I sigh as I stand up and slide my phone into the front pocket of my jeans. As I enter the dining room, the volume of the music becomes louder, and my stomach gurgles as I realize what song is playing: “La Vie En Rose” by Celeste. But as I approach the bar, my thoughts of Paris and my anxiety melt away, replaced by a pleasant feeling of butterflies when I find Ethan pouring two drinks out of a frosty cocktail shaker.
“How many roofies did you put in my glass?” I ask as I climb onto a barstool.
He slides one of the cocktails toward me and laughs when I push it aside and take the other tumbler instead. “I lost count, actually,” he says, placing the shaker in the sink behind the bar. “How many do you prefer?”
I shrug as I bring the cocktail to my lips. “Depends. Do I want to remember what we’re about to do or do I want to block out the shameful memories?”
He tilts his head. “Well, that depends. Are you Catholic?”
I raise my beverage in the air and we clink glasses. “Touché. Bottoms up.”
His smile widens as he watches me guzzle the entire cocktail in one go. “God, I love Catholic girls.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Catholic women.”
He laughs at my unexpected response. “Okay, you win this round.”
“I always win,” I say as I shove the empty tumbler toward him. “What’s in the drink?”
He places the glass in the sink with the cocktail shaker. “You tell me.”
I roll my eyes as I realize he wants to turn this into a teaching moment. “Well, it tastes like a passion fruit caipirinha, but there’s something else in there.”
He smiles, though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m right or because he’s stumped me. “Take a guess.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I take an educated guess at the twist. “Lime? No—wait. Yuzu?”
He scrunches up his nose. “How the bloody hell did you guess that so quickly?”
I laugh as I reach for his tumbler, feeling more confident now that I’ve consumed my first cocktail. “I saw it on the drink menu,” I say, then I down the rest of his caipirinha.
He shakes his head as he turns around and grabs a bottle of bourbon off the shelf. “Well, at least I know you’re doing your job.” He tosses the bottle into the air and catches it behind his back.
I can’t help but laugh. “Watch out, Tom Cruise.”
He chuckles as he pours himself a glass. “I used to tend bar while taking my A-levels.”
“So, that’s the secret to your success?”
“I reckon it is, actually,” he replies without a trace of irony. “A lot of chefs underestimate the impact of a great drink menu.”
I think about this statement as I recall all the times I’ve seen him conducting meetings with Mario, Shanice, and Sandro. “Do you base the menu on the drinks?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course not, we plan them in tandem. But most chefs plan the tasting menu and base the drink menu on that. It’s a subtle difference. You’ll understand when we have our meeting tomorrow.”
I smile as I realize what he’s doing.
He’s not telling me the secret to his success. He’s showing me he doesn’t have any secrets from me. He wants to show me—consciously or subconsciously—that he’s not Edward.
The song coming through the speakers changes to one I don’t recognize, but it’s definitely a French song. I hear the lyric c’est l’amour à la plage—it’s love at the beach—and I instantly think of one of my favorite songs. Before I can stop myself, I ask Ethan to put it on.
Without hesitation, he slides his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, and the sound of the guitar makes me smile as “Summer in Paris” by Hope Tala plays through the speakers overhead.
The warm feeling that spreads through me as I shimmy my shoulders to the beat is bittersweet. I want to tell him about the internship, but not even two passion fruit caipirinhas can instill the courage I need to come clean. Not when we’re so close to turning this flirtation into something more.
Instead, I dance in my seat, foolishly hope he’ll magically guess why I requested this song. He smiles as he watches me rock side to side with the music. I spin around on the barstool and lean back, my gaze following him as he rounds the bar. The song ends as he reaches me, but he doesn’t do anything.
We watch each other for a moment, our chests heaving with anticipation. His gaze travels down the length of my body, the hunger in his eyes becoming more intense as his eyes pause to admire the curve of my breasts. Finally, he steps forward, closing the gap between us as he grabs my face and presses his lips to mine.
The animalistic desire in his kiss steals the breath from my lungs, but I somehow manage to push him away.
“The windows,” I say, nodding toward the wall of glass behind him.
He shakes his head as he says, “Hey, Siri. Close the blinds.”
I laugh as a tone sounds from the phone in his pocket, then the built-in blinds begin to lower by themselves. “I love you—I mean, sorry—I meant, I love your…your smart stuff. You know, like, the blinds and the music and—”
He presses a finger to my mouth to stop me. “Never apologize for being yourself, love.”
I swallow hard as the embarrassment I felt a second ago fades, though only slightly. I may have said those three words accidentally, but that doesn’t change that I said them. And, not that I expect him to, but he definitely hasn’t returned the sentiment.
His eyes are fixed on my mouth as his thumb softly brushes my bottom lip. “Promise me something.”
I focus on my breathing as his mouth lands on my jaw. “What?”
His lips sweep across my earlobe and the sound of his exhalation in my ear
