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“I do. And I think you’re wrong. See you in a few weeks.” He waved and walked off.
I sat there, dumbfounded. That was most unexpected. Who would have ever thought Drake and I would have a heartfelt conversation? Or at least one where I didn’t end up calling him a self-centered prick.
Chef Paul came out of the kitchen through the swinging door, carrying a beautiful platter of his cinnamon bread. For someone who made irresistible food for a living, he didn’t show it; he had abs and buns of steel. Not that I was attracted to him in that way, but I had admired him a time or two. As handsome as he was, he was five years younger than me and had already been married three times, according to Drake. I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s fourth wife. “Miss Izzy,” his delectable voice boasted a hint of a French accent. His father hailed from France, but his mother was from the States. Paul had lived in California for years, so I wasn’t sure the accent was completely real, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed it either way. “You look like you could use something sweet this morning.”
“Bring it on.”
He set the platter in front of me before taking the next seat over.
I ogled the sliced loaf oozing with cinnamon and buttery goodness. “You are a god among men.”
He laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “No one has ever said that before. Not even ma mère.”
I loved when he threw in French words. “Has she tasted this bread?”
“No.”
“Send her a loaf and she’ll come around.” I picked up a piece of the decadent bread and took a bite, savoring every morsel.
“We should get together soon and make sure the menu forChristmas Eveis to your specifications,” he whispered. We referred to anything wedding related asChristmas Evein attempts to keep it under wraps. We hadn’t even told Jameson his parents were getting married that day. As soon as he was out of school for winter break and we could monitor him twenty-four-seven, we would give him his Christmas wish.
“Did you change the menu from the last time we spoke about it?”
“No.” He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled black cheeks. He had the most flawless skin I had ever seen. “I just want to make sure you’re happy.”
Weird. “Okay. Though, it’s not really me you should be making happy.”
He rested a hand on my knee. He had never been so touchy-feely before. “You deserve every happiness.”
Was he flirting with me? That would be awkward, considering I was sort of his boss. Technically Drake was, but Charlotte and I called the shots around here.
While I thought of something to say, and got ready to brush his hand away, a guest appeared. The most handsome guest who had ever stayed here, dressed in jeans and a tight tee. Like me, he looked like he hadn’t slept well, given his red eyes and significant stubble.
“Patrick.” I jumped up. That took care of the hand-on-my-knee situation nicely.
Patrick’s eyes widened as he looked between Paul and me.
“This is Chef Paul,” I blurted, nervously. “He cooks. I mean, of course he cooks. And bakes,” I added lamely. “What I mean to say is, he works here.” Yes, that cleared that up horribly.
Paul stood, eyeing Patrick with interest.
“Paul, this is Patrick. He and his children are guests here,” I made introductions.
“Welcome,” Paul said very unwelcomingly.
“Thank you,” Patrick muttered, seemingly unimpressed.
“Would you like some cinnamon bread?” I grabbed the platter and held it up. I was behaving like a twitterpated schoolgirl.
“No. I came in search of coffee. I didn’t see a coffee maker in our suite.”
“I’m sorry. That’s on my list of things to do. I’ve just been so busy. I’ll order one today,” I rambled. “In the meantime, you are free to help yourself to me ... I mean, anything. You know, food and drink wise,” I stammered. Oh. My. Gosh. I wanted to dive under the table and hibernate for the rest of the winter. My cheeks burned hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch, like my grandma from Georgia used to say. God rest her cantankerous soul.
Paul’s shoulders fell, disappointed.
Patrick ran a hand through his mussed hair, blowing out a deep breath in a distressed manner. He had no idea what distress was. Why did I say that to him? Sure, I had said some version of it twenty years ago, but that was when he was happy to let me help myself to him. Now the man couldn’t even look at me.
“I’ll come back later.” Patrick turned and left.
