The British brute released me, and I whirled around to see my dazzling savior standing behind us with a drink in each hand. Long gone was the charming smile, the playful affectation, replaced by an almost predatory gleam flashing across his face, with a chilling threat flickering in his eyes. It was truly scary that someone so gorgeous could look so equally frightening, especially considering that I’d willingly gone off with him by myself.
While Chip took a giant step back, obviously interested in self-preservation, he pulled up suddenly short, gawking openly at his face. “Oh my goodness,” he said with a gasp, his jaw dropping open with sheer astonishment. “Are you—”
“Just leaving.”
The drinks were pressed into the hands of two other grateful patrons just before my mystery date threw a deliberate arm around my shoulder and steered me away. I followed obediently, barely daring to glance up at him till we were back outside and on the other side of the street.
“So I guess we’re leaving,” I said.
“Would you care for some desert?” he asked me.
The way he was looking at me, I wasn’t sure if he really meant desert, or if it was some kind of sexual innuendo.
I knew if I didn’t leave this very second, there was a very high chance I was going to sleep with him. I was one of those hopeless romantics looking for love. And I didn’t do fuck buddies, booty calls, or one-night stands.
But I was sure this was heading toward something. The Walk of Shame? No, the Walk of Awesome!
With a smile on my face, I turned around and followed his eyes to a little restaurant tucked into the trees behind us. It was small but fancy enough to have a valet situated out front, waving off the passing cars, and the sign in front read, “Gourmet French dining.”
“Come on,” he said automatically, then headed up the street without a second thought, tugging me behind him. “It looks like they’re still open.”
I followed for a few seconds, then dug in my heels when we got close. As willing as I was to do just about anything to prologue my time with the playful Adonis, I knew I didn’t have the money for a place like that, where a simple plate would probably cost half a month’s rent. Not only that, but we weren’t exactly black tie; the two of us looked like we’d just come from a rave. I couldn’t help but imagine the French chef from The Little Mermaid hurling cooking knives at us until we vacated the premises. “Wait.” I stared up at the intimidating storefront uncertainly. “This looks really expensive, and I’m not really dressed for—”
“You’re dressed for anything. You look beautiful.”
All my hesitation came to a screeching halt as I stared up at him, feeling more blissfully happy than I ever had in my life. Does he really think that? He, of all people, thinks I’m the beautiful one?
“Besides,” he said, grabbing my hand and urging me forward once more, “I have no intention of going in through the front...”
With the practiced skill of someone who had done it many times before, my mysterious new tour guide slipped us past security and through a pair of swinging metal doors that led directly into the kitchen.
At first, I was nervous. After all, my French wasn’t all that good. Also, I was pretty sure we were in a place where no unauthorized personnel should have been. I cringed into his side, dreading our inevitable moment of capture, but when a white-aproned chef leapt out in front of us, his furious demeanor melted into a smile.
“Bonsoir, Marcel.” The cook’s uppity, hyper mood changed on the spot, and he rushed forward, looking utterly delighted. “Voila! Comment allez-vous?! Ca fait longtemps!” He caught my man by the face and kissed him twice on both cheeks, even going so far as to ruffle his dark hair as he ducked playfully away.
“J’ai voyage.”
“Ah, oui? New York?”
“Et d’autre lieux.” He grinned again before glancing down at me and reverting quickly to a language we could both understand. “Listen, Marcel, you don’t happen to have any leftover dessert lying around, do you? See, we are starving, and—”
“Absolument! Un moment!”
Who would’ve known that my mystery man had these kinds of connections? As the chef hurried off, he turned back to me with a smile, squeezing his arm tighter around my shoulder. “Do you like crème puffs?”
I stared back in amazement, feeling more and more like I was caught in some kind of dream that made no sense at all but was the most wonderful dream of all time. “Who doesn’t?” I retorted.
“You make a good point.” He grinned again, then turned to accept the parcel the chef was handing to him. It was emblazoned on the side with the name of the restaurant, but judging by the swirls of chocolate and sugar, a few personal touches had clearly been added.
“Bon appetit!”
“Merci!” he said graciously, waving the parcel as he backed us to the door, still wearing that boyish grin. “A bientot!”
Then, without another word, the two of us hurried off into the night, arm in arm, with the London streetlights glistening around us, the silver moonlight nipping
at our heels, and some delicious sweets tucked under the arm of a deliciously sweet man I was just getting to know.
Chapter 3