Chapter 4
OLIVIA
The sharp blare of a horn outside pulls me from my work, and I snap my laptop shut. My girls are here. Bag in hand, I dart outside, so eager to start the weekend that I almost forget to set the house alarm.
Turning back, I catch Erin and Sin chatting in the front seat of the idling car. With the house locked up, I skip down the front steps, waving to Mrs. Foster—my sweet, nosy neighbor—who’s standing on her lawn across the street. She’ll be sure to report my departure to the neighborhood by dinner.
“Off gallivanting, are we?” she calls out in that motherly tone like I owe her an explanation.
I nod and slip into the back seat, not in the mood for small talk. The street doesn’t need to know my business.
“Hey, girlies.” I shut the door with a satisfying thud.
“Let’s get this party started.” Erin grins at me through the rearview mirror and shifts the car into gear.
“Hey, love.” Sin turns to face me. “How are you?”
“Ready to recharge. I’m going to need it with how busy I’ll be once I’m back.”
Erin arches one perfectly sculpted brow. “Recharge? What are you talking about? You’re single, carefree, and have Pete’s money. Why would you need to recharge?”
Sin’s eyes widen before shooting Erin a hard look. Erin’s a litigator for one of Canada’s top mining companies, single and career-driven, splitting her time between courtrooms, travel, and fleeting romances. Her bluntness can sting, but I’m used to it.
After knowing her more than half my life, I’ve learned her barbs often come from her own battles. Though that excuse doesn’t always lessen the bite.
Her obsidian eyes narrow on me. “I meant nothing by it. I just think I’d love to be a divorcée living off my ex’s money and dabbling in paint chips and fabric swatches.”
Ouch.
She flicks her long black hair over her shoulder with a defensive snap, red nails like claws poised to strike. Typical Erin—sharp and uncompromising.
I could argue with her for making my career sound like something out of kindergarten, but I won’t sink to her level. And even with her sharp edges, she can be vulnerable and sweet.
As an only child raised in a cold, strict household, Erin lost her mother to cancer in high school and was left with a distant, stoic father who only rewarded academic achievement. Consequently, she has an “I don’t give a shit” attitude and an insatiable drive to win at all costs.
“Whatever.” I stare out the window, latching on to the sunny scenery.
The demise of my marriage isn’t something Erin understands, or truly anyone else for that matter. She thinks it was perfect despite whatever I’ve shared with her—on the surface, we looked happy enough. Pete’s charm and good looks sealed the illusion. So much so, he can do no wrong in her eyes.
After the separation, she argued with me relentlessly, refusing to consider my position. I didn’t want her to take sides but also didn’t need her blame. Eventually, we agreed to disagree, though that truce is now a strain on our friendship.
Sin slaps the edge of Erin’s seat, causing her to twitch. “Liv is working night and day to get Cassidy Designs off the ground. Don’t downplay her sweat and tears. You deserve this.”
“Thanks, Sin.” She’s like a sister to me. Erin and I may have history, but Sin and I share a deeper closeness since meeting freshman year at university.
“Liv, I’m sorry. You do deserve it.” Erin offers a sheepish grin.
The ride flies by, and early that evening after we’re checked into our hotel, Erin insists on hitting a nightclub. Sin protests, wanting to soak in the tub, but I coax her out. I don’t want to be stuck alone with Erin’s teenager-in-an-adult-body energy.
The evening is fun, a throwback to our university days. The next morning, we spa, then shop in the Mile End neighborhood, known for vintage shops and quaint boutiques, before dressing for dinner. Erin can’t stop raving about the restaurant she booked tonight.
Tucked away on a narrow cobblestone street in Old Montreal, the restaurant Beaulieu’s is an old fieldstone building with an eye-catching red door.
Inside feels like an inviting, cozy home—wide planked floors, small, intimate tables, each adorned with a single pink flower in a petite glass vase.
A beautiful fireplace is the centerpiece of the room.
The faint, familiar scent of something being slow roasted and Arcade Fire’s “Here Comes the Night Time” pulse through the air.
And no matter the location of the table, there’s a great view into the open kitchen.
The culinary magic hangs in the air, and a diner-style order window made of dark burnished wood faces one side of the room.
“This place is great. I love the vibe.” I slide into my chair. “Great pick, Erin.”
She’s a foodie, always dragging us to discover new chefs, and I love it. Just then, our server comes by and introduces herself as well as takes our order for drinks and appetizers.
Once she’s gone, Erin leans in as if she doesn’t want a soul to overhear. “I’ve been dying to come here. Chef Samson Beaulieu is one of Canada’s best.”
Her cheeks flush at the mere mention of this guy. Cute. We both nod as if we haven’t already heard this at least a dozen times today.
Sin unravels her napkin. “I’m starving.”
“When aren’t you?” Erin jokes, sipping on her champagne.
Our oysters arrive, and while we suck and slurp our appetizer, Erin glances fervently at the window into the heart of the kitchen.
By the time our entrées are served, we’re hungry and already on our second bottle of wine. My seared scallops with Swiss chard and leeks in garlic brown butter are mouthwatering.
As I savor my first bite, Erin gasps, her gaze glued on the kitchen.
The atmosphere shifts. A different kind of buzz zips through the air, far from the usual din of dinner conversation.
Sin and I notice the heightened energy at about the same time and share a curious look.
As if synchronized, we turn in the direction of the vortex, of what has Erin’s undivided attention and the room in an uproar.
A tall—definitely over six feet—broad-shouldered man with short brown hair and a tattoo on one arm casually saunters toward the kitchen, carrying a basket of vegetables.
Hello, hottie.
Like a moth to a flame, all gazes are tethered to him.
An invisible pull, strong and palpable. He moves with relaxed confidence, slipping on a chef’s jacket over a tight black tee.
I marvel at how he’s completely at ease with being the main attraction, managing his staff without so much as a glance at the dining room.
Even with this dim lighting, his eyes are light. Vivid and intense. Blue or green, but I’m not sure which from this distance. He has striking features from the cut of his cheekbones to the strong jaw roughed by scruff.
And his lips? Kissable.
“Fuck me sideways.” Erin slaps her palm onto the table. “He’s even better looking in person.”
“Which one is he?” Sin scans the kitchen and I giggle. How could she miss him?
“That’s him.” Erin catches herself before she raises her finger to point him out.
He tastes something, his tongue sweeping over his full lips twice, and the room collectively sighs. If I wasn’t equally captivated, I’d burst into laughter at the power this man holds by simply existing.
Despite his age—he’s got to be ten years my junior—I’d be a fool not to appreciate his beauty. A woman can admire no matter the age—as long as he’s an adult, there’s no harm in that. It’s not like I’m jumping into bed with him, although the thought sends warm tingles to my nether regions.
Reining in my foolish fantasy, I toss Erin a crumb. “Wow. Forget the food. My appetite is sated just by the view.”
“Oh, my God, I have to meet him.” She snaps out of her trance and shifts into a woman on a mission. Swiping the napkin across her mouth, she reaches for her purse.
“You can’t go over there.” I lay a hand on her arm. “Don’t be a stalker.”
She applies her lipstick and runs her fingers through her hair, ignoring me.
“Erin, let the man work.” Sin tries for understanding. “We can admire him from afar.”
Several leave their tables—partners, family, and dates be damned—and are lining up around the kitchen counter.
The hostess approaches the mob, directing them to stand at the order window.
The design is deliberate. The counter isn’t for orders; it’s for the gaggles ogling and attempting to harass the chef.
“Shit.” A hard glint flashes in Erin’s eye, already sizing up the competition. “Let’s wait till it dies down.”
Sin and I nod in agreement, diving back into our divine meals. Though in my mind, there’s no us. I’m not going over there. Not a chance in hell.
No surprise, the lineup neither dwindles nor dies. No sooner do they return to their tables than new ones join the line. It’s amusing to see some of them shamelessly flirting and lingering well after the chef has said hello or given an autograph.
At one point, the hostess interrupts, pulling the chef away from the groupies to talk to him. Her back is to the diners and he is front and center.
Holy moly.
During their conversation, his gaze sweeps across the room, passing over our table. Our eyes connect for a heartbeat, maybe two. A sudden, intense flutter spreads out from the center of my chest.
Then it’s over. He moves on.
Relieved, my lungs start to function again, and I drink in every detail of his beautiful visage. I’m not a religious person, but I could worship his face. I’m so engrossed in my greedy perusal, I don’t notice when, a beat later, his roving eyes swing back to me.
Our gazes lock once more and my breath hitches, palms becoming clammy. All noise, movement, even the air comes to a standstill. His full lips twitch, sliding into a subtle grin, widening to a bright smile complete with two panty-melting dimples.
Heat rises from deep within me, multiplying like wildfire, and my heart threatens to pound right out of my chest.
Just as quickly, our bond is broken once more when the hostess leans in to say something. He abruptly reverts to her with a curt nod and turns his back to the room.
What just happened? I’m bereft and force myself to look anywhere but at the kitchen. At him.
This is silly. He’s young, and here I am, getting worked up over a glance. Maybe I’ve gone too long without sex.
Erin scrutinizes me. Sin does too, although hers is more with an amused expression. They were watching. Terrific.
Refusing to acknowledge a thing, I dig into my unfinished meal, although I fail to keep my eyes on my plate.
I find myself glancing in his direction repeatedly and sometimes, our eyes even meet.
When they do, he pulls a full shit-eating grin, dimples and all, as if to say he caught me red-handed.
In each instance, I’m inevitably the first to waver and turn away.
Through this all, his adoring fans continue to line up, and though I’m unable to hear what he says to them, he appears polite and adorably friendly, but nothing else.
“That’s it, I’m going. I have to meet him. Who knows? Maybe I’ll tempt him with my own delights.” Erin waggles her brows suggestively.
“You should go too.” Sin points her fork at me. “I saw the way he was checking you out and the looks you were giving him.”
“I think the wine is messing with your eyesight.” I snort.
She grins. “You’re allowed to enjoy the attention. You’re not dead.”
I glare at her, but the truth hits a nerve.
When was the last time I felt…noticed? Desired?
It’s easily been more than a decade. And with the separation, I’ve buried myself in work and trying to hold it all together—for Cassidy Designs, for Drew and Paige. For myself.
I haven’t let myself fantasize about anything remotely sexual. Let alone entertained the possibility of something real, if even a fun, flirty, fling.
Despite all that, I stand. “I’m going to the restroom.”
I don’t wait for a reply, needing a break from Erin’s theatrics and Sin’s all-too-perceptive gaze.
Inside the tiny powder room, I grip the edge of the marble sink and breathe deeply.
Get it together.
So what if the chef is devastatingly attractive? It’s harmless admiration, no different from drooling over a movie star.
Except movie stars don’t look at me like that.
Shaking my head, I wash my hands, freshen my lipstick, and give myself one final look in the mirror. Cheeks flushed, eyes aglow, I hope the wine will take the blame.