Chapter 6
OLIVIA
“Ah, shit,” I screech, stumbling and almost snapping my ankle in two.
Old Montreal’s cobblestone streets might look like a scene from a postcard—quaint, romantic, a European dream—but the uneven stones are absolute hell in heels.
We pick our way down the well-lit street, taking tiny, careful steps, each of us hyperaware that one wrong move could mean a broken heel or worse.
“Are you okay?” Sin stops for me to catch up, and I gratefully latch on to her arm with a shaky breath.
“Barely.” I laugh to disguise the pulse of nerves. “How much longer till we hit pavement?”
Why didn’t we just call an Uber to pick us up outside the restaurant?
“Soon.” Erin’s closer to the next intersection where a blessedly smooth road awaits.
“How you holding up?” She quirks a brow and casts an assessing gaze my way. “Any regrets for bolting like a bat out of hell?”
Before I can form my defense, I hear from behind us…
“Olivia.” That deep, unmistakable voice cuts through the night.
I stop dead.
My heel snags on a stone, again, and Sin steadies me, but all I can see when I glance over my shoulder is Sam Beaulieu.
He jogs toward us, and under the glow of the moon, every stride is smooth and confident. The sight of him burns away every irritation, every thought, every single molecule of composure I had left.
Why had I run out of the restaurant? I was willing to turn my back on this guy? What am I, insane?
“Eek.” Erin bumps into my back, giddy like a toddler hopped up on candy. How did she get back here so fast?
We three wobble like dominos before catching ourselves, teetering beneath a vintage streetlight as he approaches. I shouldn’t speak for my friends, but I’m pretty sure our little trio is mesmerized by the tall, lean man with a slow, sexy curve to his magnificent mouth.
Erin’s gaze widens, her disbelief evident and only confirmed in her cutting tone. “I seriously don’t believe this.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not like I summoned him.
“Ladies.” Mock wounded, he presses a hand over his chest. “You left without saying goodbye.” His tone is playful, voice rough velvet.
“We’re so sorry,” Erin all but purrs, sliding forward to rest her hand on his arm.
His eyes flick to her, briefly, before pinning me with his impossible green stare. The shimmer in them is alive with an unspeakable heat or hunger.
“Olivia.” My name rolls off his tongue, soft and rough all at once. “Can we talk for a moment?”
My friends dissolve into fits of giggles, like teenagers at a boy-band concert.
I hang my head, embarrassed, and a little bit jealous of their freedom to act this ridiculous.
I really can’t blame them. What I would do to let loose and squeal right now.
I can hardly believe he came after me,— left his restaurant, in the middle of a full house, for me.
I stare at my friends, and it takes a few seconds for them to acknowledge me. “Give us a minute?”
They grumble but retreat a few steps away. At the same time, Sam closes the distance between us. The awareness of him—his height, his energy, the scent of something earthy and clean—hits me all at once.
I step out of the streetlight’s circle, still trying to get my bearings, and Sam moves into it, the glow hitting his features like a spotlight on the main act.
If I didn’t know he was a chef, I’d swear he was a model.
“I don’t do this.” He’s suddenly serious in a quiet, sincere way.
“Do what?” My heart somersaults.
“Chase women.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I quirk an eyebrow and he nods, smile still in place. “Well, actually, come to think of it, of course you don’t. They usually fall at your feet.”
Flashes of tonight’s revolving door of women in his kitchen come to mind. I bet tonight was an average turnout for him.
“Fall at my feet?” His chuckle is low and sexy, his mouth curving on one side. “Can’t say I remember that. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten a woman at my feet.”
“I guess we see things differently.” I place my hand on my hip. “What do you want, Sam?”
“You to go out with me.”
Didn’t he get the hint? I shot him down in the restaurant. Though something deep inside of me wavers.
He’s beautiful. Young. Confident. He could have anyone. So why me? I’m not chopped liver, but I’m not twenty-five. Although they say forty is the new thirty, whoever the hell “they” are. I’ve got two children, stretch marks, and gravity isn’t kind.
I take a deep breath. I am enough. I am beautiful.
“I live in Toronto.” It’s a lame rebuttal and causes my insides to quiver.
“You’ve already said that.” Smiling, his voice is a low rumble, stirring sensations deep in my core. “But you’re still here tomorrow. Have dinner with me.”
“Why?” The word escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
“Because I want to get to know you.”
“Why?” Great. Now I’m a human echo chamber.
“Because I like you, and something tells me I’ll like you even more once I get to know you.” His smile is blinding, especially his panty-wetting dimples.
“I’m forty-two.” It’s time to thwart his lunacy.
He doesn’t even flinch. His gaze stays on me, darkening with something I can’t name. Something that seems dangerous and thrilling all at once.
I’m wildly flattered by his attention and won’t soon forget it. I’ll pull this moment out when I need an ego boost or some inspiration for my spank bank, but he’s way too young.
The silence stretches.
Any minute now, I expect him to laugh, to back away, to remember his sanity. But he doesn’t.
Is he grappling for a kind way to escape?
“Oh…kay.” His mouth twitches, amused.
I wait for more, prepare for his hasty escape, but nothing.
Silence ensues. And clearly, he isn’t bothered by this strange stillness. He continues to smile.
When is he going to realize this is crazy and walk away?
Our stare-off lingers in awkward silence or at least it feels so to me. His sexy grin widens and I can’t help myself. He’s mouthwatering.
The man hasn’t said any more since his vague drawn-out response and yet, I cross my arms, if only for some kind of protection. His silent persistence is getting to me.
Like our shared glances at his restaurant, I’m the first to crumble. “And you are…?”
He cocks a brow, feigning confusion as if he doesn’t know what I’m getting at. “I’m what?”
“How old are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.” His grin widens, teasing as he slides a hand in his pant pocket. So casual and laid-back.
I narrow my gaze. He’s impossible.
“I tell you what.” He leans in closer, voice dropping. “Go out with me, and when we’re out, I’ll tell you how old I am.”
“Seriously?” I can’t help it and laugh, a mixture of tickled by his interest and irritated by his determination. “You know I could Google you, right? Sam Beaulieu, Mr. Hotshot Chef.”
He laughs softly. “I’m sure you could, but where’s the fun in that? Go to dinner with me tomorrow night? Please.”
His dimples flash again, and my knees along with my resolve give way. Heat coils low in my belly, my thighs clenching before I can stop them.
“Coffee.” Why didn’t I say no?
Now I’m bargaining?
What the hell, Olivia?
The correct answer is no. Plain and simple. No. Clearly, the fool in me has taken over.
“Lunch.” Under the streetlight, his scruff catches the glow, his jaw firm and eyes steady on mine.
Our negotiations are now in full swing and why is he so tempting?
“Coffee.” The repetition comes out weak, less conviction.
“Dinner.”
He’s enjoying this—me unraveling
“Fine, lunch.” My defenses fall apart like wet paper.
So much for standing my ground—though I changed the meal on him. Ha. Like it’s some big win. While I folded, lunch instead of dinner is a victory, albeit small. An evening meal comes with too much pressure and expectation.
He grins, triumphant but not smug. “Excellent. Give me your phone.”
I dig through my purse while girly squeals emanate from the two grown-ass women behind me. I try to ignore them, though, to be fair, I’m biting back a silly grin myself, and hand him my phone.
After a few taps, he sends a text to himself and then gives it back but keeps hold of my hand. His warmth is intoxicating.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He gently squeezes my fingers in his large, solid grip.
“Okay.” I’m unsteady.
“This is for you.” He reaches up and plucks a pink flower from his lapel. I hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s the same kind of flower that decorates his restaurant.
He tucks the delicate bloom into the buttonhole of my jacket and his fingers lightly graze my collarbone, sending sparks shooting down to the tips of my toes.
“Thank you.” My reply comes out thin and shaky.
“It’s a camellia.”
“It’s beautiful.” I can hardly breathe. This whole thing feels unreal. Reckless, electric, and wrong in all the best ways. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what a pink camellia means?”
I shake my head, caught in his spell and hanging on his every word.
“It has a couple of meanings. Gratitude.” He glances down to the ink peeking from the sleeve of his chef jacket before his gaze captures mine once more.
“Longing and desire.” His low rumble vibrates through me, slow and molten, pooling heat deep in my belly. “Good night, Olivia. I look forward to our lunch.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering just a little too long. My breath catches as he trails toward my ear, his scent wrapping around me—spice, warmth, and something purely male.
His lip grazes the shell of my ear. “I’ll be longing for you.”
And just like that, he’s gone—his footsteps fading into the hum of the city, leaving me under the streetlight with a pink camellia and a pulse that won’t slow down.
Behind me, Sin and Erin are whispering, but I barely hear them.
I bring the flower to my nose, catching a faint, sweet fragrance, and let out a trembling breath.
Longing and desire.
By morning, I’ll be consumed by both.