Chapter 18
It was late when the party finally wound down, and it was a brisk night, so I sprang for a taxi. Through the window, Paris glowed gold against the sharp darkness of the night. I barely noticed, though. All I was thinking about was Laurent.
He opened the door immediately after I knocked. He was still wearing a suit, probably because he’d had to work late after spending half the day on a wild goose chase for me. On his face was the widest smile I’d seen from him. I could hardly picture the grumpy man I’d served weeks ago.
“How did it go?” he asked as he pulled me into his arms.
I breathed in the citrus scent of his hair. “Perfectly. I mean, they were terrible, but the meal went wonderfully. All thanks to you.”
Laurent’s golden eyes crinkled with happiness. “Are you hungry? I know how easy it is to forget to eat while working in a restaurant.”
“I’m famished,” I admitted.
Putting an arm around me, Laurent led me to his kitchen and pulled out a chair. “How does a croque-monsieur sound? I know it’s not fancy, but I can make a good one.”
“That’d be wonderful,” I said as I sank into the chair.
Laurent tied his apron around his waist and poured me a glass of Beaujolais. As he whisked together a bechamel sauce, I told him about the meal, recounted the demands, the returned profiteroles, the triumphant presentation of the tetilla… I felt as light as air as I spoke.
Laurent assembled the sandwiches, brushed them with melted butter, and set them in a griddle. As they toasted, he gave me his undivided attention. Then, at some unseen sign, he turned around and took the croque-monsieurs out of the griddle. They were cooked to perfection.
He tried to shoo Minerva out of his chair, but she only sniffed and curled tighter into a donut. Laurent decided to accept defeat gracefully and eat his croque-monsieur standing. He garnished our plates with a sprinkling of minced chives, then set my croque-monsieur in front of me.
It took me about five seconds to devour it.
“That was delicious,” I said once my plate was cleared. “Ten out of ten, no notes.”
Laurent had only taken a few bites of his, but he must have realized I was still hungry because he stood up and went to the fridge.
“I was saving these for the grand finale,” he said as he set down a ceramic platter between us.
“It’s no quesarito, but I think they’ll do.
” On the platter were a dozen oysters gleaming in their half-shells.
He reached for a shallot, finely mincing it with practiced precision, then added it to a bowl of white wine vinegar and cracked pepper.
The sharp, tangy scent of the mignonette sauce mingled with the scent of our wine. I couldn’t take my eyes off Laurent.
He turned toward me, a single oyster in his hand.
I didn’t speak; I barely moved. All I did was part my lips just enough for Laurent to bring the oyster shell to my mouth. He tipped it in, and I swallowed slowly, savoring the cold brine, the slick curve of the oyster, and the sudden brightness of vinegar and shallot.
A drop of mignonette clung to my lower lip. I licked it off.
“Mon dieu,” I breathed. “That’s indecently good.”
Laurent smiled his crooked smile as he tipped another oyster into my mouth.
It had barely slipped down my throat before Laurent caught me up in his arms and pressed his mouth to mine.
I returned the kiss eagerly. All I wanted was Laurent.
Every centimeter of me that wasn’t touching him was screaming out to be pressed against his body.
Without a word, Laurent pulled me out of my seat and brought me to the couch.
He cupped my face in his hands. I could feel the scars he’d earned from his years of cooking.
He kissed me on the forehead, his lips warm and soft, then trailed kisses down my face.
He kissed my nose, then each cheekbone, then came a line of feathery-soft kisses on my chin and along my jawline before he again pressed his mouth to mine. I was nearly giddy with desire.
Laurent sank backward, stretching out on the couch and pulling me on top of him. His hands sank into my hair, and he reached his mouth hungrily to me, kissing and nipping his way from my jaw down my neck. When he reached my clavicle, he sucked gently. A moan escaped my lips.
Remembering something, I sat up abruptly.
“The quiche you made.” I could barely remember my name at the moment, but I wanted Laurent to know this one thing. “The third one. The crust was amazing.”
Laurent looked surprised, then he started laughing. He pulled me down for another kiss.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” he said, once he’d finished kissing me. “But that wasn’t the third quiche I made. It was only the third quiche I sent to you.”
Well, now I was curious. “How many quiches did you make?”
Laurent was already flushed, but his cheeks went a shade darker. “Thirty-seven.”
I couldn’t help it; I started laughing.
“What exactly is so funny?” Laurent growled, trying to sound stern, but only managing to sound sexy.
“It’s just that,” I said, gasping as I tried to catch my breath, “I once made eclairs ten times in a week to get the choux pastry perfect. I thought that was messed up. You broke three dozen.“ A final hiccup escaped me. “Do you measure your garnishes with a ruler to make sure they’re all angled to the same degree? That’s what Chef La Croix does.”
“You don’t even want to know the things I’ve done to make a dish perfect,“ Laurent said, eyes sparking.
“I do want to know,” I said, resting my chin on Laurent’s chest.
“You don’t. You’d be horrified and run screaming from this apartment.” I felt his chest vibrate under me as he laughed. Laurent tugged me up so that his face was just centimeters from mine. “And I can’t be scaring you away,” he murmured.
His hands slipped from my neck down my back. I was still wearing the black silk dress I’d gone to work in, although it must have an unholy number of wrinkles by now from being bunched around my hips as Laurent and I romped on the couch.
Laurent was making gentle circles at the small of my back.
I shifted until I was fully on top of him, my heart hammering.
His body was solid beneath me, heat pressed against heat.
I skimmed my hands down the firm smoothness of his chest, pausing to swirl my fingers in the patch of blond hair at his neckline. A soft groan escaped him.
It made me smugly satisfied to know I had that effect on this man, but then Laurent’s hands trailed to the backs of my thighs, and my own composure slipped. My vision went black as I arched against his touch. His fingers were cool against my skin.
He lifted us both to our feet, still kissing me. For a moment I drank in the sight of him: untamed curls, golden eyes, the dimple just forming to the right of his half-smile. He was still wearing his apron. Suppressing a laugh, I tugged on its strings. It fluttered to the ground.
With maddening patience, Laurent folded it neatly and set it on the coffee table.
“It’d bother me if I left it like that,” he admitted sheepishly.
Somehow, that grin made me want him even more.
I reached for his shirt, but Laurent had already started unbuttoning it. Impatiently, he peeled it and his tight gray undershirt off. His bare stomach was taut, a faint trail of blond hair leading lower.
Lightheaded with desire, I closed the gap between us, my palms flattening over Laurent’s chest. Goosebumps broke out on his skin, and before I could savor it, he was kissing me while his fingers found my zipper. In a breath, my dress was sliding down my arms.
“Margot,” Laurent groaned, his voice turning my name into something urgent and desired.
Suddenly, Laurent scooped me up, holding me close as I rested my head against his chest, safe in the circle of his arms. He had chef arms, hard and muscled, and he balanced my weight easily as he carried me to his bedroom.
I’d glimpsed the space before, but never entered. Even now, flushed and tangled with him, I smirked: not a hair out of place. I bet he ironed his sheets.
But Laurent didn’t seem concerned about the sheets getting wrinkled now as he tossed me onto the bed. I suppressed a laugh as I imagined him folding our discarded clothes, but he seemed happy enough to let them pile messily on the ground.
As he looked at me, a quiet sound escaped Laurent’s lips, something halfway between a sigh and groan. He swung a leg across my hips, straddling me. Held in place by his thighs, the only thing I could do was try not to drown in his touch. Only the thin lace of my panties separated us.
Laurent kissed me again, more urgently now, sucking my bottom lip and tracing me with his tongue.
Before my dizzy, loved-up mind could catch up, Laurent had slid off the bed and knelt on the ground.
I felt him slide my panties down my legs.
Lifting my head, I saw his mouth curve into a crooked grin. And then all I saw was stars.
I clutched at him, at the sheets, at anything that would hold me together.
Laurent paused, smug, grinning up at me, before I dragged at his shoulders in desperation.
Obliging, he climbed onto the bed and pressed the full length of his body against mine.
He moved against me, and every nerve in my body ignited.
I raked my hands through his hair, along the hard lines of his back.
“Margot,” he groaned into my mouth. The sound alone nearly finished me.
All of Laurent’s smooth self-assurance that had been so prominently on display the first time we’d met was gone. In its place was this sweating, tousled man, undone and entirely mine.
“Margot.”
I will never get tired of hearing that voice speak my name.
“I need to kiss you.”
Laurent looked so desperate I nearly laughed.
“Then kiss me, mon chérie.” I tipped my legs back so that my ankles were roughly in line with my head (Thank you, Yasmine, for suggesting we take that yoga class, which was objectively terrible and full of sweaty, grunting people, but got me into the habit of stretching).
Laurent followed me down, pressing me into the mattress as he pressed his mouth to mine.
I tangled a hand in his damp curls. His low, animal moan rolled through me, carrying me over the edge until I broke apart beneath him.
When at last he shuddered to stillness, I held him close, both of us gasping.
“Laurent,” I whispered.
He cracked one golden eye.
“Next time,” I murmured, “keep the apron on.”
***
As our breathing quieted, we lay on the bed, Laurent curled around me.
Between the Prime Minister’s meal being over (already that dinner seemed so long ago) and finally consummating things with Laurent, I was giddy with happiness.
A laugh bubbled out of me, and I buried my head in Laurent’s shoulder, shaking with giggles.
“What’s so funny?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” I whispered as I snuggled closer to him. “You saved me, by finding that cheese.”
He opened an eye and smiled. “There was no way I was going to let you down. I would have bought a small herd of cows and made the cheese myself if that’s what it took.” His voice was still low and hoarse. It brought me back to how he’d sounded in the throes of passion, and I shivered.
I turned so that we lay side-by-side, facing each other. Laurent looked rumpled and sleepy and deeply happy.
But wait. There was one thing I had to check.
“Laurent?” I whispered. He turned a sleepy face toward me.
“If I wanted to bake croissants at three in the morning, would that bother you?”
Laurent blinked. “You want to make croissants now?”
“No, just hypothetically. If, one night, I want to get up at a random hour and do some baking, would that bother you?” I was completely still as I watched him drowsily contemplate the question.
“Why would that bother me?” he said finally. “I cook at odd hours all the time. I’d just hope you’d save a croissant for me.” In the warm dark, I grinned like an idiot, some nameless fear having dissolved away.
We fell asleep like that, entwined in each other.
Sometime later, I awoke to see the first streaks of dawn filtering through the windows.
Laurent must have awoken in the middle of the night and spread a blanket over us.
I snuggled deeper in it, moving closer to Laurent so that we were touching again.
My last thought, as I drifted back off to sleep, was this: For the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t lonely.