“We don’t want to hurt you,” Sam said softly.
Bea looked to Asher—of the four of them, he was the only one who had yet to speak.
“What if you do anyway?” she asked him. But he didn’t answer—just reached into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“Bea, we don’t want you to take our feelings on faith. We have something to ask you.”
The rest of the men fumbled in their pockets, too, and Bea was puzzled when she saw what they’d come up with: tubes of ChapStick.
“What the …?”
“You think you’re the only one who can kiss cheeks and be all gallant?” Sam asked as they all slicked on their ChapStick. “We can be gallant, Bea.”
“I can see that.” Bea couldn’t help laughing, even as tears leaked out of her eyes.
Then Wyatt stood—he offered Bea his hand and helped her to her feet—and the other men stood as well.
“Bea,” Wyatt asked, “will you stay with me another week? I know this week has been exotic and all, but I think you’re going to be pretty awed by my family’s wheat fields.”
Bea smiled. “Yes, I’ll stay.” Wyatt kissed her cheek. He stepped aside, and Sam approached her.
“Bea, my bea-tific bea-uty,” Sam started.
“You’re going to win me over with wordplay?”
“Absolutely, I am, because you’re the Bea’s knees.” He grinned, and Bea laughed. “Bea, I love spending time with you, and I want you to meet my family. Will you stay with me another week?”
Bea nodded. “Yes, Sam.” Another kiss. Sam moved to make room for Luc.
“Bea, this week for us was special. But I know there is better yet to come.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips—he kissed one finger, just as she had when he’d given her that perfect taste of saffron. She couldn’t help but glance at Asher as Luc did this—she saw his jaw was set, his face hard. But there was nothing she could do about that now.
“Bea, you will stay with me another week?”
“I will.” Luc kissed her cheek too.
And then there was just Asher—his lips tight, his posture rigid. Bea tensed up, wondering if they were about to rehash his jealousy of Luc. But as it turned out, he was upset about something else entirely.
“Do you doubt me?” he said. The room went quiet, and the tension level rose considerably.
“I don’t want to,” Bea said truthfully.
“Do you believe I would bring cameras into my home and let you meet my children if I wasn’t serious about this—about you?”
“No.” Bea’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I know you wouldn’t.”
“I hate that men like Jefferson want to hurt you. Bea, I was so angry down there. But I will never give you a reason to believe him. I want you to meet my family. I want you, period. Stay with me, Bea. Okay? Stay.”
Bea couldn’t find words, but she nodded, and Asher wrapped her in a hug and kissed her on the cheek. In his arms, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to forget for just a moment about the other men in the room, the cameras watching them, and all her doubts.
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Jefferson Derting
TO: MoroccanAir Baggage Retrieval Service
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Lost baggage
Hello. After several emails and one two-hour phone call, I am STILL WAITING to hear what happened to my baggage. I flew back to the U.S. five days ago, and you people don’t seem to have any idea what happened to my stuff. I was on TELEVISION for a month, so ALL MY CLOTHES were in that bag, in addition to a VERY EXPENSIVE VINTAGE BESPOKE BEARD MAINTENANCE KIT which I purchased AT AUCTION. Can you help me or not? I don’t want to have to Yelp about this, so get back to me, comprende?
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: MoroccanAir Baggage Retrieval Service
TO: Jefferson Derting
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: Lost baggage
Dear Mr. Derting,
As best as we can surmise, the mix-up occurred during your transfer in Madrid, at which time you boarded a flight bound for the United States. Your baggage, however, continued on to London, then Crete, then Bucharest, and finally Bratislava. At that point, an associate identified it and had it flown to our One Globe baggage retrieval center in Frankfurt. However, due to a storm system in the area, I’m afraid that is where our trail runs cold. It’s possible your bag was received and logged in Frankfurt, but the electrical blackout caused that record to be deleted within our system; or it may simply never have arrived. We’re working on that information and will report back as soon as we can. We thank you very much for your patience, and we would like to offer you complimentary beverages on your next MoroccanAir flight. Have a pleasant day!
Our very best,
R.M.
R.M. Nostam
Baggage Retrieval Specialist
MoroccanAir Airlines
A Partner of the One Globe Alliance
One globe. One you. One planet.
I WENT TO THAT HOT MAIN SQUEEZE CHEF’S RESTAURANT SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO
by Leslie Curtin, eater.com
After last week’s episode of Main Squeeze, no corner of the Internet was safe from discussion of one topic: French chef (slash International Hot Dude) Luc Dupond and his illicit night with Bea in Morocco. Did they sleep together, or did they sleep together? Is he on the show for the right reasons? And, most importantly—can the guy actually cook? This reporter braved the Snap-happy crowds at his restaurant, Canard Chanceux (that’s French for “lucky duck”), to find out.
Spoiler alert? The answer is no.
If you’re opening up a restaurant in downtown Manhattan, you’re facing steep rent and stiff competition, which means you have one of two choices: Either you can cook outrageously good food that keeps the crowds coming back, or you can put out plates that look really, really, really good on Instagram. You want to take a wild guess which thing Canard Chanceux is doing?
And yes, I’ll admit, it’s fun to see your lamb lollipops ascend a spiral staircase made of freeze-dried frites while a column of foie-infused smoke (reader, I wish I was making that up) shoots up the middle. But you know what’s more fun? Eating food that tastes good.
In Luc’s defense, this isn’t his restaurant, nor his concept (he was hired by the owners to replace the previous chef after a much-publicized embezzlement scandal). Who knows how well he would do if he were to achieve his dream of opening up his own place—a dream that’s within reach now that he’s become a quasi-celebrity. But one thing’s unfortunately for sure: His fame will no doubt draw even greater hordes to a restaurant where everyone should photograph the food, but nobody, least of all you, should eat it.
Hometown week was the craziest shooting schedule of the season—four cities across America in just six days. Since there was neither time nor budget to go to Normandy to meet Luc’s family this week, Bea was spending an afternoon with Luc in New York City to meet his friends and eat at his restaurant. Still smarting from his behavior in Morocco and questioning his motives, Bea told Alison she wanted to feel tough on this date—like a hot bitch you don’t mess with. They settled on skintight Veda leather leggings paired with a silky black blouse (several buttons undone to reveal the lacy low-cut cami Bea wore underneath), spiky McQueen heels, and a luxe dark Baja East trench coat slung around her shoulders. They finished the look with bombshell waves, smoky eyes, big lashes, and soft, pouty lips—Bea thought it was the sexiest she’d looked all season.
As she stepped into the sleek mirrored foyer of the restaurant, Bea saw that Luc agreed with her assessment. He slipped the coat from her shoulders, letting his hands linger at her waist and slide down over her hips as he kissed her hello on the cheek.
“My God.” His voice was throaty in her ear. “I wish today you were the meal.”
“Then what would I eat?” Bea smiled and swept into the restaurant,
leaving Luc to trail behind her.
The dining room was inky and angular, the chairs hard, the ceilings low, the surfaces dark and lacquered. The whole place had a sultry, subterranean feel—it made perfect sense to Bea that this was the sort of restaurant where see-and-be-seen traders and club kids came to drop $1,000 on a Tuesday. At the back of the room, a smoked glass wall gave a murky view of the restaurant’s kitchen, where prep for the evening was well under way; they were filming this meal at 2 P.M. so as not to interfere with that night’s dinner service. Bea was so distracted by the motion, energy, and chaotic order of the chefs and the line cooks going through their routines, and the realization that all these people reported to Luc, that she barely noticed the table of his friends waiting to meet her.
“Everyone, this is Bea,” Luc announced, and three of the most attractive people Bea had ever seen turned to appraise her.
“Bea, I’m Stefania.” A towering brunette with creamy alabaster skin and a crisp English accent rose to kiss Bea’s cheek and clasp her hands as if they were already old friends. “Luc has been telling us about you.”
“All good things, I hope?”
“Of course! He’s absolutely smitten by you. But that’s Luc, isn’t it? Never denies himself a pleasure.”
“I’ve noticed that too.” Bea threw Luc a little look, and he grinned impishly back.
“And this is my partner, Isabeau.”
Isabeau was a Black woman from Paris, and so chic Bea thought she’d be right at home in the fashion world; her flowing silk pants hung low on her hips, and her hair was arranged in swirls of Bantu knots.
“Enchantée—love your blouse.” Isabeau kissed Bea’s cheeks as well.
“Thank you. Your slacks are fantastic.”
“What, these?” Isabeau waved her hand dismissively. “I made them in an afternoon.”
“You’re a designer?” Bea’s eyes lit up.
“No, she’s in marketing, of all things.” Stefania rolled her eyes. “Just much more beautiful and talented than the rest of us.”
“Not more than you, chérie.” Isabeau grinned and kissed Stefania—Bea liked them both immediately.
The final member of their party was Boaz, who was Israeli and a chef as well. He and Luc came up together at “some shit fusion concept in Flatbush, all pretension, no flavor” (Boaz’s words), but now he co-owned his own restaurant in Cobble Hill, a fact Luc noted with palpable envy.
“You too, soon enough,” Boaz said to Luc, draping an arm about his shoulders and massaging his neck.
“Yes, but you have said this for years,” Luc groused.
“But now you’re a big TV star, eh?” Boaz winked at Bea. “You’re making all his dreams come true.”
Bea pressed her lips together—that was exactly why she was worried.
There was no time to say more about it, though, as servers arrived bearing platters of flaky white fish grilled with lemon and tomatoes, bowls of fresh greens in sour mustard dressing, and an overflowing pot of mouthwatering cassoulet.
“You see?” Boaz said to Luc. “This is what I’ve been telling you. For your place, forget all that Instagram shit. This is your food.”
“This food isn’t on your menu?” Bea asked.
“Non,” Luc explained. “For you I wanted to make something more traditional, like what my mother would prepare if she were here.”
“You should see the stuff he cooks here.” Boaz laughed. “Everything a tower, tiny little portions stacked up high. He lets the presentation talk instead of the taste.”
“Mais non, it’s not my menu,” Luc protested.
“Sure.” Bea gave Luc a knowing look. “But even if you’re working at someone else’s restaurant, wouldn’t you rather be somewhere where you can make your own food? Don’t you get tired of always pretending to be someone you’re not?”
“I am not always pretending,” he said softly. An awkward silence fell over the group.
“The fish is scrumptious.” Stefania broke the tension. “Luc, do you remember when we went to that little place in Calais, what was it called?”
“Angelie Sur la Mer,” Luc answered.
“Yes, Angelie by the sea!” she said, translating. “It was the quaintest little place, with a view of the cliffs, and the fish.” She groaned with pleasure at the memory. “You could barely get Luc and me to leave our room, we hardly saw daylight, but when it was time for dinner, it was on with our things and out the door so fast your head would spin.”
“This guy.” Boaz laughed. “The only thing he loves more than sex is food.”
Bea sighed. Of course Luc had slept with Stefania—of course.
“This depends on the food—and the sex.” Luc grinned and kissed Bea’s cheek, and the rest of the table laughed amiably when she blushed crimson. She was mortified. How many times was this man going to imply she’d slept with him when she hadn’t?
“This poses an interesting question,” Isabeau mused. “If you ask any of us which we prefer, the best meal of our lives or the best night of lovemaking, I am hard-pressed to think of anyone who’d choose the meal.”
“I don’t know,” Bea countered. “I think I might.”
“Really?” Isabeau looked intrigued.
“The memory of the sex is so much more subjective. If the person you had the wonderful sex with doesn’t turn out to be so wonderful, the memory can become a source of pain.” Bea shrugged. “But a really great cheeseburger is still a really great cheeseburger, no matter who was across from you when you ate it.”
“This is your best meal?” Luc teased. “A cheeseburger? So American.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Bea met his eyes, only half-joking.
“Never,” Luc responded. “But I am curious to know about this amazing night that has caused you so much pain.”
Bea shook her head. “That’s my point exactly. Some nights, you’d just as soon forget.”
Luc raised his glass. “Then we must toast to nights we are glad to remember. And to people we are glad to have beside us, even if we are eating a cheeseburger.”
The others raised their glasses in turn, and Luc leaned over to kiss Bea softly. As he pulled away, she searched his eyes, wondering how she could have spent so many hours with him and still feel she didn’t know him at all.
After dinner and goodbyes, it was still light out—just after 5 P.M.—so Lauren decided that Bea and Luc should take a stroll along the High Line. It was a chilly day, so the promenade was fairly empty, but of the few joggers and tourists about, several gawked at Bea and Luc and their camera crew, and a few even paused to take photos. A harsh wind blew and the sun was beginning to set over New Jersey as Luc and Bea walked side by side.
“So,” Luc said, breaking the silence, “did you enjoy the dinner? And the company?”
“The food and the people were lovely,” Bea replied.
“Then why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Bea snapped.
Luc shot her a pointed look. “Upset and lying about it.”
Bea exhaled. “I take it you and Stefania used to date.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“I just didn’t know I was going to meet someone you slept with today.”
“Two people, en fait.”
Bea frowned. “Isabeau too?”
“Non.” Luc grinned at Bea, who couldn’t help blushing as she took his meaning. “Does this bother you?”
“I just think you could have warned me that you were planning to introduce me to a string of your gorgeous exes.”
“This is why you are unhappy? Non, but you were in a bad mood even before you met them, so this cannot be the reason.”
“I was not in a bad mood.” Bea scowled.
Luc smirked at her—totally not buying it. He took her by the shoulders.
“Come, say what you think. You are still upset about Jefferson?”
“No.” Bea was so frustrated. “Maybe! I don’t know.”
“You think
I am not being honest with you? Bea, we discussed all this in Morocco.”
“When you came to my room in the middle of the night, you mean?”
Luc gestured meaningfully toward the cameras. “Perhaps we should not mention this?”
“Oh, come off it, the whole world knows. You made sure of that when you bragged about it to Asher, when you let him think we’d slept together. That was fun for me to deal with.”
Luc closed his eyes—finally, the answer he was looking for.
“This is why you are angry.”
“For starters,” Bea fumed.
“Okay, good,” he encouraged her. “Dites-moi. You tell me.”
“You did the same thing today! All that talk of sex, letting your friends think I was another addition to their little club. You say this isn’t a game to you, but you’re treating it like one, Luc—like I’m a chess piece instead of a human being.”
“Yes, of course! You are a prize, and I must have you.” He grinned and tugged her hand, pulling her close—she shoved him away.
“You’re not listening!” She exhaled in exasperation.
“Bea, yes I am.” He pulled her back in. “I am sorry I made Asher jealous. After Ohio, he walked around every day with his little smirk, like you are his already. So I let him know, he is not the only one who has your affection. I did not think he would cry to you about it.”
“Don’t blame this on him,” Bea chided. “He was really upset.”
“Alors, perhaps I was too.”
Bea frowned at him. “What did you have to be upset about?”
“Now who is not listening?” Luc asked.
Bea regarded him skeptically. “You were jealous of Asher? Seriously?”
“In Ohio, I met your family, we talked with your brothers, I am thinking, Wow, this is good, yeah? Then I see you in tears, you are running off to the woods with Asher, you are more passionate with him than you have ever been with me.”
“And you wanted to get back at him.” Bea shook her head, understanding. “But Luc, why would you do it by revealing something that could make me look bad? Especially since you were the one who came to my room to talk—I didn’t invite you there.”
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