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“I haven’t,” I lie. “But I will.”
Hanging up, I sigh. It doesn’t matter whether I “think about” extending Reagan’s stay. Our tickets back are not the type you can change the date on. Nor would I want him to fly without me. Most importantly, I can’t afford to pay for more camp.
When I get back, the food—a tasting course—is already waiting at the table.
As I swallow the escargot that is our first appetizer, I also swallow a moan of pleasure. My spirits lift instantly, in the same way as from a line of cocaine (I imagine). In fact, my eyes roll into the back of my head, and it’s an effort to refocus them on Evan, who looks so smug you’d think he had hand-fed lettuce to these snails from childhood and then cooked them personally.
“Good?” he asks.
“I didn’t think French food could taste better than the breakfast this morning,” I say. “But this is another level.”
He nods. “That hotel’s restaurant only has one Michelin star; this place has three.”
Seems like despite his need for the simple life, when it comes to food, he’s a billionaire at heart—hence the obsession with Michelin’s guide. Speaking of… “Didn’t that guide originate in France? I figure they’d be extra picky when it comes to their home cuisine.”
“Maybe,” he says. “I’ve always thought it was weird that the guide was published by a tire company.”
I grin. “Why? Everyone knows that tire companies care about three things: the cost of rubber, the growth of the car market, and yummy food.”
Evan’s return grin is heart-fluttery. “I wonder if their guide is the reason the Michelin Man is so chubby.”
I look at the tiny morsels on our plates. “I’m not sure if three-star restaurants are going to get anyone chubby. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the Michelin Man is made out of tires, but even if he weren’t, it’s not nice of you to fat-shame the poor mascot.”
The Poodle shows up at that very moment, with two plates that have a ton more food on them compared to the first course.
Evan watches her leave suspiciously. “You mention small portion sizes, and they bring this out. What are the chances the chef is spying on us?”
“Maybe that’s what separates one star from three stars.” I spear a tiny piece of scallop and put it in my mouth. “Wow.”
Not counting Vitamin D, this is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in years.
We wolf down a few more courses, each better than the last, and when we’re beyond stuffed, we head over to the Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, where we ignore the treasure hunt for a few minutes in favor of simply walking off the meal.
The place is insanely gorgeous and is by far the most romantic location I’ve ever been to. I don’t know if it’s the gardens, the art, or Evan’s company, but I’m on the verge of swooning. And I’m not alone. About a dozen couples are here with us, using the location for their wedding photos.
Am I jealous of all the brides? No. Not at all. What would give anyone that idea?
“So…” I stop and look at Evan. “Any idea where the next clue might be?”
He shrugs. “I have no clue where the clue might be.”
I purse my lips. “Why am I the only one who is taking this seriously?”
“Sorry,” Evan says, but he sounds anything but.
“This is our last chance to find the clues,” I remind him. “I say we comb through this place with a toothbrush.”
“Right.” Evan doesn’t sound too thrilled.
Whatever. Since I’m motivated enough for the both of us, I seek the clues with everything I have, scanning all publicly available areas over and over while channeling my inner Robert Langdon.
Sadly, all my efforts amount to nothing, though I do manage to work up an appetite… for food, not Evan.
Fine, maybe both.
“Dinner?” Evan asks as if reading my thoughts.
“Sure.” After that one appetite is satisfied, I’ll see what I can do about the other.
