choose what you like.”
“I want you to like them, too,” he says. “I really hope you’ll be eating here quite often.”
My heart twinges. “The thing is—”
“No, don’t say it.” He presses a finger against my mouth, and it’s warm, and it feels larger than I expected it to be. “Because I already prepared a tie-breaker.”
“Richard,” I say, my mouth moving against his finger. “You are the tie-breaker.”
He smiles. “I may not have moves.” He finally drops his finger, and I actually miss feeling it. “And I may be a halfwit with women, but I have learned one thing.”
I can’t wait to hear this. I lift both eyebrows.
“They may say they don’t want to pick something, and they may insist that you’re the boss, but strong women, the kind of woman you want?
She wants to be the one making decisions.
So if I want to keep you around, and Samantha, I very much do want to keep you around, I need you to care enough about me to make some decisions.
” His deep voice, his earnest eyes, and his thoughtful words. . .
It’s too much. I open my mouth to tell him the truth. He deserves to know that this thing between us can’t last. It’s already starting to hurt me, knowing it can’t continue.
“Dessert, my lord.” The man in the penguin suit bows, and two more people walk through, carrying a tray apiece.
Oh, my.
“Now, this time, l had them pick from my three favorite desserts. I know we’re in Ireland, but I was raised in England.
” Richard’s self-deprecating smile’s adorable.
“Sticky toffee pudding is my favorite, but a close second is called an Eton mess—as long as the ratio between the meringue and the strawberries is right.”
“And if the strawberries are good.” I arch one eyebrow. “And it’s not exactly strawberry season.” I glance up. “What’s that third one?”
“The third thing I asked for was a trifle. It’s fruit and layers of custard and spongecake, basically.” Richard studies the plates as the waiters set desserts in front of us.
“Why are there six different desserts?” I almost choke. “Did you think I was trying to go up two dress sizes right after I met my favorite dress of all time?”
Richard laughs. “The chefs wanted to show that they could make Irish desserts, too. I did request local chefs.”
“So what are those desserts, then?”
This time, it’s the footman, or whatever the guy holding the second tray’s job description is, who pipes up. “That’s an Irish apple cake—”
“Ooh, that’s my favorite.”
Richard beams.
“A chocolate Guinness cake, and a bread and butter pudding, which is my personal favorite.” The man half-bows and retreats to the wall.
The sticky toffee pudding and the Guinness cake are on blue and white china. The apple cake and the Eton mess are on rose china, and the bread and butter pudding and the trifle are on the gold and white bone china.
“Well, let’s figure this out,” Richard says. “Break my tie for me.”
“Come on,” I say. “You already have a favorite, surely.”
“I do.” He smiles. “She’s looking right at me. I’m hoping she’ll come over for dinner quite often, but I need a chef she likes to entice her. She’s playing very hard to get.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s cute. I can’t lie to myself about that—he’s really, really cute.
The apple cake’s really good, but not quite as good as the one we fell in love with on our first trip out.
The Eton mess is amazing, because they got great berries, but the sticky toffee pudding and the Guinness cake are the clear winners.
“I think these have it.” I slide the blue and white china forward.
Richard smiles. “I agree.”
I frown. “Do you really?”
He shrugs. “Does it matter?” Before I can object, he waves the footman guy over and whispers in his ear.
The man asks him something in such a low tone I can’t hear it.
“Sure, if they want to.” Richard’s smiling.
“If they want to what?” I ask as the footman guy leaves.
“Gottfried asks whether you’d be willing to meet my new chef, if the winner asks to come out and introduce themselves.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I’d better head home before then.”
Richard stands. “I’ll take you.”
I wave. “It’s fine.”
“You can’t call an uber,” he says. “I kidnapped you, remember?”
I drop a hand on my hip. “I’m planning on stealing Big Red as payback.”
“Big Red?” His brow furrows.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, that was my name for Honeypot.”
“Honeypo—” He grins. “You mean What a Honey?”
I nod. “He told me a secret on our way in—he likes me more than he likes you, and he wants to come home with me.”
Richard’s laughing as he walks behind his chair, shoving it back under the table.
The edge of his chair catches my elbow, and thanks to the heels I rarely wear, I wobble.
I very nearly fall forward on my face, but Richard catches me, deftly swinging me around and preventing a collision between my face and the contents of the table.
“Oh.” I’m staring up at him dumbly. “Whoa.”
He smiles, and then without saying a word, his powerful arms pull me up, up, up, until his mouth comes down over mine.
A thrill races up my spine, and my hands tighten on his arms, just barely feeling the outline of a surprisingly powerful bicep. And then, just as fast, he releases me, straightening me and stepping back. “I’ll take you home, then?”
Someone behind us clears their voice.
When we turn, a very short man bows. “I’m Brendan Dufaigh.” His smile transforms his face. It’s really, really bad, but between his attire—he’s wearing suspenders—and his big grin, he reminds me of a leprechaun. “I’m delighted to hear that you found my food to yer liking.”
“It was exquisite,” I say. “I could eat that sticky toffee pudding every day.”
“Could you really?” Richard pulls me close, drawing my arm through the crook of his elbow.
My cheeks heat.
“You made my girlfriend Samantha happy, and if you can keep doing that, you’ll have a job here for a very long time.” Richard’s beaming.
And I’m screwed.
Because the more I need to come clean with him about my lie, the less I want to do it.