Chapter 7
SAM
Fourteen hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Olivia. Since I’ve seen her.
Pathetic, maybe, but it seems longer. The night dragged, the morning worse.
It was only a kiss on the cheek, but stopping there took everything I had. Walking away left me hard, restless, and haunted by the way she smiled against my skin.
I have a ton of work to get through before stealing a few hours for lunch with her.
If only my mind would cooperate. I can’t concentrate on invoices, menu changes, or supplier calls without her face intruding, the way her laugh curls low in her throat, and the way she looks at me as if she’s trying not to.
She’s under my skin, and she’s not even mine.
I’m not sure what our date will bring; I haven’t let myself think that far ahead. But I do know this—lunch won’t be enough. The distance won’t matter. I already know I’ll want more.
By eleven-thirty, she’s waiting in the hotel lobby, impossible to miss. Her glossy espresso-colored hair tumbles in soft waves, framing her face in a way that makes my chest tighten.
She’s in a pale-pink jersey top that clings just enough to torture me, jeans that fit like a second skin, and black ankle boots that somehow make her legs look longer. The Ray-Bans perched on her head complete the look—sweet and sexy without even trying.
“Hey there.” My lips brush her cheek, and the second my skin meets hers, heat streaks through me. A lit match.
She smells like vanilla and spring rain. I want to linger.
“Hi.” Her greeting is a sigh that vibrates between us.
I take her hand and we fall into step easily, like we’ve done it a hundred times.
We stroll along the streets of downtown Montreal, and not long after leaving the hotel, her phone rings and we stop for her to check.
She glances at the screen, frowns, and sends the call to voicemail before tucking it back into her bag.
“Everything okay?”
She nibbles her bottom lip—a nervous habit, maybe—and shakes her head. “Yes. It was nothing. Where are we going?”
“One of my favorite places. Do you like Portuguese?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”
“You’re in for a treat. The food is out of this world. I thought it would be a great place to enjoy the afternoon and get to know each other.”
When we step into the restaurant, she quiets, taking in the cozy space and flickering candlelight. I ask our server for sparkling wine as we’re seated. The air smells of grilled seafood, garlic, and lemon.
Her gaze travels over the brick walls and warm wood tones, then to me. “You’re passionate about food, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It’s who I am.”
“I can tell.”
I chuckle, clinking our glasses once the server pours the wine. Then she waits to take our order.
“Can I order for you?” I rush to explain, not wanting her to think I’m a control freak or anything like that. “Only because I know this menu as well as my own and I want you to experience the best dishes.”
“I don’t usually let men order for me.” Her eyes gleam, teasing but genuine. “But yes, I trust you.”
“You do?”
She nods, and something about that small gesture lends itself to intimacy.
“Sam,” the owner—a friend of mine—calls from across the restaurant.
We both turn and before I can say anything, he’s upon us, hugging me, shaking my hand, and introducing himself to Olivia.
In his usual gregarious manner, he dominates the conversation and orders for both of us.
Of course, who better than the owner to order for you, but today he’s cramping my style, and try as I might, he doesn’t get the hint.
I love the man and usually enjoy his company, but right now I’d rather he be anywhere but at our table. Finally, twenty minutes in, when our appetizers arrive, he says his goodbyes.
Alone at last.
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. He’s funny. It’s obvious he likes you.”
“He’s a good guy. We worked together years ago before we got our own kitchens. You’ll love the food.”
While we eat, the conversation flows easily. I get to know her better, find out more about this captivating woman I have such strong desires for. Likewise, she’s curious—about my life, my work, my city—and I find myself wanting to give her everything.
“So.” I lean back in my chair. “Why Montreal?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here with friends. Why this city?”
“Oh. It’s a girls’ getaway. We wanted something fun but close.”
“And lucky me, you ended up at my restaurant.” I grin. “Montreal is fantastic for amazing restaurants, so why Beaulieu’s?”
My question is selfish. Yes, I want to know everything about Olivia, but I’m also a restaurateur and want to know what drew these out-of-town women to my spot.
A part of me knows I, Samson Beaulieu, may very well have been part of the allure, regardless of the food. While the thought brings some disappointment, I’m not destroyed, not when I’m just as interested in her.
She hesitates, then laughs softly. “Honestly, I didn’t even know about Beaulieu’s. Erin did all the planning.” There’s an awkward flush to her cheeks. “In my defense, I usually let her do all the planning, and I tag along. She’s the one who knew about your restaurant.”
“Ah.” I feign offense with a scoff and clutch my chest.
Her giggle makes her shoulders shake, and a few strands of hair fall into her eyes. I want to reach across the table and brush them back, to feel the silk of her hair between my fingers. Instead, I lace my hands together and anchor them in my lap.
“I’m kidding, although you could have lied and gone easy on my ego.” I rub at the center of my chest just to keep her smiling. “In all seriousness, what did you think?”
“I loved it.” Her gaze never wavers from mine. “The food was fantastic. You’re very talented.”
Her words land deeper than they should. “Thank you.”
“Did I make up for my brutal honesty?” Her grin still graces her lips.
“Ah, so it was just a ploy, and you were telling me what you think I want to hear?”
We both laugh, the air between us easy and charged all at once.
She raises a forkful of food toward her mouth. “So how did you know cooking was your calling?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Oh, come on. You said you wanted to get to know me. The same is true for me.”
I hesitate. “It’s a long story.”
I don’t share my story often, not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s personal and deeply rooted in loss and pain. She has no clue where she’s asking me to tread.
But there’s something about her, the way she listens, the warmth in her eyes, that pulls the truth out of me.
“My mother died when I was two.”
She sets down her fork, eyes soft with empathy and focused entirely on me. Things are already getting heavier than I like and I’ve barely even started, only skimming the highlights.
“My grandparents raised me. They were good people. We didn’t have much, but they gave me plenty of love. My grand-père died when I was seven and my grand-mère when I was fourteen.”
I pause and take a sip. Olivia stares, her gaze warm and inviting, enraptured by my tale.
“I had no other family so I was put in foster care. I hated it. I ran away and got into trouble a lot.”
She has forgotten her meal and I dip my chin, encouraging her to eat. Relenting, she fills her fork but doesn’t eat, her gaze fixed on me.
“One night, I was starving. I’d been on the streets for nearly two weeks, and food was scarce.
I snuck into the back of a restaurant and raided the kitchen.
I was ravenous and not very smart, making a ruckus as I ransacked the fridge.
” A rueful grin spreads across my face at the memory. “The chef caught me.”
“Oh, no,” she gasps and the clatter of her fork hitting the plate startles her again.
“It was the best thing to ever happen to me.” I smile, reassuring, heart warm and full as if I were still a boy in that kitchen on that fateful night.
“He could have called the cops, and I’d have gone to juvie. Instead, he put me to work to pay for my crime and to keep me out of trouble. We both knew he was taking a risk on me, but at that time, I needed it. His connections and good name got me into his house and he turned me around.”
“His good name?”
“The chef and owner of the restaurant was Bastien Villeneuve.”
Her jaw drops. “The Bastien Villeneuve? The Michelin-starred one?”
I nod, grinning that she’s heard of him. “Yes, the one and only. He became a father to me. Actually, one of two fathers. The only fathers I’ve ever known. I got lucky later in life.”
“Tell me more.” Her interest in my story is heartwarming, and I fall more in like with this woman.
“He made arrangements for me to work after school and on weekends at his restaurant. At first, I hated him. I was a difficult teenager with a huge chip on my shoulder. I didn’t appreciate this old man stepping in and telling me what to do.
” I chuckle, shaking my head at the memories of our epic arguments.
“He worked me to the bone, making me do many of the menial but crucial tasks of the kitchen. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way I started to look forward to those afternoons and weekends, and over time, it became my passion.”
Olivia removes her hand, and our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, but I can tell she understands how life-altering meeting Bas was for me.
“I worked in Bas’s kitchen throughout high school, then went to culinary school.
After graduation, I went to France and worked in a few kitchens.
It wasn’t glamorous, but I learned a lot that year.
I then worked at a few more restaurants in Montreal before opening my first restaurant five years ago, then Beaulieu’s two years ago. ”
“I’m so impressed. You’re so accomplished.” When she calls me “accomplished,” there’s admiration in her tone that hums under my skin. “And all this at your age.”