Chapter 13
Beingat the gallery was a great way to start our little tour through New York City and the men I dated there. Okay, there’s only two. According to Ethan, those who didn’t last more than a phone exchange and a few texts don’t count. I’d like to disagree with him. Some of them matter like . . . What was his name again? Andrew, no . . . Josh . . . Oh right, it was Jordan.
Okay, maybe I don’t remember him right away, but I swear, we had a connection.
We met at my favorite coffee shop. I remember it as if it were yesterday, despite the whirlwind of New York City life that’s happened since. There I was, in a cozy café tucked away from the usual hustle, surrounded by the ambient noise of clinking cups and whispers. It was trivia night, an event I hardly ever missed, yet that evening, I was late and found myself scrambling for a seat among a sea of eager participants.
My eyes landed on the only vacancy in the entire place, a solitary chair at a table near the back, seemingly waiting just for me. Little did I know, it was already claimed by someone. As I made my way over, oblivious to this fact, I saw Jordan for the first time. There was an air of quiet confidence.
Our eyes met, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between us. I hesitated, my fingers nervously playing with the strap of my purse, ready to turn back, not wanting to intrude. But then, Jordan smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and gestured to the empty chair beside him. It was a simple gesture, one might think, but in that crowded café, it felt like an invitation to something much bigger than a game. My stomach fluttered with anticipation as I made my way over to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
Sitting down, I was immediately drawn to him, my body instinctively leaning closer as if pulled by an invisible force. We complemented each other’s knowledge seamlessly, my knack for obscure literary facts meshing with Jordan’s expertise in science and history. The night blurred into a series of laughter, silly comments, and high fives every time we got the answers right. I found myself grinning from ear to ear, my cheeks aching from the constant smiling.
Jordan was the epitome of understated, hipster charm, the kind that you’d find in a candid photograph on a bustling New York street. He wore his intelligence not just in the breadth of his knowledge, but in the very way he presented himself—effortlessly cool, with a style that spoke of indie bookshops and vintage vinyl records. His glasses, a classic, slightly retro frame, added an intellectual allure that made my heart race.
He was handsome in a way that was both striking and approachable, his features harmonious and inviting. There was an ease about him, a laid-back confidence that made him all the more appealing. His hair, styled in a way that seemed both deliberate and carefree, and the hint of a beard, gave him a rugged yet refined look that left me weak in the knees.
As we talked into the night, I found myself drawn to the sound of his voice—a gentle, engaging timbre that turned everything into a captivating story. His laughter, warm and genuine, filled the spaces between our conversations, making that night almost perfect. I couldn’t help but hang on to his every word, my eyes locked on his as he spoke.
Jordan and I exchanged numbers, our fingers brushing lightly as we handed each other our phones. It felt like the natural next step, a promise to continue what we had started in the cozy warmth of the café. My heart fluttered with excitement, and I couldn’t stop the giddy smile that spread across my face.
However, the days that followed were silent, each passing moment feeling like an eternity. My phone never buzzed, and my messages and calls went unanswered. I confess that in the weeks to come, I found myself checking my phone more often than I cared to admit, each time hoping to see his name on the screen. But it remained conspicuously absent, leaving a growing sense of disappointment and confusion in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong, my mind replaying every moment of that night in search of an answer.
And though I wanted to know why he ghosted me, my heart aching for closure, Ethan believed that it was just a waste of time. “They don’t deserve to live rent-free in your head,” he said, his voice firm but gentle as he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. I sighed, knowing he was right, but the unanswered questions still lingered in the back of my mind.
So, we skip all that nonsense and here we are, going to visit Marco, the culinary master.
We walk into Mallorca, a fancy restaurant in the heart of Chelsea. The moment we step through the doors, I’m overwhelmed by the vibrant atmosphere.
“Let’s hope Marco’s dishes are half as tempting as the air around here,” I say, inhaling deeply, my eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as I savor the tantalizing aromas. My heart does this funny little flip, and I press a hand to my chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath my palm. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m nervous or hungry, but the anticipation is making my stomach churn in the most delightful way.
“Lead the way,” Ethan says, gesturing grandly as if rolling out a red carpet before me, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
We step into the restaurant, and I’m immediately struck by the opulent décor. The walls are adorned with intricate murals, depicting scenes of lush Thai landscapes and bustling street markets. The lighting is soft and intimate, casting a warm glow over the plush velvet booths and gleaming tabletops. The air is thick with the scent of exotic spices and sizzling meats, making my mouth water in anticipation.
We approach the hostess stand, where a beautiful woman in a traditional Thai dress greets us with a warm smile. “We’re here to see Marco,” I say, my voice wavering slightly with nerves. She nods, her dark eyes sparkling knowingly, and leads us through the restaurant, past the elegant dining room and into the heart of the establishment: the kitchen.
The industrial kitchen is a hive of activity, with chefs and sous chefs bustling about, their faces flushed with the heat of the stoves and the intensity of their focus. The air is thick with the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of meat on the grill, and the sharp aroma of herbs and spices. In the midst of it all stands Marco, his presence commanding and magnetic.
He’s still just as attractive as he was before—chiseled features and a mischievous glint in his eye. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, and his chef’s jacket fits him like a second skin, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist.
“Welcome,” he greets us with a flourish that seems tailored for the stage rather than the kitchen, his voice rich and smooth like velvet. “I’m thrilled to have you join us on this gastronomic adventure.”
Adventure?
“Umm, I was more like wanting to talk to you today,” I say, my voice trembling slightly as the hostess hands Ethan and me aprons and nets for our hair.
“Well, you chose a teaching day,” Marco says, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in our bewildered expressions. “You’re going to have to be part of the class while we talk, yes?”
I glance at Ethan, my eyes wide with uncertainty. He shrugs, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “I think it’ll be fun. You ready for this?” he asks, his voice low and sneaky.
“Only if you are,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to muster up some semblance of confidence.
“What can go wrong? I could burn something but it’s not my kitchen so it’s all okay, right?” Ethan grins, and that grin . . . I’m getting used to it and starting to love it too. I feel a rush of warmth spread through my chest, chasing away some of the butterflies in my stomach.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Stop, I order myself, my inner voice firm and unyielding. He’s just a guy who’s helping you with the ex-quest and not someone you can crush on. For fuck’s sake, he’s your freaking . . . Is it brother-in-law or what will he be to me when his brother marries my sister?
I shake my head, my hair falling into my face as I try to clear my thoughts.
It doesn’t matter, just pull yourself together and stop gawking at Ethan Montgomery.I force my eyes away from him, focusing intently on Marco, as if the secrets of the universe are hidden in whatever nonsense he’s saying.
But as if it’s that easy to ignore the chemistry between us, the electricity that crackles in the air whenever we’re close. Is it really chemistry, or is it just me wanting to see what’s underneath those tight t-shirts that show his taut muscles? I bite my lip, my cheeks flushing at the thought, a wave of guilt and desire warring within me.
I risk a glance at Ethan, my eyes tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his biceps as he reaches for another ingredient. He catches me looking, and I quickly avert my gaze, my heart hammering in my chest. I can feel his eyes on me, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, and I know he’s aware of the effect he has on me.
“You okay over there?” he asks, his voice low and teasing, a hint of concern lacing his words. “You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter for support. “It’s just the heat of the kitchen, you know?” I force a laugh, the sound strained and unconvincing even to my own ears.
Ethan nods, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he turns back to listen to Marco, the moment passing as quickly as it came. I let out a shaky breath, my heart still racing, my skin tingling with a mixture of embarrassment and longing.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to center myself, to push aside the thoughts of Ethan and focus on the task at hand. But even as I do, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us, a line blurred that can never be uncrossed.