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Laughing, he walked toward his office door and motioned for her to follow.
Chapter 7
Sara was whipp
ed. After running for ninety-six hours on only a couple hours of sleep a night, she was utterly exhausted. Thankfully, there were no jobs tomorrow, and nothing pressing. She was going to have some dinner, a hot bath, and then sleep. It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten what a full night’s slept actually felt like.
Today had gone incredibly well, if the feedback was any indication. She wanted to be excited, but she was too tired to care.
She was also mildly intrigued by Deacon’s request for help. Based on what he’d written, she presumed this was more of a personal request. She would’ve mulled it over more, but sleep won.
Around 11:00 a.m. the next day, she surfaced. Stretching her muscles, she got up, had a leisurely cup of coffee, and shot Deacon an e-mail about his cryptic request, ignoring the request for a phone call.
When he finally replied, she was charmed. He apparently wanted some guidance on good French food. He was throwing a small dinner party for Chloe’s upcoming birthday, and apparently it was her favorite.
Admitting he wasn’t much good in the kitchen, but that he could follow directions pretty well, he asked for a few easy recipes. Picking a few of the more simple dishes, she shot him some ideas.
Things were much easier between them when he was still a douche bag. Sara had no idea what to do with the sweetness she was discovering in Deacon. No idea at all.
The rest of Sara’s week flew by in a blur. With the extra help at the shop, she was able to take a step back a bit. Bret was working out really well so far. His experience hadn’t been exaggerated. She only hoped he stuck around for a while.
It was Saturday now, and rare as a white elephant she actually had a whole day off. Trying to decide between the spice shop in Santa Monica and ramen in Little Tokyo, her hunger finally won out. After a leisurely morning of doing not a damn thing, she showered, got dressed, and hopped in her car.
After twenty minutes of mercifully light traffic on the 101, she pulled into an all-day parking lot downtown. Handing the parking attendant her money, she put the ticket on her dashboard and made a beeline for her favorite ramen bar. She thought briefly about stopping by the clothing store with the free-roaming cats, but her grumbling stomach cemented her resolve.
Heading up to the second level of the nondescript plaza, she opened the door to Ichiban and walked into the small waiting area. Glancing around, and then at her watch, she was surprised it was so busy for 2:00 p.m. on a Saturday. Luckily, there were a few seats open at the bar.
The waiter slash host came up to seat her, directing her, of course, to one of the few remaining seats at the bar. Sitting down, she looked over and saw Deacon playing with his phone.
He was dressed in a slate-gray sweater, a pair of worn jeans, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved yet. She hadn’t seen him in anything but a suit and tie in about a decade. There was something indescribably sexy about seeing him this way. So comfortable and relaxed.
Laughing, she said, “Fancy meeting you here.”
Looking up from his phone, frowning, she watched his face transform into a genuine smile.
“Hey. No kidding! We don’t see each other for a decade and now you can’t escape me.”
“Are you here for the face-scorching tan-tan men too?” Sara asked.
“Yeah. Spicy number five with karaage chicken and a marinated egg.”
Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “Marinated egg? Sounds gross.”
Deacon stared at her for a moment, and said, “You’ve got no idea what you’re missing. It’s freaking amazing.”
Skeptically, Sara said, “Mmkay. I’ll take your word on that. I won’t be sullying my bowl with any marinated anything.”
They chatted amicably until the waiter came by to take Sara’s order and drop off Deacon’s gyoza. Gesturing to the food, he asked, “Want one?”
Shaking her head no, Sara pulled out her phone and started to check messages when Deacon scooted his stuff over and took the chair next to hers. He slid the gyoza toward her.
“Sure you don’t want one?” he asked, smiling.
“Nah. I’ve got my own on the way,” Sara answered, staring longingly at the gyoza.
Sensing her inner struggle he dunked one in the soy dipping sauce and held it out to her.
With a sigh, she opened her chopsticks and broke them apart. She snagged it from him and popped it in her mouth.
