thought she might just turn and walk away.
But then she said, “Yes, by the way.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
God was smiling on him, that was for sure. He grinned and let her lead the way to the dining room.
“Connor O’Rourke,” said Francine, the restaurant hostess, a fiftysomething-year-old woman who had flirted with him all last summer, “what are you doing back here?”
“Francine, this is my friend Jessica. She’s a guest at the hotel.”
“Very nice to meet you, Jessica. I hope everything is to your liking.”
“Everything is wonderful,” she said.
“Table for two?” she asked.
And here was the thing about being a good-looking, amiable guy who always had time to flirt with the restaurant hostess. It got you the best table in the house, in front of the fireplace. And being a hard-working sous-chef who’d tolerated the rages and hissy fits of his stereotypical French boss got them a visit from the self-same diva, who came out to their table to greet them and sent over a bottle of wine and a lobster-and-avocado appetizer that wasn’t on the menu.
“Mademoiselle, a pleasure to have you dine at my humble establishment,” Raoul said, bending over her hand, and Jess smiled at him then raised an eyebrow at Connor.
“You always get treated like this?” she asked him. Raoul still held on to her hand.
“I think you’re the one who’s getting treated like this. Watch out for Raoul,” he said, separating the chef’s hand from hers. “He loves beautiful women.”
“Ah, it’s true, it’s true,” Raoul said, completely charming. “My wife, she suffers, but what can she do? She throws things and screams, then I cook for her, she is helpless in the face of my great talent, and everything is happy again. Mademoiselle—Jessica, if I may? Jessica, I would love to cook for you, just the two of us—”
“The kitchen needs you, Raoul.” Connor smiled at his old boss. “Go. I smell a filet being cooked well-done.”
“Mon Dieu,” Raoul said. He bowed again to Jess, then winked at Connor, and then they were alone again.
Jess gave him a small smile then took a tiny sip of wine.
“You don’t drink much,” Connor said.
“I have two alcoholic parents,” she answered mildly. “I’d be stupid to start.”
He nodded.
“So what kind of classes do you take?” she asked, and he told her about the CIA, and what he was good at and where he wasn’t so hot.
“What’s your dream job?” she asked as their dinners were served.
He hesitated. “I’d like to own my own place,” he said.
“Something fancy, like this?”
“No, no. Something small and humble but with great food. Really thoughtful food, you know? Not just burgers and nachos, but with the best burger you’ve ever eaten, nachos with three kinds of cheddar and fresh tomatoes and jalapeños. A place with a really good wine list, and specials based on what was in season and what looked good at the market that day. Nothing frozen or premade, nothing that came shipped in a plastic bag and was offloaded from a trailer, you know?”
Shit. Hugo’s had food that came off a trailer.
But she didn’t take offense. “It sounds good. Where would you do it? Manningsport?”
“Maybe.” He hadn’t really thought about it too much; if he followed the course of most CIA chefs, he’d sous-chef somewhere terribly impressive and uptight for a couple of years, probably in Manhattan or Europe. He was one of the best students in the class. He could go to Paris or Milan or Sydney, easily.
“What about you, Jess? What’s your dream job?”
She took a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Not a waitress. Something where I could make enough to take care of Davey.”
His Catholic guilt shot up into the red zone. “Will he ever be able to...uh...live on his own?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. “He’ll always be with me.” She didn’t seem bothered by that in the least.
Connor never did know what caused Davey’s handicap. It seemed too personal to ask.
“He has fetal alcohol syndrome,” Jessica said, pronouncing the words carefully, as if she wasn’t used to saying them.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “He’s the best thing in my entire life.”
“Sorry,” Connor said again then winced. Jess gave him a wry look and then smiled.
Dessert was brought out without their ordering it, as well as two cappuccinos. “Raoul made this special for the two of you,” said their server, a girl Connor didn’t recognize. “It’s a tartin des pommes de terre with caramelized ginger, served with clotted cream, and he said if that doesn’t make you believe in God, he doesn’t know what will.”
“Please thank him for us,” Jessica said.
Happiness was watching her take a bite, close her eyes and lick her lips. “Oh, God, that’s incredible,” she said.
If he could make her look like that—and not because of dessert—
Better cut that thought off right there. Jess had more than enough men lusting after her.
But come on. Jessica eating that dessert was complete and utter food porn. And he was a chef. It’d be wrong not to enjoy the way her eyes fluttered closed, the little smile, the quiet moan of pleasure.
When the bill came, he grabbed it.
“No, no,” Jessica said. “Let me.”
“Not on your life,” he said.
“At least let me pay my half.”
“Nope.”
“But Hugo—”
“I’m buying you dinner, Jessica. Live with it. And thanks for tolerating me.”
“It was very tough.” She smiled. “It was nice to see you, Connor. I didn’t think it would be, but it was.”
Huh. Mixed praise.
He followed her through the restaurant, noticing the looks she got from men and women both, and wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. He didn’t think so. Or if she did, it didn’t make a lot of difference to her.
At the elevators, she turned
