I accepted the shake and fought a goofy smile. “I’m having a really weird day,” I said. “I think I just need to eat.”
“You came to the right place,” he said. “This is my restaurant, and I happen to know everything on the menu is fantastic, because I’m frequently the chef.”
A slight French accent tipped the words as he spoke, adding impossibly to his charm.
He released my hand after a little squeeze, then pulled a menu from behind the hostess stand. “Are you in the mood for anything specific?”
I bit my lip to stop myself from admitting I would gladly eat a week’s worth of anything put in front of me. “I don’t know,” I said instead. “Maybe a salad.”
“I thought you were hungry.” He winked, and the strange sensation of sparks prickled through me. “Come with me,” he said. “If you want to sit at the bar, I’ll put together a sampler so you can find a new favorite.”
He led me through the dining room, past red vinyl booths and herbs hung in planters on the walls. I marveled at the garden of ingredients just waiting to serve their life’s purpose.
Lucas placed a glass of iced water on the bar before an empty high-backed chair. His wedding ring glinted in the light.
I climbed into the seat and looked at the menu, embarrassed by the odd feelings this benign conversation caused me, and the heat rushing across my cheeks in response.We aren’t flirting,I assured myself. He was a polite business owner and, clearly, a proudly married man.
Maybe that was the appealing part. I deeply appreciated a man so happily in love. Was it possible that some men really do cherish their wives? Cameron did. Surely he wasn’t the only one.
“See anything you like?” he asked.
I forced myself to meet his eyes and nodded. “Everything looks fantastic, but I don’t know much about French food.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is that right?”
I nodded, thinking of my French ancestry. I really should learn more. “I mean, I’m obviously a big fan of olive tapenade.”
“Obviously.” He crossed his arms.
“I also know my way around a bowl of French onion soup.”
“We just call it onion soup,” he teased.
“Noted.” I returned my attention to the menu and concentrated on the unfamiliar dishes. Then I felt the drool form at the corners of my mouth. “You have crepes.”
“Of course,” Lucas said.
“I love crepes.”
He caught my eye and pursed his lips. “Good to know.”
An older couple called his name on their way to the register. He responded by asking about their family and a shared neighbor.
I hadn’t visited a restaurant with such a comfortable community vibe since college. I gave the restaurant’s dining room a more thorough inspection and soaked up the ambience. French loaves sat on tables with small pots of butter. Fleur-de-lis accents adorned the menus and place mats.
A random thought popped into mind, and I nearly rolled my eyes in response. Mom told me more than once that she’d named me Sophie after a French princess, Sophie Philippine Élisabeth Justine. The French often referred to her as Sophie of France. I’d assumed the inspiration came from Mom’s trip to the country in the year I was born.
I never suspected how true that was.
The Chez Margot logo atop each page put a new question on my tongue. “Is Margot a family name?” I asked.
“It was my wife’s name,” he said. Lucas’s wistful smile made it clear that he adored her. The past tense, however, gave me pause.
My gaze fell to his ring finger, and he caught me looking. “Oh. Is she—”
“Hit and run,” he said. “It was seven years ago. Police suspect a drunk driver.” He shrugged, but I could see the story cost him. He spun the ring with his thumb while he spoke. “She closed up late for me one night so I could catch up on paperwork. She didn’t make it home.”
My mouth opened, but words failed me. I couldn’t imagine losing someone I loved so much I’d wear their wedding ring all these years later.
