He takes me to L’âme Gourmande, a sleek upscale eatery we’ve been to a hundred times for dinner, but it feels like overkill for the middle of the day. Crisp white tablecloths and artwork cover the walls from a French artist whose pieces sell for six figures. I know because I’ve sold a few.
The waiters are dressed in black-and-white, tall and poised. I would’ve happily sat in one of those mom and pop style diners scattered across the city, and ordered a burger with everything on it. But Jensen’s in that mood where he wants this to be a memory, something sweet after seeing our baby.
The waiter hands me a menu, his eyes darting over to Theo, who’s taken position a few tables away. Close enough to step in if we need him to, but far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
I hate that has to sit on his own.
“What would Madame like to drink?”
“I’d love a shot of tequila,” I say, holding my hand over my noticeably pregnant belly, “but unfortunately I think we’ll have to stick with tea.”
His eyes drop to my stomach before lifting back to my face, as if he’s not sure if I’m joking. “I’ll have an espresso,” Jensen says. “Do you know what you want to eat, sweetheart?”
“The filet mignon,” I say without even looking at the menu. “Do you have mashed potato?”
“We have three different types. The classic pommes purée with a rich seasoning of thyme and rosemary. Or truffle potato purée. This has garlic, Parmesan cheese and of course the finest sourced truffle oil. There is also buttermilk whipped potatoes and pomme mousseline—that’s my personal favorite.”
I blink.
How the hell are there that many names for mashed potato? I lift my lashes just a fraction to look at Jensen, expecting him to, I don’t know, help me out. Instead, he’s staring at me like I’m the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.
I smile up at the waiter, my expression tight. “Which one of those is mashed potato?”
Now he’s blinking. “They’re all potato purée, Madame,” he says it like I’ve insulted the entire concept of fine dining.
Potato purée?
I lean across the table, my bump pressing to the edge. “I just want mash, Jensen,” I whisper, as if the waiter can’t hear my desperation. “Standard mashed potato. The kind we ate when we were kids. Maybe with a little butter in it. A little seasoning. I don’t need truffle oil in my potatoes.”
He finally takes pity on me, slipping his fingers through mine on the tabletop. “She’ll have the pomme purée.”
The waiter lifts his chin, like he’s worried they may have dropped a Michelin star because I asked for something so basic.
Better buckle in, sunshine, because my next request is going to blow your mind.
“Fantastic,” I say. “I’ll have that. And can I have a serving of tomato soup with it?”
His brows knit together. I’m fairly certain I’m breaking this poor man’s spirit. He’s never going to look at a bowl of seasoned potatoes the same again. “You’d like that as a starter?”
“No, at the same time as the rest of the food please.”
Jensen coughs into his hand, smothering the laugh he’s trying to hide. The waiter looks positively scandalized now. Like the concept of eating a starter and main at the same time is so foreign to him.
His smile is tight, but polite. “Of course. And for you, Sir?”
Jensen places his order with a lot less drama. By the time the waiter scurries off, my husband is looking at me like he’ll burn down this entire restaurant if I don’t get my mashed potato and tomato soup.
“I think I depressed that poor man,” I murmur.
He snorts. “I don’t care about him. I care that you and my daughter get whatever you need. You could’ve order every potato dish on the menu just to get the right thing and I wouldn’t have blinked.”
I glance around like a meerkat. “Maybe we should call him back.”
He laughs this time. “Sweetheart, if you push that man any more, he’s going to have a breakdown in the middle of the restaurant.”
I grimace. “Wait until he realizes that I got the tomato soup to dip the filet mignon in.”
Jensen stares at me for a beat. “You’re going to dip a $60 prime cut of beef into tomato soup?”
