Just as he began, I saw a silhouette of averyfamiliar celebrity chef stomping the grounds of the estate through the window. He tore the door open like a mythical beast intruding an isolated cabin and there he was, in all of his glory.
Row Casablancas.
Chef to seven different Michelin-starred restaurants.
And my own personal TV crush.
He was married with kids, but still.
“Oh my God! It’s Ambrose Casablancas,” I squealed. He stopped and stared at me coldly. This mountain of a man. Tall, dark, handsome, and tattooed to his last freaking inch. Grant swiveled his head to look at him, then returned his attention back to me.
“Yeah. I know. He is making our dinner.”
“What?”
This was the equivalent of Vera Wang sewing my wedding dress directly onto my body. Of Prince William giving me etiquette lessons (not that they would help).
“Yeah.” Grant blushed a little, and I loved that he, too, was still capable of blushing next to me. “Chase asked him to do us this favor. He owed him.”
Row walked briskly to our dinner table to say hello, even though his expression suggested it was the last thing he wanted to do.
He jerked his chin. “Hey, lovebirds.”
“Thanks for doing this, man.” Grant and Row did this bro handshake.
“No problem. Break a leg.”
“With my luck? I don’t doubt it.”
“Why did he wish you to break a leg?” I asked after Row had retreated into the kitchen, leaving us alone. Grant gave me a little shrug, and the food started coming.
There was so much of it that our conversation kept on being interrupted by the waiter and his detailed explanation about every single dish.
“... ricotta dumplings with mushrooms and Pecorino Sardo glazed with organic date syrup and a touch of pistachios ...”
“... black truffle handmade pasta with za’atar, Italian olive oil, and a touch of pink salt ...”
“... charred, corn-fed Bresse chicken with coconut curry and a hint of wild rice ...”
Every dish was the size of my eyeball but somehow had a thousand ingredients. Don’t get me wrong, everything was outrageously delicious, but the seventeen-course meal meant we really couldn’t form any kind of meaningful conversation, which led to Grant giving up on what he wanted to tell me for the time being. We turned to more mundane topics, such as Georgie’s diaper rash and Grant’s parents coming over to spend Easter with us.
I drank two glasses of red wine, which, after what seemed like an eternity of not drinking alcohol, went straight to my head. After the dessert—all four of them—I announced, probably too loudly for my own good, that I was going to pee.
Problem was, I got lost in the beautiful estate, half wandering in awe, half looking for the bathroom. When I finally found it, I did my business, washed my hands, and returned to our seat.
... only to find Grant was gone.
His messenger bag was slung on his chair, partially open, but he was nowhere in sight.
Whatwasin that darn bag, anyway? He never took it with him, unless he went to work.
Don’t do this. Don’t look in his bag.
But it was half open, I reasoned with myself. Besides, I went through that bag twice a week, at a minimum. Grant was prone to keeping gas station receipts and tossing business cards he had no intention of ever using inside. It was one of the nice things I did for him. Clearing his clutter so he didn’t have to.
I glanced at every door in the vast room. Then returned my attention to the bag.
Hey, it ain’t private if he knows you’re going through it twice a week,the devil on my shoulder said.
