Chapter 22 Pigeon
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
pigeon
REY
As much as Mark looked out of place at the market today, it’s got nothing on how I feel sitting at the kitchen of The Connoisseur in Mayfair.
We’re not in the restaurant like normal patrons, of course.
True to his promise that we wouldn’t be seen together, we entered through a hidden door around the back, and now we’re in a dimly lit corner of the kitchen at a private table getting waited on by everyone.
And they seem genuinely happy about it, compared to the sulky servers at my regular pub near home.
Mark appears quite familiar with secret entrances and dodging attention. It seems sad not to be free to just do what you want.
“Bonsoir,” Mark says to a blond woman who has the air of a person in charge. “Rey, this is Nelly. A two-Michelin-starred chef and a friend for many years.”
Until today, I wouldn’t have pictured Mark having any friends at all. I mean, I know he was friends with Damian and he has other billionaire friends (according to Mum and the other gossip ladies that I try very hard not to listen to). But until now I assumed all he does is scowl at people.
Now that I know he talks, chuckles, and even makes silly comments … I want to be one of them.
“Bonsoir,” she says, nodding to me with a smile.
“Mark and I studied business together before I became a chef. He was much better than me at that, and I wouldn’t be here without his sound advice,” she says in her thick French accent, gesturing to the brightly lit kitchen.
“There’ll always be a table for him here. ”
“Amazing,” I say. “I’m excited to try your food. I’ve never been to a Michelin star restaurant before.”
Nelly’s face lights up. “Oh, really? You’ll have to get our degustation menu, no?” She turns to Mark.
They switch to having a conversation in French that I don’t understand, but I’m guessing it has to do with food, and she pats his shoulder before she’s off, waving goodbye to me.
That pat had zero sexual tension in it, no lingering touch, and no longing stare following it, and I’m confused by how relieved I am. Why the hell should I care?
Sitting here, so close to him, watching him in the dim light of our corner, I’m hit by the want for him to be Robin. The thought comes out of the blue, and I laugh out loud. Mark knits his brow in a questioning look.
“What are you laughing at?” he asks, unfolding his napkin onto his lap.
I just shake my head. It was so foolish; there’s no way I can tell him.
“You know the guy I was meeting today,” I say instead, and Mark nods. “I’ve not seen him properly.”
He scoffs. “A blind date?”
“Not really, I met him at a costume party and we’ve been texting and talking on the phone. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m sharing this. I just started thinking about him, and my mouth runs away.” I sit back and wave a hand as if I could fan away the words I’ve just spoken.
“Go ahead, tell me more. Maybe I can help.”
“How?”
“I’m a man. I think it qualifies.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Anything I say stays here? I don’t want it used against me in the office.”
He holds up his hands. “Your secrets will die with me.”
Giving myself a moment to think, I take a sip of my incredible red wine and let it flow around in my mouth before I swallow. How could he help?
“What was he dressed as?” he asks before I can think of something clever to utilise his man-status for.
“Robin Hood.”
Mark chuckles. “In leggings?”
“He wore a long tunic over. There were no visible bits, if that’s what you’re alluding to.” I point at him with my wine glass and take another sip. The warmth of it spreads in my stomach and into my chest. It’s soothing.
“What did he say about today then?”
“Just that he’s sorry he couldn’t make it. He needs time.”
“He’s married,” Mark says, swivelling his wine.
“No, he’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“I … I don’t. I just didn’t get that impression.”
“Maybe he’s a criminal and just got arrested.”
“What, no!”
“He is … not into women?”
“No, he definitely is.”
“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Mark raises his eyebrows, and his eyes burn into me with such severity my mouth goes dry.
I don’t know how, but this conversation just took a dangerous turn. We’re saved by the staff arriving with the first courses. Nelly explains what the different dishes are, but despite it being presented in English I don’t understand what I’m about to eat.
It all looks like art, though. Intricate patterns of sauces, flowers, small pieces of fruits or vegetables or something. It’s a shame to destroy it. I can’t spy any raw onions, which is a relief.
“What is langoustine?” I ask when I’m sure none of the staff can hear me.
“This little fella here,” Mark says, pointing at the tiny lobster-like creature looking at me like he’s lost a bet. At least he’s surrounded by flowers now.
“Right.”
I dig my way through his little shell for an edible piece and use it to scoop up all the different bits and bobs on the plate. There’s a taste explosion in my mouth, and I can’t help but groan.
Mark smiles knowingly and takes a bite of his piece of artfully decorated something.
“What do you have there?” I ask.
“Pigeon,” he says as he cuts another piece.
I grimace, and he lets out a huff. I stare at him, and then he snorts as if he’s trying to stop himself from laughing out loud. He puts his cutlery down and hides his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking and those delicious forearms on full display.
“Sorry,” he mutters, his voice muffled by his hands.
“I haven’t had an involuntary laugh since I was a child; there was just something about your reaction.
” All I can do is beam at him. I take back what I was thinking earlier.
Mark can be cute. I wish he’d shared his full laugh and grin with me.
I’m missing out on something special, I’m sure of it.
He’s smiling when he runs his hands down that sculpted jaw, shaking his head at me, not condescendingly, but in a ‘you just made me snort in my Michelin food’ kind of way.
“You’re very different from in the office,” I say, feeling brave with some wine in me.
“I am,” he says matter-of-factly, continuing on his ‘food’.
“Are you intentionally super intimidating?”
He stops chewing for a moment and puts his cutlery down. “Yes and no.”
I look at him, really look at him. There’s a tiredness hiding behind his eyes, and something in the weak smile that makes my heart constrict. He’s struggling, isn’t he? Taking over from Damian like that. Not having all the staff he needs.
“I’m trying to make sure people uphold a certain standard, and I…” His eyes find mine. “I trust you not to share this.”
I nod.
“I’m so scared of fucking up, of being compared to Damian and the things he did, that I find it best to keep a distance from everyone. Make sure I avoid any kind of rumours. And if being a bit of a dick in the office makes that happen, then that’s better than the alternative.”
“You think a smile could have people thinking you’re flirting with them? It’s okay to be nice, you know.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly people get the wrong end of a kind gesture or something as simple as a smile, yes.”
“Maybe because you make them so rare, anyone on the other end feels special.”
He’s currently stifling said smile behind his wine glass, eyes twinkling.
I’m about to say that I’m sure it’s a gorgeous smile that should be shared with the world, but I stop myself. It’s probably time to call it now. Enough wine. Enough of all this.
“Umm, I think it’s best I head home.”
He straightens. “Oh, you’ve not tried the dessert yet.” He sounds genuine. Like he wants me to stay. Surely, he has better things to do on a Saturday evening?
Crap. This is so hard. I love dessert. And I want to be here.
I open my mouth, not even sure what my brain has decided to say.
“I can see you’re torn,” he says, getting out of his seat. “I’ll get them to serve it right away. You can’t miss it—it’s the best chocolate and passionfruit mousse.” He does a chef’s kiss. “And then I’ll take you home.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I swear the confusion and longing I’m feeling is reflected in his eyes, but I must be seeing things. There’s no way Mark Becker, billionaire CEO and handsome as hell man, would have any reason or need to long for someone like me.