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When the sommelier came in after Dimitri had ordered our dinner, they chatted and decided on a Chateau something, something Rothschild Paul-something. From the look on the sommelier’s stoic face, it’s some big deal, because Dimitri had to give him a special key as well as a code to apparently bust it out of some vault in the private wine cellar—probably guarded by former C.I.A. wet works dudes, wearing all black ready to go all John Wick on somebody’s ass.
“What do you think?” He asks as I set my glass down, the warm liquid igniting my tastebuds.
I shrug as I spin the glass on the linen tablecloth, then lift it once again to my mouth, the room warming and my head feeling light. “S’good.” I whisper into the glass as the burgundy liquid kisses my lips and I draw the smooth, complex wine into my mouth.
“S’good?” He smiles this wicked smile that is so sexy, my already damp panties take another direct hit. “Do you have a similar response to the risotto?”
“Yes.” I nod, licking my lips. “It was slightly oversalted, and a tad more white truffle would have balanced the egg yolk flavor a little better. Otherwise, yes, s’good.” I can hardly believe I just said that, but I am totally blaming the wine. I’ve never had alcohol before, and Dimitri didn’t even ask if I was old enough to drink; which I’m not.
He stares across the table at me for a long moment, then nods.
“You are spot on correct.” He raises his eyebrows. “You are a mysterious creature, Victoria Hart. Now, I must ask, why were you here with that horrible, horrible man?”
I swear I hear jealousy in his question, and if I wasn’t already half in love with him this odd protectiveness he has about me has me sliding quickly down that slippery slope.
“Uh, let’s just say it was a favor to my mother. A set up, if you like.”
“Wow. Really? Your mother set you up with that?” The distaste in his tone gives me another jolt of comfort around a man I barely know. “I have to say, I definitely do not like.”
I’m rarely even this open. But there’s something about Dimitri—and the wine, I’m sure—that makes the conversation feel natural. I know he’s some big muckity-muck restaurant financier and critic. I know he grew up in New York with Russian parents who ran a clothing company. I know he started cooking in their warehouse kitchen, so the workers wouldn’t leave for lunch.
The story goes, one day a buyer from Harrods came to see their fall clothing collection, but when he walked in, the smell of Dimitri’s cooking was the only thing on his mind. From there, he took him under his wing. Taught him the business, sent him to train with the best chefs in the world then backed his first restaurant in New York, The Baltimore.
Now, here I sit. Victoria Hart, culinary school defect and line cook at Big Jim’s Steak and Cheese.
He runs a hand over his mouth as the waiter silently removes the plates and replaces them with our main course: beef short ribs, with something called Pommes Anna and pickled beetroot.
I’ve never come close to eating a meal like this, except when I cook for myself. And, although again, I’m sure it’s the wine, I feel this connection to Dimitri as we eat and I flirt. Something I wasn’t sure I even knew how to do before tonight.
“So, what do you do Victoria Hart?”
I shrug. “Right now, I am going to school. Working part time.” I’m embarrassed to tell him I would give my left breast to work in a place like this. To be involved in his world.
“What’s your major?” He leans back, calmly waiting for my answer so I blurt it out trying not to sound like a wannabe.
“I’m in my first year at culinary school. Just community college and I’m a line cook at a diner sort of place. Just trying to figure things out still I guess.”
He licks his lips, considering my answer and I feel like I can’t breathe.
We eat a few bites in silence, sipping our wine as my body heats and I can’t believe how good he looks sitting there in that black suit. I’ve never considered it before, how good a suit could look, but right now I don’t think I could be more turned on if he was sitting there naked.
And I’ve imagined that about a thousand times in the last ninety minutes since I set my eyes on him in the bar.
He puts his fork down and folds his hands in front of his mouth, leaning in and watching me with those blue eyes that make me feel lightheaded.
I take another bite, letting the flavors meld in my mouth as he watches and I shift in my seat under the intensity of his gaze. Just as I’m trying to swallow the last of the bite in my mouth, I nearly choke as I feel the brush of his foot against mine under the table.
