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He motions me to the door with a wave of his hand. “After you.”
His cottage is bigger than mine. I was over here once when I was younger. Mr. and Mrs. Chambers invited my parents over for drinks when we first started coming here. There is an open kitchen with an island. Looking out from the kitchen is the living room / dining room. A sliding glass door opens out to the deck, overlooking the ocean. Three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms. A reasonable size for a beach cottage.
Looking at how Chase is dressed and looking at this cottage, I don’t understand why he’s even here. He’s a North Shore boy. They usually head out to the Hamptons for the summer. “What brought you to Davis? Shouldn’t you be in the Hamptons?” I need to have a filter attached to my mouth.
”My family owns a house in Bridgehampton.” Of course they do. “I normally stay out there, but my friends wanted to be a little closer to home this year. Plus they have other friends who are staying closer to Leja Beach.” Ah, Leja. I don’t spend too much time on that side of Davis; it’s in the other direction. He walks over to the kitchen and opens the fridge.
That answers my question of why they are here, but not why he is here. I sit down on one of the bar stools on the end of the island. “Not that it’s any of my business, but they all have girlfriends. Why are you here stag?”
He gives me a puzzled look. “I haven’t found anyone worth bringing,” he replies. He pulls some chicken out of the refrigerator, then places a couple of bowls on the island.
“So you can cook?” I tease.
“We had a personal chef in the house. When I was young, I would stand in the kitchen and watch her prepare some of our meals. After a while, she’d let me help when my dad wasn’t around.” A slight shadow of a frown crosses his face before disappearing. He places the chicken on a cutting board and starts to pound it. “I’m making Chicken Francaise with creamed spinach. I hope you like it.”
Like it? French food is my favorite!
“I absolutely love French food. That’s one of my favorite dishes,” I say, grinning like an idiot.
“Well then. I hope I can live up to your expectations,” he says and smiles back.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, you can open this bottle of wine. I hope you like white.”
“Yes, that’s fine.” He hands me the bottle opener, and I pop the cork out with ease. It is a 2002 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet 1er Cru Les Folatières. Another French wine. What is the fascination with French wines?
“French wine with a French meal?” I mock.
He stops what he’s doing and gazes at me. “I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.” His voice is low and raspy. I start to flush like he’s talking about something other than the food. “A quote from Oscar Wilde,” he clarifies, his lips arching into a trace of a smile.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He finishes pounding the chicken and places a frying pan on the stove. He warms up some butter in the pan and turns back to the chicken. He dips the chicken in flour, then an egg-parmesan-parsley mixture, and places the chicken in the pan. He reaches into the refrigerator for the already prepared spinach.
He is beautiful to watch, so comfortable in the kitchen. Watching him use a knife is making me dizzy. If I tried to cut with the speed he was using, I’d lose a finger. “There must be something else I can help with,” I say.
“You are my guest, but if you must. In the living room is my iPod. Can you get it for me?”
“Sure.” I wander over to the living room and find his iPod on the coffee table.
“I’m full of chicken so pick out a song and hit play. It’s already synced to the speakers in the house. I think some light jazz should do the trick.”
I scroll down his song lists. Wow, so many. All different types of music. The choices are immense.
“You have very eclectic taste in music I see,” I say, still scrolling.
“I like to listen to music dependent on my mood.”
I look up. His lips arch with a trace of a smile, and his eyes are sparkling. Oh, that smile. What are you thinking? I open the folder marked jazz and scroll down the list of songs since I am not familiar with any of these. I find a piece by someone named Dave Brubeck and hit play. Sounds of a piano, drum and a single saxophone fill the air. It’s lovely.
“Good choice,” he says. “Take Five is one of my favorites.”
I sit down on the couch, listen to the music, and watch him finish cooking. He finishes with the chicken and starts on the spinach. He places it into a pan with some kind of cream sauce and tosses it lightly. “Just about done here. Do you need a refill on your wine?”
“Yes, please.” I stroll into the kitchen. He refills our glasses and brings the chicken over to the dining room table. He has the table all set with china. A selection of candles glow in the center of the table. He dims the lights and motions me to sit. The music changes to something softer, more piano. It’s very soothing. “What’s this?” I wonder out loud.
