A Feast of You

by Sorcha Grace

  “Catherine, look at me,” he said quietly. My eyes met his again. I smiled, and felt him twitch inside me. “I’m yours,” he whispered.

  Twenty

  Rather than haul all the way to Lincoln Park, I’d found a hot yoga studio right around the corner from William’s penthouse. Gold Coast Yoga was the poshest yoga studio I’d ever been in, and my hot pink Lululemon boogie shorts and crop top—which I’d bought only about six months ago—made me feel hopelessly last season amongst the better-dressed regulars. I really didn’t care that much about what I was wearing, given that I was there to sweat my ass off and find my Zen, but girls will be girls.

  Asa, smart man that he was, had opted out of joining me for Bikram, but he had come in to case the place and had drawn the usual hungry stares from the ladies waiting for the ten am class to start. No doubt everybody here thought he was my overprotective boyfriend or something, which made me laugh. He wasn’t wearing his usual black suit—it was Saturday—but Asa’s concept of casual still had a recognizable military precision. So while I was stretching and posing and sweating in the 105-degree studio, Asa sat in a metal folding chair just outside the door, probably warding off probing questions from the bubbly receptionist.

  William had called from San Francisco just before one o’clock in the morning. They’d stopped to refuel and he’d wanted to check in before the next leg of his journey. He’d sounded sleepy and nervous.

  “I’ll be home by next Friday. Let Asa and Anthony do their jobs, Catherine. No going off alone.”

  I promised I wouldn’t. I’d learned my lesson on that front. But I worried about his safety too. He had been the target of threats, too, not to mention the extortion attempts. “George is with you, right?” I’d asked.

  “I thought it was best. You seem to get on with Asa and Anthony better.”

  We’d said our goodbyes, then I’d instantly grabbed one his pillows from the bed and wrapped my arms around it, hugging it closely and inhaling the lingering hints of the fragrance that was uniquely William. I’d shed a few tears then fallen back to sleep.

  I leaned into Half Moon Pose, still thinking about William. He really did hate to fly—I knew that—and I couldn’t imagine the mental resolve it required from him to get on that plane and fly nearly 7,000 miles to the other side of the world essentially by himself. I felt guilty for a second and regretted not going with him. God, I missed him.

  Our rain-shower lovemaking had been as close to perfect as any sex we’d ever had. As mad as I’d been at him for not telling me about Beckett’s party, all of my anger had instantly dissipated at his touch. It wasn’t like I’d lost my head because he took his shirt off—which had happened before, I’d admit. Last night, we had really connected, deeply and emotionally. It wasn’t always like that with us, but when it was, it was spectacular. I loved him so much that just the thought of us ever not being together was painful. And I was certain he felt exactly the same way about me.

  We’ll make this work, William, I thought, as I moved into Triangle Pose. Somehow.

  * * *

  I was determined to fill my next few William-free days with the “me time” I craved, which was ironic given that I already missed William like crazy and wished he were home. Before meeting Beckett, I showered and changed then called my friends Allison McIntyre and Dana Sullivan. I’d met them in a grief support group when I’d first moved to Chicago. All three of us were widows, and we’d lost our husbands about the same time. Dana, who was a bit older, still attended the group, but Allison and I had moved on. The three of us liked to catch up every month or so over dinner and I hadn’t seen either of them for a few weeks.

  As luck would have it, Allison’s kids were staying at their grandparents’ house tonight, and Dana was free. So I invited them over for cocktails and said I’d send a car to pick each of them up—and that I would make all the arrangements for dinner. Both of them readily agreed, and I refused to answer any questions about what the special occasion was. There wasn’t one, really, other than if my billionaire boyfriend was out of town, I was going to live it up a little and enjoy the perks of our relationship with my friends. Which meant using his driver, entertaining at his penthouse, and picking up the tab for dinner.

  My next call was to Hutch.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he drawled. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

  “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Anything you want, darlin’.”

  “I want a table for three—no, four.” I’d ask Beckett to join us. “For tonight.”

  Hutch hissed quietly, and I winced.

  “I know. I know. It’s a big favor, especially for a Saturday.”

  “No, no. I can do it. What’s the point of having a restaurant if your friends can’t come?”

  I heard a tapping sound and figured he was checking availability.

  “Are you going to starve if I can’t get you in until the second seating?”

  “Of course not. I’ll take anything you have.”

  “Only the best for you, sugar.”

  I could almost see him winking.

  “There. Done. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And tell Mr. Lambourne the meal is on me.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Hutch. Besides, William isn’t coming.”

  “Even better. See you tonight, Miss Catherine.”

  * * *

  Beckett and I decided to meet up at Central Camera Company, since it was on South Wabash and close to Spanglish. Asa waited in the car.

  Central Camera was the oldest camera store in Chicago and one of the only places where I could still find actual film for my Leica, plus whatever high-tech photography supplies I might need for work. And what I needed right now were props for the champagne shoot, starting with a laser timer. In fact, I had a whole list for the shoot, which was scheduled for the week after Beckett’s party. I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing, so having Beckett with me to ask questions and choose the best brands helped.

  Once I’d finished loading my cart, then checking out, I handed off all of my purchases to Asa, who put them in the back of the SUV. It was only four blocks or so to the restaurant, so Asa agreed that we could walk. He would trail behind us in the car, ready to leap from the frontseat and tackle any interloper that might get too close to me.

  “Thanks for doing this with me, Beckett. Lunch is on me, ‘kay?

  “Yes, ‘kay,” Beckett said. “When you said you needed the best of everything for this shoot, I didn’t realize that meant spare no expense. How much money did you just drop in there?”

  We were walking underneath the El tracks on Wabash, enjoying the milder weather, which hinted that spring might actually come. I wasn’t getting my hopes up, especially since there was still snow on the ground.

  "Seriously, Cat,” Beckett said as we waited for the light to change at Congress. “What did that cost? Five thou? Six?”

  “I didn’t look,” I admitted. “I just signed the receipt. I’m charging it to the client.”

  “Who just so happens to be your rich boyfriend.”

  “So he shouldn’t argue about the expense. I want this shoot to be perfect. I’m so nervous about it. I really don’t want to mess it up.”

  “You won’t,” Beckett said with his characteristic confidence. “You’re perfect for the job. You know you are.”

  “Except I’ve never done a shot like this before.”

  Beckett waved his hand. “Minor point. I’ve never been the chef at a patisserie before either, and I’m opening one next week.”

  “I know! So exciting. I can’t wait for the party. I’m going to invite Hutch Morrison.”

  “Be still my heart.” Beckett put a hand to his chest. “If he comes, I’ll faint.”

  “No, you won’t. But seriously, thanks for taking time away to shop with me. I know you’re super busy right now.”

  “I am. You probably owe me dinner for this too.”
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  “Exactly. Which is why I want you to come to William’s penthouse tonight for cocktails and then to dinner with us at Morrison Hotel.”

  “Who’s us? I don’t want to be a third wheel with you and Mr. Stormy Eyes.”

  That made me laugh. I was glad Beckett remembered my secret nickname for William. “He’s in Japan. I invited Dana and Allison.”

  Beckett groaned. “The widows? Cat...”

  “What? I’m a widow too. Come on, Beckett. It’ll be fun.”

  “It’ll be three women talking about their dead husbands. I hate to miss at dinner at Morrison Hotel, but widow talk isn’t enticing enough to make me miss my bedtime.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” I punched him lightly in the arm. “Okay, don’t come. But you’re missing out on a chance to meet Hutch Morrison.”

  “As much as that pains me—and it’s a lot—it doesn’t pain me as much as listening to widow-talk. No thanks, Cat.”

  “Fine,” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t say I never invited you.”

  I wanted to be annoyed with Beckett, but he had a point. Allison, Dana, and I did talk a lot about our dead husbands. Even though we’d all become good friends, we had widowhood in common. But I didn’t want to talk about Jace tonight. The last time I’d had dinner with Allison and Dana, I had just started seeing William. I’d felt weird about dating a new guy and a little unfaithful to Jace. I hadn’t told them much about William then, just the bare essentials. But I wanted to tell them everything tonight—and show them too.

  We’d been walking while talking and had made it to the taqueria. The aroma of fresh corn tortillas and the smoke from the wood-fired grill wafted through the door as someone walked out with a takeout order. My stomach rumbled. I couldn’t wait for tacos.

  Just as we were about to head inside, my cell buzzed. I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and glanced at the number. “Speak of the devil. That’s Hutch. Give me a second.”

  “Remind him about the party!” Beckett hissed before I slid my finger to answer.

  “Hello again, Mr. Morrison. I was just talking about you,” I said with a laugh.

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me, Miss Catherine. And by sheer coincidence, I was just talking about you.”

  “Do you need me to come by? I’m in your neighborhood, actually, so I’m close.”

  “No. I need you to go to Paris with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Beckett leaned forward. “What did he say?”

  I shook my head. There was no way I’d heard Hutch correctly.

  Hutch chuckled. “I need you to go to Paris with me, darlin’. For Fashion Week, in about two weeks.”

  “Fashion Week? What does that have to do with me?”

  Beckett’s eyes were wide now. “Fashion Week?” he mouthed.

  “I happen to be friends with Fiona Joy. You heard of her?”

  Holy fuck. Fiona Joy was only the daughter of Brian Joy, one of the most famous rock stars on the entire planet, right up there with members of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. I think he was Sir Brian Joy now, thanks to his being knighted by the Queen. Of England. His daughter Fiona was decidedly American and had been tabloid fodder since about grade school. Tall, leggy, and with a famous mane of wild red hair, she was now a very serious fashion designer. Of course I knew who she was.

  “Cat? Are you there? Did you lose your cell signal or something?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry,” I replied.

  “So do you know who she is? Fiona, I mean?” Hutch asked again.

  “Yes, Hutch, I know who Fiona Joy is.”

  Beckett’s mouth gaped open at that. I smiled and signaled that I was trying to listen.

  “I’ve known Fiona for a couple of years. She’s a fan of my work and she heard about my cookbook project. Well, one thing led to another, and she wants me to put on her aftershow dinner. And she suggested that I include images of it in my book. The famous chef on location, that kind of thing. If she likes the images, she may want to license some of them to use in her next advertising campaign. I sent her some of the pictures you’ve taken for the book so far. She saw how good you are, Catherine. She was impressed.”

  Shit. I was trembling a little now. This was too much.

  “No way. Hutch, I can’t do this. Food is not the same thing as fashion or runways, or models. I photograph food and yours is the first cookbook I’ve ever worked on. I’m flattered, but this is so out of my league.”

  “You can too do it,” Beckett whispered, shaking my arm. “Tell him yes.”

  “Well, I’ll disagree with you on that,” Hutch drawled. “And I might have hesitated to call you, if you didn’t have all that experience shooting surfers. If you can catch an athlete in motion, you can catch a few amazing shots of me and my dishes while some skinny-ass models pout in the background. My food is always the star, honey. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And you are a sensational food photographer.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re also my photographer. So say yes, darlin’.”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “You do that. And think about this: a trip to Paris, with me, hobnobbing with the rich and famous. A fucking kick-ass opportunity for you. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised.

  “Think yes. Au revoir, darlin’.”

  I slipped my phone into my pocket and looked at Beckett. “I need a taco or I might pass out.”

  “Fine, let’s grab a table and order. But you have to tell me everything, Cat.” Beckett held open the door and ushered me inside.

  Once we were seated and both of us had heaping plates of tacos and rice and beans in front of us, I repeated the conversation with Hutch to Beckett. “He wants me to go to Paris for Fashion Week, so I can the shoot the dinner he’s putting on for Fiona Joy, after her show, for his book. And she might want to license some of the images for her next advertising campaign. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Paris in spring. Your answer is yes.”

  “My answer is I don’t know anything about shooting models and fashion shows.”

  “I heard him, Cat. It isn’t going to be about the models running around. It’s going to be all about Hutch running around and making his incredible food. In Paris. For Fiona fucking Joy and her fabulous, famous friends. How hard will it be to photograph that?”

  I let my forehead thud on the table. “Even if I was up for that, how can I take off for Paris with all the shit that’s going on with William? He wants me to stay close to home. To his home.”

  “So take security.” He nodded to Asa who loitered by the door. “Are you going to live your whole life holed up in William’s penthouse?”

  It was a good question. The answer was no, but I wasn’t sure Paris and Fashion Week was the right way to make my move. Not to mention that my taking a trip to Paris with Hutch was not going to go over well with William, even it was for work.

  Fuck. What was I going to do?

  Twenty-One

  I hadn’t gotten any closer to a decision about what to do by that evening, so I put Paris out of my mind and focused on what to wear to Morrison Hotel. I wanted to look good for our girls’ night out at Chicago’s best restaurant, so I wore a pair of really dark jeans with wide flared legs that flattered my butt and made my legs look a mile long. My favorite Manolo black stilettos helped too. On top I had on a tissue silk, black tank with sequin edging and a cute black tweed, fitted jacket with sparkly buttons that looked like vintage Chanel but wasn’t.

  My outfit reminded me a little of the ensemble Beckett had put together for me for the Willowgrass opening party so many weeks ago. That had been the night William and I had first kissed. I smiled, remembering William pinning me in the walk-in freezer and kissing me senseless. Maybe my outfit that night had helped get his attention. Beckett would be so proud of my styling this evening, as I’d even accessorized with a tang
le of long, chunky necklaces and beads and a funky cuff bracelet. With my hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and just a bit of dark eyeliner, mascara, and lip-gloss, I thought I looked trendy and pretty sophisticated.

  I heard Allison and Dana before I saw them. I was in the kitchen of the penthouse, opening a bottle of champagne, readying the hors d’oeuvre, and trying hard not to make a mess on the pristine white stone counters. I might have lacked William’s culinary skills, but I did know how to use a phone. I’d called Rajesh, the building’s concierge, earlier and now I had a beautiful antipasti platter with assorted olives, meats, cheeses, and fresh-baked crostini from a nearby high-end Italian gourmet shop. It looked delicious.

  “Holy fuck. Did she win the lottery or something? This place is unreal.” Allison’s voice carried into the kitchen from the entry hall by the elevator. I couldn’t make out Dana’s response, but I heard them both giggling, then Laird barking with excitement. Squaring my shoulders, I headed out toward the foyer to greet them.

  And to blow their minds.

  Thirty minutes later, I was gesturing to the tall glass windows that led to William’s elegantly furnished outdoor space. “And this is the terrace,” I said. “It’s heated, but it’s probably too cold to be out there tonight. But if you want to check out the view, we can.” There were six inches of snow on the ground outside, yet the terrace was remarkably snow free. I wondered for a second how exactly it got cleared. Sky-high billionaire snow removal seemed right up William’s alley.

  I had just finished giving Dana and Allison my quick tour of William’s penthouse, which hadn’t been quick at all. It took a while to show them all 12,000 square feet of the residence, which spanned the entire 56th and 57th floors of this impressive skyscraper.

  Dana and Allison had barely spoken the entire time, just nodding and smiling every time I opened the door to another room or pointed out some fancy feature. Who could blame them? From the floor–to-ceiling windows with the iconic Chicago skyline glittering just outside, to William’s museum-worthy art collection and his minimalist modern furnishings, it was a breathtaking and spectacular space. It was also so very not like me, and I was surprised how comfortable I felt here now. The first time I’d stepped foot in William’s home, my reaction had been pretty much the same and Allison’s and Dana’s: total awe.