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I’m not much of a drinker, but I don’t think he’s talking about that kind of drunk.
I hold on to Clayton a bit tighter as we start making our way up.
He explains, “It was a humble cottage back in the day. Dad was a boat builder, but he did a decent job building this beauty. Needless to say, Mom was impressed.”
“Now you’re trying to impress me? Without having to hammer a single nail?”
“Fair point,” he accepts. “But I’ve made my mark, you know. Over time, Rob and I did a series of renovations and turned it into our holiday home. We haven’t used it much since Mom and Dad died, though.”
Halfway up the path, I smell food. “Who’s cookin’?”
“Well, I’m not much of a cook.” He sends me his admission in a wink. “So I hired someone for tonight. You don’t mind an early dinner?”
“No, not at all.”
The hill and my heels turn out to be accepting of each other. We get to the top without any podiatric drama. Maybe because the master of the house is by my side, the earth decides to be kind to me.
The entrance to the cottage is a rustic, thick wooden door. “My dear.” He pushes it open.
A fire is burning. Mixing in with the cooking spices, the smell of cedar wood and wildflowers assaults my senses. Going past the living room and into the dining area, I can only gape at what this man has prepared. The table has been set—a large oak table, lightly polished, almost raw, decorated with a white runner. Several candles are placed in the middle, accompanied by roses in small metal vases.
“Clayton, you’ve gone through so much trouble.”
“I was happy to prepare all this for you. Now, that, I can claim I did myself.”
I guess this is how a man shows how much he appreciates his woman. But how? Why? I’m not used to this.
Reflections of the candles twinkle in his eyes, complementing that projection of kindness that can only come from his heart. It’s his constant. It’s who he is.
A figure in a chef's uniform enters the room. “Ma’am. Clay.” The man offers a polite smile. His white top fits him like a suit as if he’s just come out of the White House kitchen.
“Isabelle, this is Guillaume, the man of the moment,” Clayton introduces me to him.
“Nice to meet you. Whatever is cooking, it smells divine,” I compliment.
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He takes my hand and kisses it.
Clayton then helps me with my dress as I sit down.
I left my dream of being a princess on my last Christmas in Rio. Now, being treated like royalty despite the lack of a tiara and Cinderella dress is making me see pink.
We start with warm bread and a glass of red. I smile at the label—Product of Kenya.
Moments later, Guillaume returns with a tray in his hands. “Oysters Florentine.”
Clayton looks at me, waiting for my reaction. I ignore him and thank the chef instead.
“Anything you want to say?” Clayton provokes as I marvel at the spread.
“I’m allergic to these,” I whisper.
A panicked expression flutters across his face. “Oh, God! I’m sorry.” He shuffles himself out of his seat. “Gui—”
“Relax! Relax, I’m kidding.” I revel in the moment Clayton Hartley loses his cool.
“Jesus, Isabelle.” He sits back down with a huff.
“I love oysters.” And the one that has just touched my palate is friggin’ delicious. I take my time, then add, “I won’t comment onthatassociation. But I must say, it’s a bold choice for a first date.”
