“What?”
“An interview. You don’t have to,” he added. “This isn’t a condition. The compensation, the public statement, all of that happens regardless of whether you do this. I’m asking, not requiring.”
I studied his face for a lie and couldn’t find one. Which either meant he was being honest or he was a better actor than I’d given him credit for, and I’d given him a lot of credit.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
He smiled, reached across the table and took my hand. Then slowly brought it to his lips and kissed my knuckles, and I swear on everything I own that my brain left my body, took a vacation, and sent a postcard saying it wasn’t coming back.
“Then I’m in your favor,” he said, smiling, and his eyes held mine over my own hand. I was twenty-five years old and had survived a childhood with Aunt Eliza and a restaurant disaster. But nothing, nothing in my life had prepared me for Christopher Vale kissing my hand and looking at me like that.
“You’re kinder than I expected,” I heard myself say, which was not what I’d planned to say. I’d planned to say something professional. Something composed. Instead my mouth decided to freelance.
He raised an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”
He leaned closer. I caught the full wave of whatever cologne he was wearing, warm and woody, and my thoughts scattered like a flock of startled birds.
“I…” My lips were trying to form words but the words kept changing direction halfway out. “I mean, I’m a big… fan, and you once signed an autograph for my friend. She asked on my behalf. And you wrote…” I was babbling. I knew I was babbling. I could not stop babbling. “You wrote that I had great taste.”
He stared at me. Those blue eyes, focused entirely on me, with an expression I couldn’t decode and probably shouldn’t tryto because my brain was currently operating at about fifteen percent capacity.
“Is that so?” he said. His voice dropped half a register. “Well, I have great taste too. And if a woman as beautiful as you is a fan of mine, I’d say my taste is excellent.”
Heat rose from my collarbone to my cheeks in approximately half a second. Full-body blush. I couldn’t hide it and couldn’t explain away the room being warm, because the room was not warm, the room was perfectly climate-controlled, and the only thing generating heat was me, sitting across from Christopher Vale, turning the color of a tomato because he called me beautiful.
Get it together, Torres. Get it together right now.
I managed a shaky smile. I said thank you in a voice that sounded almost normal if you ignored the slight tremor, and Christopher leaned back in his chair with that small smile still on his face.
He suggested dinner. A staff member appeared with menus and guided us to a table inside the villa’s private dining room, intimate and warm, with low lighting and tableware that looked handmade.
I opened the menu. My eyes hit the prices and I nearly choked. The appetizers alone were in a range that would make my savings account weep.
Christopher must have seen something on my face because he set his own menu down and looked at me.
“I’m treating you,” he said. “Order whatever you want. Don’t look at the numbers.”
“The numbers are very large.”
“They’re just numbers.”
“They’re numbers with a lot of zeros.”
“Miley.” His voice was gentle, amused, and the way he said my name made my pulse do something unhelpful. “Order. Whatever. You. Want.”
I ordered. The seared scallops because they were prepared with a citrus beurre blanc that I wanted to study. The wagyu because I’d never had it at this grade and I was a chef who believed in research.
The food arrived and it was excellent. The scallops were beautifully seared, the caramelization even, the beurre blanc balanced. The wagyu melted on my tongue.
“This is really good,” I said.
He took a sip of his drink. “The lamb rib I had at your place was better.”
I looked up. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not. I’ve eaten at restaurants all over the world. Michelin-starred, chef’s table, private dining, all of it.” He set his glass down. “Your lamb was better. A lot better.”
The compliment warmed me from the inside out. I took a sip of wine because my mouth had gone dry and I needed a second to process the fact that Christopher Vale had just told me my cooking was better than Michelin-starred food.
