“My grandparents raised me. They were good people. We didn’t have much, but they gave me plenty of love. My grand-père died when I was seven and my grand-mère when I was fourteen.”
I pause and take a sip. Olivia stares, her gaze warm and inviting, enraptured by my tale.
“I had no other family so I was put in foster care. I hated it. I ran away and got into trouble a lot.”
She has forgotten her meal and I dip my chin, encouraging her to eat. Relenting, she fills her fork but doesn’t eat, her gaze fixed on me.
“One night, I was starving. I’d been on the streets for nearly two weeks, and food was scarce. I snuck into the back of a restaurant and raided the kitchen. I was ravenous and not very smart, making a ruckus as I ransacked the fridge.” A rueful grin spreads across my face at the memory. “The chef caught me.”
“Oh, no,” she gasps and the clatter of her fork hitting the plate startles her again.
“It was the best thing to ever happen to me.” I smile, reassuring, heart warm and full as if I were still a boy in that kitchen on that fateful night.
“He could have called the cops, and I’d have gone to juvie. Instead, he put me to work to pay for my crime and to keep me out of trouble. We both knew he was taking a risk on me, but at that time, I needed it. His connections and good name got me into his house and he turned me around.”
“His good name?”
“The chef and owner of the restaurant was Bastien Villeneuve.”
Her jaw drops. “TheBastien Villeneuve? The Michelin-starred one?”
I nod, grinning that she’s heard of him. “Yes, the one and only. He became a father to me. Actually, one of two fathers. The only fathers I’ve ever known. I got lucky later in life.”
“Tell me more.” Her interest in my story is heartwarming, and I fall more in like with this woman.
“He made arrangements for me to work after school and on weekends at his restaurant. At first, I hated him. I was a difficult teenager with a huge chip on my shoulder. I didn’t appreciate this old man stepping in and telling me what to do.” I chuckle, shaking my head at the memories of our epic arguments.
“He worked me to the bone, making me do many of the menial but crucial tasks of the kitchen. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way I started to look forward to those afternoons and weekends, and over time, it became my passion.”
Olivia removes her hand, and our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, but I can tell she understands how life-altering meeting Bas was for me.
“I worked in Bas’s kitchen throughout high school, then went to culinary school. After graduation, I went to France and worked in a few kitchens. It wasn’t glamorous, but I learned a lot that year. I then worked at a few more restaurants in Montreal before opening my first restaurant five years ago, then Beaulieu’s two years ago.”
“I’m so impressed. You’re so accomplished.” When she calls me “accomplished,” there’s admiration in her tone that hums under my skin. “And all this at your age.”
She is pushing, watching me expectantly, waiting for me to offer a response, reminiscent of last night’s promise. If she thinks I will give away my leverage and the one thing I fear might end this all too soon—my age—she’s sadly mistaken.
Then she tilts her head, playful. “So how old are you, anyway?”
“You didn’t Google me?”
“No. I wanted to.” She nibbles on her plump bottom lip. “I almost did.”
I laugh softly. “Then you’ll have to wait.”
Her age doesn’t bother me at all. It’s her hang-up, but it bugs me that age is an issue to her. I don’t want her hesitant.
I’ve never been one for an easy lay, and perhaps it’s what she thinks I want. Sure, I’ve had my share of one-night stands, but they were fewand far between. While I love sex as much as the next guy, I want to know who I’m sharing a bed with. It doesn’t have to be long-term, but I want some kind of connection, if only for the night.
With Olivia, I want to know her. Badly. The want digs deep, steady, relentless, impossible to shake. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Now I understand fully what it means to have someone under your skin.
The server returns with dessert, and I use the moment to change direction. “Tell me something that would surprise me.”
She doesn’t pause for a breath, her gaze pointed. “I have two kids.”
The air shifts. She straightens and squares her shoulders as if expecting me to throw down my napkin and storm out on her.
I hold her gaze, steady, giving her something steady to lean on. “Tell me about them.”
