2. Pâte Brisée
P?TE brISéE
*if the butter doesn’t come from the freezer, it isn’t cold enough.
W e didn’t chat the whole flight. There was a break for a petit dejeuner , which included a shockingly good croissant and a coffee. And another break for a light lunch.
Daniel did, however, talk for most of the time between the meals, regaling me with wild tales of his travels in between cocktails.
Some were exaggerated, and others were outright lies.
I happened to know that the year he claimed to have sailed from the Bahamas all the way to Portugal, he hadn’t even made it out of the harbor after failing his sailing tests.
That summer, he spent lounging around the family’s Hamptons estate while I made his favorite curried egg salad every Tuesday.
But he was such a good storyteller, I found myself enjoying the stories anyway.
Besides, I was spinning my own yarn too. Mysterious first-class passenger who “knows” Daniel socially. Who was I to judge if he wanted to embellish to impress a pretty girl?
Because I was pretty. I knew that now. Daniel had said so, twice, including right before he dozed off and slumped over just enough to rest his head on my shoulder. Did my neck hurt from being frozen for forty-five minutes straight?
Yes.
Did I move?
Absolutely not.
The man smelled like orange blossom, gin, and heaven.
So, I could pretend that every time he said something like, “I know we’ve only met a few times, but I feel like I’ve known you for years,” my gut didn’t twist in on itself when he didn’t recognize the girl who had cleaned his room for three years and served his meals.
I wasn’t about to spoil the longest conversation I’d ever had with Daniel Lyons with something as trivial as the truth.
He’d find that out soon enough. Our short-lived relationship would probably end after we deplaned and lost each other at baggage claim anyway.
Except it didn’t.
“There you are.”
I turned from where I was waiting next to the carousel to where Daniel had appeared on my left.
For approximately the ten thousandth time that day, I mentally thanked Louis for talking me into the palazzo pants and the cropped black sweater with the Peter Pan neckline.
The outfit met my desire to keep relatively covered while revealing a slice of midriff that Daniel was eyeing like a wolf on the prowl.
He smiled hungrily. “Two questions, gorgeous: where exactly are you headed, and when do I see you again?”
When I didn’t respond immediately, his smile turned off-kilter. My heart skipped a beat. This was my favorite Daniel expression—the one where he wasn’t completely sure of himself but wanted to charm someone anyway.
“After all, I at least owe you a bed the next time I use you as a pillow.” One dark blond brow lifted with suggestion.
Wait. That was a come-on, right? Or was it?
Was he suggesting that we have sex? Or was he apologizing?
Was he equating sleeping on my shoulder to a sexual act?
Was that a good thing?
I had a feeling I was supposed to know…but I didn’t. Lipstick and a cute shirt hadn’t taught me anything about flirting with an expert like Daniel.
“Er, I’m going to New Rochelle.” I forced myself to turn back to the carousel and watch for the rest of my luggage.
I had one bag, but there had been no sign of the other two.
Frankly, I didn’t want Daniel to see them.
One was my brother’s beaten-up Marine-issued duffel that had literally been through a war and back, and the other was a cheap (and bright pink) suitcase that I’d bought on the street in the Nineteenth Arrondissement.
The bags alone would give away the fact that I had no business in first class.
“No shit. That’s where I live. Talk about kismet, right?” Daniel winked, and it was like the whole of JFK baggage claim twinkled with him. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Er…” Another glance at the carousel told me the pink behemoth was on its way, but there was no way I was claiming it in front of him. “That’s all right. I have a car waiting for me.”
A car owned by a Lyft driver named Bogdan, but that was neither here nor there.
Daniel looked mildly disappointed. “Well, we’re neighbors. What’s your number? We can go out and celebrate your return.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll run into each other…” I was shooting for coy and a little mysterious but probably looked like I had an eye twitch.
“I see how you want to play it. Fair warning, though, gorgeous. I love a good chase.”
I opened my mouth to protest. That was definitely not what I was doing.
The duffel bag trundled by. I was going to be here for hours by the time it came back again, but I’d rather walk through fire than grab either of those bags with this man watching. I needed Daniel to leave.
“So, how about this, Cinderella?” he teased, unaware of the way I flinched at the name. “My parents are having a party at the house for their fortieth anniversary. We’re inviting the whole damn planet—I’m sure your folks were invited too, but either way, you should come.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“You’ve got to.” His big golden hand closed around mine, pulling me from my baggage watching. Shivers traveled up my arm. “Please.”
Those large blue eyes blinked at me, pools of joy I wanted to drown in.
How did anyone say no to Daniel Lyons?
They didn’t. Obviously. I couldn’t quite manage it myself.
“I don’t know…”
“Mom would never forgive me if she heard you’re back in town and didn’t come,” he pressed.
I couldn’t quite mask my snort. “I doubt that.”
But Daniel just laughed as he released my hand ( no , a little voice mewled in the back of my brain), and that smile— oh , that light-bulb smile that could have powered all of New York—lit up the baggage claim. “You’re so damn cute.”
My heart trilled.
His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “That’s my car. Listen, I hope you come. And if you do, save me a dance, all right?”
“I—”
But he was already making his way toward the exit. His bags were nowhere in sight—of course—because men like Daniel Lyons had people to take care of those things for them.
Just in time, too. My giant pink elephant was making its third round now, reminding me this little game of make-believe was officially over.
Maybe it was better that in nine hours together, Daniel had been so busy talking about himself, he hadn’t remembered to ask for my name.
I couldn’t help wishing he knew it anyway.
I was going to kill Joni. I didn’t care if she was helping Lea or not—this fare was going to bleed me dry.
My bags had only just managed to squeeze into the trunk and the tiny back seat of Bogdan’s minivan, and I spent most of the drive to Westchester trying to determine what I was going to say when I reached the Lyons estate and Daniel realized that the girl he’d invited to his parents’ anniversary party was the one who made the smoked salmon puffs.
I was also replaying every moment we’d had together in my head.
Men in New York had never looked at me the way he had on the plane.
I’d grown up in a neighborhood where boys and men congregated on front stoops and fire escapes like pigeons and rated women with whistles and comments as they walked by.
I’d watched my older brother chase girls for years before settling down, and between my grandmother, who was closing in on eighty, and four good-looking sisters, my family members had plenty of stories to tell.
But not me. Sometimes it had felt like I was the only woman in New York who hadn’t ever been catcalled. It was fine. I didn’t want the attention from strangers.
But I had wanted Daniel’s.
All through the flight, he kept glancing at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle. It was the look someone got when they walked into my kitchen and smelled a recipe they’d never had before. They wanted to taste it. They wanted a bite. But they also weren’t sure what it was yet.
“Stella?” he had asked when we were two hours out of Paris.
I’d shaken my head and taken a sip of club soda. He’d given up pretending to know who I was about forty minutes into the flight.
“Lindsay?”
Another shake.
“Give me a hint, honey,” he had begged with a hand on my shoulder. “Just a little one.”
I’d stared at the hand, feeling the heat rising up my neck and into my cheeks. “You once claimed my chicken soup could cure anything.”
An eleven-shaped mark had appeared in the center of Daniel’s perfect brow. “Your chicken soup…oh, right…Margot?”
I ignored the disappointment lodging in my stomach like brick. He didn’t even remember the day that had changed my entire life.
I was seventeen and had been working as a maid on the Lyons estate for two years. One day, I went in to clean Daniel’s room, thinking he was out with friends, and had found him burrowed under his comforter with a terrible cold.
Seeing Daniel with a fever made him more…human. I was able to talk to him for the first time ever. Ask him if he needed anything. Offer help.
As I gathered his laundry, I mentioned that my family made the best chicken pastina soup in the world. Nonna said it could cure any illness. After blowing his nose longer than any human had in history, Daniel had said he would kill for a bowl.
I’d gone straight to the kitchen and made him my nonna’s recipe.
One bowl of soup changed everything for me. Daniel had eaten all of it, the first thing he’d consumed in days. He told me he was pretty sure it saved his life, and shortly after that, I was promoted to assistant cook.
But he didn’t remember a thing.
My heart sped up when Bogdan turned onto the familiar Premium Point drive. How many times had I made this exact trip in the mornings before leaving for Paris?