The demise of my marriage isn’t something Erin understands, or truly anyone else for that matter. She thinks it was perfect despite whatever I’ve shared with her—on the surface, we looked happy enough. Pete’s charm and good looks sealed the illusion. So much so, he can do no wrong in her eyes.
After the separation, she argued with me relentlessly, refusing to consider my position. I didn’t want her to take sides but also didn’t need her blame. Eventually, we agreed to disagree, though that truce is now a strain on our friendship.
Sin slaps the edge of Erin’s seat, causing her to twitch. “Liv is working night and day to get Cassidy Designs off the ground. Don’t downplay her sweat and tears. You deserve this.”
“Thanks, Sin.” She’s like a sister to me. Erin and I may have history, but Sin and I share a deeper closeness since meeting freshman year at university.
“Liv, I’m sorry. You do deserve it.” Erin offers a sheepish grin.
The ride flies by, and early that evening after we’re checked into our hotel, Erin insists on hitting a nightclub. Sin protests, wanting to soak in the tub, but I coax her out. I don’t want to be stuck alone with Erin’s teenager-in-an-adult-body energy.
The evening is fun, a throwback to our university days. The next morning, we spa, then shop in the Mile End neighborhood, known for vintage shops and quaint boutiques, before dressing for dinner. Erin can’t stop raving about the restaurant she booked tonight.
Tucked away on a narrow cobblestone street in Old Montreal, the restaurant Beaulieu’s is an old fieldstone building with an eye-catching red door. Inside feels like an inviting, cozy home—wide planked floors, small, intimate tables, each adorned with a single pink flower in a petite glass vase. A beautiful fireplace is the centerpiece of the room.
The faint, familiar scent of something being slow roasted and Arcade Fire’s “Here Comes the Night Time” pulse through the air. And no matter the location of the table, there’s a great view into the open kitchen. The culinary magic hangs in the air, and a diner-style order window made of dark burnished wood faces one side of the room.
“This place is great. I love the vibe.” I slide into my chair. “Great pick, Erin.”
She’s a foodie, always dragging us to discover new chefs, and I love it. Just then, our server comes by and introduces herself as well as takes our order for drinks and appetizers.
Once she’s gone, Erin leans in as if she doesn’t want a soul to overhear. “I’ve been dying to come here. Chef Samson Beaulieu is one of Canada’s best.”
Her cheeks flush at the mere mention of this guy. Cute. We both nod as if we haven’t already heard this at least a dozen times today.
Sin unravels her napkin. “I’m starving.”
“When aren’t you?” Erin jokes, sipping on her champagne.
Our oysters arrive, and while we suck and slurp our appetizer, Erin glances fervently at the window into the heart of the kitchen.
By the time our entrées are served, we’re hungry and already on our second bottle of wine. My seared scallops with Swiss chard and leeks in garlic brown butter are mouthwatering.
As I savor my first bite, Erin gasps, her gaze glued on the kitchen. The atmosphere shifts. A different kind ofbuzz zips through the air, far from the usual din of dinner conversation. Sin and I notice the heightened energy at about the same time and share a curious look. As if synchronized, we turn in the direction of the vortex, of what has Erin’s undivided attention and the room in an uproar.
A tall—definitely over six feet—broad-shouldered man with short brown hair and a tattoo on one arm casually saunters toward the kitchen, carrying a basket of vegetables.
Hello, hottie.
Like a moth to a flame, all gazes are tethered to him. An invisible pull, strong and palpable. He moves with relaxed confidence, slipping on a chef’s jacket over a tight black tee.I marvel at how he’s completely at ease with being the main attraction, managing his staff without so much as a glance at the dining room.
Even with this dim lighting, his eyes are light. Vivid and intense. Blue or green, but I’m not sure which from this distance. He has striking features from the cut of his cheekbones to the strong jaw roughed by scruff.
And his lips? Kissable.
“Fuck me sideways.” Erin slaps her palm onto the table. “He’s even better looking in person.”
“Which one is he?” Sin scans the kitchen and I giggle. How could she miss him?
“That’s him.” Erin catches herself before she raises her finger to point him out.
He tastes something, his tongue sweeping over his full lips twice, and the room collectively sighs. If I wasn’t equally captivated, I’d burst into laughter at the power this man holds by simply existing.
Despite his age—he’s got to be ten years my junior—I’d be a fool not to appreciate his beauty. A woman can admire no matter the age—as long as he’s an adult, there’s no harm in that. It’s not like I’m jumping into bed with him, although the thought sends warm tingles to my nether regions.
Reining in my foolish fantasy, I toss Erin a crumb. “Wow. Forget the food. My appetite is sated just by the view.”
“Oh, my God, I have to meet him.” She snaps out of her trance and shifts into a woman on a mission. Swiping the napkin across her mouth, she reaches for her purse.
