“Just because we’ll be cold doesn’t mean we have to look bad.”
“I’ll take note.”
I laughed.
Park and I left the plane and headed to our connecting flight.Chapter 3
You’re a Mean One, Mr. GrinchAfter the hour and a half flight from Helsinki to Lapland, we departed, headed to baggage claim, and waited for our luggage to come out.
Park smiled. “I’m excited to meet your friend Holly.”
“She’s awesome.”
“She’s picking us up?”
“No. It’ll be her brother.”
“Oh.” Park grinned. “Is he single?”
“No.” I forced a smile. “I mean. . .well. . .he could be single, but you know—”
“You like him?”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “I mean. . .sure I like him, but that’s because he’s a good friend. I’ve known him forever. And you know. . .he’s a great guy.”
Park grinned.
“What?”
“I hope it’s okay to say this.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re usually pretty cold when it comes to men. This time you’re very warm.”
“Cold?”
“You identify your lovers by colors.”
“It’s a great way to keep track of them.”
She laughed. “Hey, I don’t hate it. I wish I were less of a romantic and more cold-blooded.”
“Trust me. You don’t want to be cold-blooded. It’s a cruel way to be.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Then why be that way?”
“I ask my fifth therapist that almost every meeting.”
Park nodded. “Then it’s complicated.”
“Deeply complicated.”
“Have you been friends with Holly and Saint for a long time?”
“Forever.” I thought back to those days.
When we were kids, Saint was a bad boy. One Christmas, my grandmother made Saint help her with dinner. They prepared the food all day. She would never let him rest. I believed that she’d spotted his path onto bad boy doom and decided to set him on a new one. Either way, that Christmas dinner triggered a passion for cooking in him.
In our teen years, Saint perfected his cooking skills. He became so good that his parents would let him prepare dinner for everyone on the weekends. Once he hit seventeen, they let him do Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners. When he graduated high school, he went to culinary school in Paris. He finished at the top of his class and then worked in a three-star Michelin restaurant.
After that, he opened his own spot in Paris. Whenever I would go to Paris for fashion week, I went to his restaurant for lunch and dinner. He would never let me pay for my food.
I spotted Saint entering the terminal and lost my words. My stomach flipped at the sight of him.
Do you always have to be so gorgeous, Saint?
Park looked my way. “Oh my. Are all the men in Finland this sexy? If so, I quit. I’m moving here.”
“That’s Saint.”
She turned back to him. “Oh my.”From first look, Saint was a beast of a man. Had he been an actor, a director would have cast him as a rugged barbarian raiding and pillaging villages. He had a chiseled jawline, penetrating gaze, and cheekbones that could cut ice. He stood well over six feet. I only reached the middle of his broad chest. Corded muscle thickened his arms. One would have thought he was a bodybuilder.
“Wait a minute.” Park gasped and whispered. “He looks familiar. Hold the door! Is that Chef Saint—the hottest chef on television?”
My voice went hoarse. “Yep.”
“Oh my.”
As a top chef, Saint wrote a book about his experiences in Paris. He made the New York Bestselling list. Everything changed after that. Several high-end food groups tried to invest in him. They wanted to pay him to open up restaurants in top tourist cities like New York, London, and Las Vegas. He turned them all down.
Instead, he chose a job offer with the American Food Network channel. There, he hosted two shows. One was called Saint’s Sweet Sins. On that show, he traveled all over the world sampling different desserts. The second show was Lunch with Saint where he created dishes as his Golden Retriever, Angel watched.
Park leaned my way and kept her voice low. “Would it be rude if I asked for his autograph and a selfie?”
Heat spread when his eyes meet mine. “Wait until tomorrow. I’ll bring it up.”
“Wow. I love working for you.”
He approached us with a dazzling smile. Those beautiful blue eyes peered down into mine. He stood close enough that his cologne surrounded me. He was one of those men who always smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower and sprayed something designer.
I keep forgetting that he does this to me.
Sighing, I placed my hands in my coat to have something to do. I didn’t know why but neither of us spoke. I was too taken aback by him—as usual. He always stopped my breathing and thinking. My throat went dry. So close, I drank him in again. A shiver of desire shot up my spine.
And then finally, he broke the silence. His deep voice was an instrument that triggered a desire to dance along my skin. “Hello, Ivy.”