I love the man and usually enjoy his company, but right now I’d rather he be anywhere but at our table. Finally, twenty minutes in, when our appetizers arrive, he says his goodbyes.
Alone at last.
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. He’s funny. It’s obvious he likes you.”
“He’s a good guy. We worked together years ago before we got our own kitchens. You’ll love the food.”
While we eat, the conversation flows easily. I get to know her better, find out more about this captivating woman I have such strong desires for. Likewise, she’s curious—about my life, my work, my city—and I find myself wanting to give her everything.
“So.” I lean back in my chair. “Why Montreal?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here with friends. Why this city?”
“Oh. It’s a girls’ getaway. We wanted something fun but close.”
“And lucky me, you ended up at my restaurant.” I grin. “Montreal is fantastic for amazing restaurants, so why Beaulieu’s?”
My question is selfish. Yes, I want to know everything about Olivia, but I’m also a restaurateur and want to know what drew these out-of-town women to my spot.
A part of me knows I, Samson Beaulieu, may very well have been part of the allure, regardless of the food. While the thought brings some disappointment, I’m not destroyed, not when I’m just as interested in her.
She hesitates, then laughs softly. “Honestly, I didn’t even know about Beaulieu’s. Erin did all the planning.” There’s an awkward flush to her cheeks. “In my defense, I usually let her do all the planning, and I tag along. She’s the one who knew about your restaurant.”
“Ah.” I feign offense with a scoff and clutch my chest.
Her giggle makes her shoulders shake, and a few strands of hair fall into her eyes. I want to reach across the table and brush them back, to feel the silk of her hair between my fingers. Instead, I lace my hands together and anchor them in my lap.
“I’m kidding, although you could have lied and gone easy on my ego.” I rub at the center of my chest just to keep her smiling. “In all seriousness, what did you think?”
“I loved it.” Her gaze never wavers from mine. “The food was fantastic. You’re very talented.”
Her words land deeper than they should. “Thank you.”
“Did I make up for my brutal honesty?” Her grin still graces her lips.
“Ah, so it was just a ploy, and you were telling me what you think I want to hear?”
We both laugh, the air between us easy and charged all at once.
She raises a forkful of food toward her mouth. “So how did you know cooking was your calling?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Oh, come on. You said you wanted to get to know me. The same is true for me.”
I hesitate. “It’s a long story.”
I don’t share my story often, not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s personal and deeply rooted in loss and pain. She has no clue where she’s asking me to tread.
But there’s something about her, the way she listens, the warmth in her eyes, that pulls the truth out of me.
“My mother died when I was two.”
She sets down her fork, eyes soft with empathy and focused entirely on me. Things are already getting heavier than I like and I’ve barely even started, only skimming the highlights.
