by Holly Rayner
He pulls a chair up next to me. “Better than watching the news, right?” he asks.
I smile. The sun feels warm on my face and hands, and I remove my blazer so that I can feel it on my bare arms and shoulders. Julian rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. I glance over at him, wondering if I’ll catch sight of that intriguing tattoo again. But I can only see one side of him, and it’s hidden.
Thinking of the tattoo reminds me of how much I don’t know about this man, at my side, now. And yet, I’ve agreed to marry him. On paper, at least.
“Tell me more about this interview at the bank,” I say. “Next Monday. How rigorous do you think it’s going to be?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” Julian says. “I think we should be prepared for the worst. The men that I met with seemed to be very formal and by-the-books kind of people. Old-school. Stuffy. We’d better be ready to be grilled.”
“Grilled?”
“You know, interrogated. I made up some questions, actually. Mind if we go over them now, while we wait for Jean-Claude to work his magic?”
Julian glances over at me, and I see his eyes take in my figure. The pastel, printed silk blouse I’m wearing is sleeveless, and rather low cut. I feel self-conscious briefly, but the look in his eyes tells me that he likes what he sees, and I feel myself relax. It’s been so long since I’ve spent this much time alone with a man. It’s hard to allow myself to simply feel pretty. The last time I went on a date was…
Wait. I interrupt my own train of thought. This isn’t a date. This is practically a business meeting. Stop acting like there’s anything romantic about sitting here with Julian.
I square my shoulders. “That’s fine with me. Let’s get down to business.”
“Right,” he says. He shakes his head a little, as if clearing a mental fog. “Business. Right.”
He ruffles through the pockets of his sports coat, which is hanging over the arm of his chair, and pulls out two pieces of folded paper. He hands me one.
“I thought we could start with this. They’re questions that I came up with, in line with what I think the banker and lawyer might be asking us. It’s not perfect, but it was the best I could do. I’m open to your suggestions, too.”
I scan the typed questions. They’re all very linear; very practical.
1. When did you meet Julian? 2. When was your first date? 3. What was the first song you danced to? 4. What was the first movie you saw together?
The questions keep going, twenty of them in total. They all have concrete answers, but I can sense a void there. There are no emotional questions, no “What do you love about Julian? How do you feel when you see him?”
We’ll have to talk about those, too. If we want this to be realistic, we’re going to have to dive into the messy stuff. For all of Julian’s imaginative capabilities, I remember how much he used to shy away from emotional topics. He’s a man, now, not a teenager. I wonder if that’s changed.
I smooth the paper out against my thigh. “Okay, I’m ready. How do you want to do this?” I grab my beer and take a sip. Why do I feel so nervous?
Julian takes a sip of his beer, too. Is he nervous as well?
He clears his throat. “Well, ah…I guess—how about I ask you a question, and then you ask one to me. Kind of like we’re the interviewer. Here, switch papers with me.”
I hand Julian the sheet in my lap and he gives me the one he’s holding. Now I have another twenty questions in my hand, exactly the same as the first list, but with my name.
“Okay,” Julian says. “I’ll just go in order. When did you meet Julian?”
“Well…” I say. I glance up at Julian. He’s waiting with a look of curiosity in his eye. “I think we should stick to the truth as much as we can. If we start making up complicated stories, we’re not going to be able to keep track of everything. We’ll be in over our heads. So, let’s try to stick to the facts. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” he says.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “The first time I met Julian was on the first day of boarding school, in Paris. I was moving in, with my mother’s assistance. There was also a committee of kids volunteering to help the new students move their belongings up the five flights of stairs into the dormitories. My mother had just gotten a job in fashion consulting in Paris, and we’d moved rather abruptly. I’d done a rushed packing job, and had stuffed my comforter and pillows into a black plastic trash bag.”
I feel my cheeks start to heat with the embarrassing memory. Why did I just insist on honesty? This is painful.
“Some of the other students started to make fun of me. They asked me if I’d rather live with Charlie, a homeless man who was well known on the boarding school campus. I remember feeling like I was about to cry.”
Even now, as I recall the story, there’s a lump in my throat.
“But then…” I smile, remembering it all so clearly. “Julian stepped in. He said that my luggage was ‘boho chic’, and that it was practical, too. Then, he helped me unpack the trash bag. He cut little holes into the sides and put it over his head. It was drizzling rain, and he said it was his new poncho. He wore it for the whole rest of the day, and I laughed every time I saw him. So did everyone else. In a good way.”
I meet Julian’s eye. “He was always the class clown. He could light up a room.”
I finish the story, and there’s a long pause.
Finally, he speaks. “I did that?” he asks.
I nod. “You don’t remember?”
“No. I mean, maybe vaguely. I remember wearing that trash bag around, but I didn’t remember that it was you who people were teasing.”
“Oh. Well, it was. And I really appreciated it.”
“I thought we met in English class.”
“Seriously? Nope. It was my very first day.”
He looks bewildered.
“Okay, my turn.” I lift my list of questions up so that I can read. “When was your first date?” I ask.
“Um…well, since we never actually went on a date, I’m going to have to make this one up. Let’s see. How about a rugby match? I didn’t play in college, but I loved to go to the games. So I invited you. You said yes.”
“Did you take me out to dinner first?”
“Umm…of course. We went to a hot dog stand. It was cute. You like hot dogs, right? All Americans do.”
I don’t like hot dogs. Plus, I’m super allergic to mustard. I wonder if he remembers that.
“What kind of toppings?” I quiz him.
“Does it matter?” he shrugs a little.
“I just want to imagine it.”
“Okay…uh…ketchup and mustard.”
Darn. He doesn’t remember.
I feel like there’s a file in my brain, containing all of the little things about Julian that I remember from my teenage years. The way he always serves a tennis ball left-handed. The face he makes when he’s trying not to laugh. How he describes foods with strange words—apples taste like ‘sunshine’, and cookies are like a ‘warm hug’.
My Julian file has been full for years, and I’ve never thrown out the data. It was always precious to me, and I realize now that it stayed precious over the years.
But it seems like Julian didn’t feel the same way. It shouldn’t surprise me. He’s a busy CEO, after all…he has more important things to remember than my mustard allergy.
“Okay,” I say. “Our first date was a rugby game. I guess I visited you in Europe? Does that mean you visited me in the States, too?”
“Of course!” he says. “How about we took turns. And then, you moved to the Netherlands.”
This is getting complicated. I feel the need to take notes. But Julian’s already moving on to his next question.
We go back and forth like this for a while, ironing out some details. Our first dance was the waltz at a friend’s wedding; we vacation in the Swiss Alps; I don’t live with Julian yet, but I’m going to move in once we’re engaged.
“We’re almost to the bottom o
f the list,” I say, relieved to be nearing the end of our study session. My brain feels crammed full of fake facts, and I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m upset by how little Julian remembers about me, but I’m trying not to show it. “All right…what is my favorite animal?”
It’s an odd question to have on the list, and I wonder if he put it there because it’s something he actually remembers about me. It’s not a hard one—I used to have a big poster of a white horse in my dorm room, back at boarding school. Come on, Julian, I beg inwardly. Horse. Just say horse.
“Hmm…let’s see…” he takes a swig of beer and leans back in his chair.
I glance over. His profile is drenched in golden light from the setting sun. Despite my frustration, I can’t help but marvel at how handsome he is.
“Monkey?” he guesses.
I shake my head.
“Dolphin?”
Again, I shake my head no.
“Otter!” he tries.
“Horse,” I say, frowning slightly. “Don’t you remember the poster in my room? Or the way I was all excited about equestrian camp every summer vacation?”
“I don’t,” he admits. “I’ve never been that good with random details. Okay, here’s my last question for you.”
Random details! That’s what I was to Julian? I was a random detail, when he was my whole world.
We finish up with the list, and I’m more than a little bit discouraged.
When the chef comes out to the patio, I’m happy for the distraction. Plus, I’m hungry. As Julian has promised, the smells wafting across the patio from a large outdoor kitchen across the way are utterly divine. My mouth is watering as the chef introduces himself.
He bows deeply, speaking with a thick French accent. “Mr. Meijer, Madame, it is my pleasure to be preparing your meal this evening.”
He’s short and round, and his salt-and-pepper mustache is waxed into little points on either side. His white chef’s hat flops back on his head as he straightens up and motions towards a seating area. It’s outdoors, but sheltered, with vine-covered trellises. Little lights are woven among the creeping vines, and soft candlelight glows from the barely-visible table.
“If you will come this way and be seated, I will serve,” the chef says.
Julian stands and offers me his hand. I extend mine, and as our palms touch, a shiver of electricity runs through me. As we head towards the dining area, I feel his hand rest on the small of my back. The touch is so light, yet it feels so good.
I imagine, briefly, that this is a date of some sort. There’s something about the fading light, the intimate flickering candle light on the table before us, and the feel of his hand on my back that makes the mood feel so romantic.
As we walk, I tell myself not to read into his kind gesture. He’s only being a gentleman—it’s how he was raised.
This isn’t a date. We might be contractually obliged to present the image of a loving couple, but in reality, we’re barely more than business associates.
So, I knew him fifteen years ago. So what?
We’re both adults, now. I’d better start putting up some emotional walls before the lines get too blurred.
We enter the seating area and it’s even more beautiful than I expected. Not only are there white candles lit on the small two-top table, but they are all around us as well, on the brick patio walls around the secluded, tranquil dining area.
Julian pulls a chair out for me, and as I sit, I feel his nearness as he brushes by me, to his own seat. There’s his smell again. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, tanned forearms. His biceps flex as he pulls out his own chair and takes a seat. From across the tiny table, he smiles at me. His eyes twinkle in the flickering light.
“Get ready to be in heaven,” he says.
I feel like I already am. I want to say it out loud, but I don’t. Mentally, I start repeating a mantra: this isn’t a date, this isn’t a date…
Because, if I let my guard down for two seconds, as I sit here looking at this amazing man, I’m going to fall in love with him all over again.
And then where would I be? Back to having a crush on a guy who considers me a random detail.
No thanks.
Chapter 8
Shelby
Jean-Claude approaches the table with two plates in hand. He serves them with a flourish.
Ribbons of steam waft off of each plate, and weave upward to my nostrils. I close my eyes for a second, taking it in. Yum…whatever this dish is, it smells amazing.
Uh-oh.
What is that scent I’m picking up on?
No…don’t tell me.
I open my eyes and look down at my plate, just as the chef begins to speak.
“Citrus brined pork loin with a peach mustard sauce. Served with shaved courgette salad and macadamia nuts.”
I look down at the plate. The perfectly crispy, browned pieces of pork are drenched in a creamy mustard sauce. If I eat this, my throat will close up like a vice grip. I probably shouldn’t even be inhaling the steam.
I back away, just slightly. I feel a blush begin to build in my cheeks. The chef clearly hasn’t missed my gesture.
“Madame?” he says.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I say quickly, looking from Julian to the chef and back again. “I—it’s just that—I’m so sorry, but I can’t eat this.”
“You…what?” The chef doesn’t try to hide his disgust.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asks.
“It’s—oh my gosh—I am so incredibly sorry. I hate to make a fuss like this, but if I eat this meal, we’ll be going to the emergency room instead of enjoying dessert. I can’t eat mustard; I’m severely allergic.”
I feel so embarrassed, I might cry. Julian’s invited me into his home, and a private chef has prepared us a beautiful meal. And here I am, turning it down. I’m the worst house guest imaginable.
Both men are quiet, and I hear myself continue to stutter through my apologies.
“I am really so sorry to do this. If there was any other way, I would—I could just eat the salad; it’s fine. It looks so perfectly made, and I’m sure it’s delicious and if I just—”
Julian speaks, mercifully cutting short my apologetic monologue.
“Shelby, it’s no problem. Jean-Claude can pack this food up and I’ll have it another time. I’m sure it will be just as good as leftovers.”
The way Jean-Claude’s face blanches white says otherwise, but I appreciate Julian’s graciousness.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I completely forgot about your mustard allergy,” Julian says. “I guess we’re going to have to think of another menu for our rugby date! Well, at least now, I won’t forget.”
He pushes his plate forward, and Jean-Claude, taking the cue, picks it up with a huffing sound. The chef’s face has now turned from white to red, and I really do feel upset for refusing the meal.
Julian doesn’t seem concerned. He leans forward as if he’s about to share a secret with me.
“Hey, I know what you do like…” He grins. “How about we heat up a pizza? It’ll be just like old times.”
Jean-Claude makes an audible groaning sound, and I look at the chef. He’s clutching Julian’s plate and reaching for mine. His face is so red and puffed up, he looks like he might explode.
“Pizza!” he cries. “Ah, mon dieu!” He rushes away from us, shaking his head, as if he can’t stand to be around two pizza-eating barbarians.
I look at Julian and raise my eyebrows. We can hear the upset chef cursing to himself in French as he bustles away, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, Julian bursts into laughter.
I join in. “I don’t think I’m Jean-Claude’s favorite guest,” I say between giggles.
“He’ll get over it,” Julian says, waving his hand and then standing up. “Let’s head to the indoor kitchen. We’ll give him some space to cool off.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I follow
Julian through the outdoor kitchen, where Jean-Claude keeps his back to us as he slams dishes around in the sink, with lots of banging and clanking.
Inside the mansion, Julian leads me through yet another dining area, into an indoor kitchen. It’s industrial-sized, and I count no less than three ovens. There are two massive, modern, black refrigerators, and Julian opens a drawer in one of them and pulls out a pizza.
While he opens the package and preheats the oven, I ogle the kitchen. I think I would cook more if I had a space like this. There’s oodles of counter space, and I see every kind of contraption a food lover could want—pots and pans of every size and material, rows of gourmet spices, food processors, blenders, fryers, dicers…it’s somewhat comical that with all of this at our disposal, we’re resorting to frozen pizza.
The oven beeps, and I hear Julian setting the timer.
“Fifteen minutes!” Julian says. “Just enough time to pick out the perfect wine pairing…”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I laugh.
“Oh, no,” Julian says, walking towards me. He leans back against the countertop, just a foot away from me, so close that I can see his firm abs under the pull of his dress shirt.
“This evening’s pizza dish is lovingly crafted with a four-cheese blend. We have to find the perfect wine to complement such a complex array of flavors.” He holds his hand up and sweeps his fingers together into a point dramatically, as if he’s grasping the flavor out of thin air.
“Mm…yes,” I say. “Something to bring out the richness of the preservatives in the crust, and the fine hint of plastic that it’s been wrapped in for months…”
“Exactly,” Julian says. “A pizza as fine as this one needs something hearty, with earthy undertones. Let’s see what we have.”
He leads the way through the kitchen, and I’m thinking he’s going to bring me to a wine rack somewhere nearby. Instead, we walk to a staircase and begin descending, stepping out a moment later into an expansive wine-cellar. The air is cool and the walls are made of patchworks of stone.
Julian leads the way down an aisle. Bottles of wine are laid out horizontally on wooden racks. The aisle we’re walking down contains hundreds of bottles of red.
