Chapter 6 #2
“So, we’re standing outside the building as the firetruck screams up, watching flames lick out the window, and this guy turns to me and says, ‘You owe me for my clothes and 1/2 a massage.’”
Jack and I were helpless with laughter, imagining the scene.
“I’m sure you’ve got some great hotel stories, Eve,” Scott challenged.
I thought for a moment then smiled. “Yes, there have been some great ones, but I think my favorite was the sleepwalker.”
“What happened?” asked Jack.
“Well, we had a gentleman stay with us for the first time. We had no idea that he had quite a history of sleepwalking, or we would have had some protocols in place. On his first night with us, at about two am, the front desk got a call. One of the kitchen staff had entered the kitchen and found the gentleman rummaging through the cupboards, wearing nothing but his underwear! When the cook tried to ask him what he was doing, he replied that he was going to make himself some hot cocoa. The cook figured the easiest way to handle the situation was to make him some cocoa, so he sat the gentleman on a stool, made him some cocoa, then called for a porter to escort him back to bed. Luckily for us, he didn’t set the kitchen on fire. ”
“Did he wake up?” asked Scott.
“I don’t think he did. He certainly didn’t remember it the next day. To save him embarrassment we didn’t put the cocoa on his bill, and on his subsequent visits we included hot cocoa in his turn-down service.”
Everyone was chuckling as the server approached to remove our dinner dishes. He asked if we would like to look at the dessert menus. Of course we would! Jack barely looked at it before tossing his onto the table and saying, “Apple pie with ice cream.”
“Really, Jack? That’s what you’re going with? There’s a pastry chef in that kitchen who is capable of extraordinary things, and you pick apple pie?”
“I like apple pie. Why do you care? Oh, right, it’s all about your bite that you negotiated.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you like apple pie?”
“I do. But it’s so…pedestrian. Apple pie is anytime, anywhere food. You could go to any diner in New York, and they’ll have apple pie. I like to try new things.”
“I like to have things I know I’ll like.
” As he said that his gaze lingered on my face and dropped to my lips.
Oh no, we weren’t going there. I hastily looked back at my menu, feeling the flush rising in my cheeks.
Reading the descriptions, drooling just a bit at each one, I knew when I’d struck gold.
Turning to the server I asked, “Could you tell me about the Chocolate-Banded Ice Cream Torte?”
“It is a 5-layer cake in which 3 bands of silky chocolate ganache alternate with layers of freshly made raspberry ice cream, garnished with a drizzle of Chambord and fresh raspberries. I highly recommend it.”
“I’ll have that!” I handed him my menu and turned to see Jack smirking at me, his eyes twinkling.
“What?” I asked.
“You,” he answered.
“What about me?”
“It’s just cute how excited you are about an ice cream cake. You’re like my niece at her birthday party.”
“Ugh. It’s not just an ice cream cake,” I said, witheringly. “Did you not even listen to the description?”
“I heard cake and ice cream. How is that better than pie and ice cream?”
“Hello, isn’t it obvious? Chocolate ganache.” There was no refuting that argument. Chocolate wins every time.
“Well, we can agree to disagree till our desserts come. Then the proof is in the bite swap.”
“Swap? That was never part of the negotiation, Jack.”
“Well, obviously we have to swap, otherwise how will we be able to decide who’s the winner?”
“Clearly I’ll be the winner, because I’ll have chocolate, raspberry ice cream, and Chambord,” I said, looking directly at him. “And I won’t be sharing.”
To my left I heard chuckling and saw that Scott was watching our interplay with amusement. I turned to him and asked, “What did you order, Scott?”
His lips curling up at the corners he said, “Brownie, a la mode,” then gave a small, apologetic shrug to Jack.
“I knew you were a man of excellent taste, Scott. Chocolate and ice cream for the win.”
Scott turned and started polling the rest of the group about their dessert choices. We were tallying up the results (chocolate was the overwhelming winner) when our desserts were served.
I surveyed the rest of the desserts. Megan had what looked like a mini chocolate volcano and PBD had some sort of giant brandy snifter filled with orange sherbet and topped with fruit and booze.
Their end of the table was getting louder and louder and snorts of laughter punctuated their conversations.
It looked like everyone was having a good time.
I smiled as our desserts were set down. Admittedly, Jack’s pie did look good, with a golden flaky crust, oozing apple pie filling, and with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. But my dessert looked better.
Before I could take a bite, Jack pushed his towards me. “You can take the first bite. And you can even use your cootie-free fork.”
As I went to stab a bite of his apple pie, I saw him attempt a stealth attack on my torte. I held my fork menacingly and growled, “Don’t even think about it.” He gave me a contrite look with full-on puppy dog eyes. Damn his sexy eyes.
I took a bite of his pie and chewed it slowly and thoughtfully, savoring.
“It is good. A nice light, flaky crust. A good crust to filling ratio. The filling is a good consistency; thickened, but not gloopy. It’s a solid win.
For an apple pie.” I pushed the pie back toward him and pulled my own dessert toward me.
I carefully cut a piece that included ice cream and ganache and put it into my mouth.
The contrast of flavors and textures was sublime, silky, smooth chocolate with the chill of ice cream and the sweet spike of the liqueur.
I knew Jack was watching my reaction carefully, so I leaned towards him and said in a low voice, “You know the diner scene from When Harry Met Sally?” He nodded. “This is what she was eating.”
He laughed and said, grinning, “I’d like to see you recreate that scene, Eve.” Furiously blushing, I turned back to my plate and scooped up another bite.
“I hardly think that’s work appropriate, Jack.”
Gesturing towards the other end of the table which seemed to have started a drinking game, he said, “I hardly think this qualifies as work.”
Scott leaned over and interrupted our bickering. “How did you two meet?”
Jack, having swiftly polished off his pie, rested his arm on the back of my chair and said with a charming smile, “We bumped into each other while traveling and have been together ever since.” Literally.
“That’s great. You two seem really good together. My wife and I met while we were working at the same spa, and we just celebrated our twenty-fourth anniversary. I wish the same for you guys.” Scott picked up his drink and Jack clinked his beer bottle against it.
Meanwhile, I was frozen. Where had all this talk about anniversaries come from?
Jack and I had only known each other two days.
Less than two days. And most likely that was all we’d ever have.
Tomorrow I’d fly home and return to work.
He’d go off to his pop star palace in the clouds and we’d never see each other again.
I’d hear his songs playing and I’d smile, remembering the time we’d met.
He might even stay at a Duvier hotel and maybe think fondly of me.
But there was no twenty-fourth anniversary in our future.
Jack caught my eye and gave me a puzzled tilt of the head.
Of course, he couldn’t read my mind and know that I was prematurely mourning the end of our time together.
To avert his questions, I scooped up the last bite of my torte and offered it to him.
Surprised, he took my fork and looked consideringly at it.
“Do you want it, Jack? Cooties and all?” I asked.
“Oh, you know I want it, Eve.” His voice was low and playful. “But this wasn’t part of the negotiation.”
“Not everything has to be negotiated. You can think of it as a gift.” I tried to smile, but I know it didn’t quite reach my eyes. And I wasn’t sure that we were still talking about the dessert.
He put the proffered bite into his mouth and moaned loudly. Heads were turning to look at him. “Oh, Eve, why did I ever doubt you. You were so right.”
I heard the rumbling laugh of Scott next to me. “Maybe it’s time for you two to get to your room.”
Standing and holding out his hand for me, Jack said, “That’s an excellent idea.” He pulled me to my feet, waited while I got my clutch, then slid his arm around my waist. Turning to Scott he held out his hand. Shaking hands, they promised to get in touch and Scott bade us goodnight.