Palmer
I pour an amber ribbon of bourbon into a small tumbler. As soon as the liquid coats the ice, I listen to it crack, hiss, and clink against the glass.
It's only my second glass… okay, maybe my third, but it feels so good.
I lean back into the leather of my couch and let out a sigh.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse give me an unparalleled view of the city. The darker the sky becomes, the more the city glitters, like tiny shards of glass.
There's something beautifully impressive about a city skyline—the way skyscrapers reach toward the clouds and know no ceiling. Skyscrapers reaching up like fists of progress.
It makes me want to conquer the world.
I have a moment of peace and quiet—a brief clearing of the mental fog that left me restless the whole week and a moment where I once again feel motivated about the future.
It was a long day at work, but the team did well. Dishes were made. Diners were happy, and nothing was burnt.
And yet.
I'm enjoying the quiet, but it seems that whenever I feel I've reached any sort of mental clarity, it's short-lived.
Percy's new review of my recent dishes came out today—a high-gloss, highly anticipated article in one of the biggest culinary journals of the city—and as expected, he doesn't fail to trash me with the gusto of a man starved. It's as if he won't stop until he sees me destroyed.
But there are other critics. He isn't the only one, and if I get enough good reviews to outweigh his trash talking, I think The Pearl on Park will make it.
I look at the review again (seeing it for the fifth time) and read Percy's opening sentences out loud:
"An inexperienced child could come up with a more sophisticated and better executed culinary concept than Chef Palmer. In fact, I've tasted free sauce packets that taste better than the condiments prepared by Palmer and his team.
“The Pearl on Park—instead of being a culinary spark for the city—is an unpleasant and placid reminder of high-end cuisine gone wrong."
I slap the article back down on the coffee table and kick up my feet.
Another scathing review, but this time it doesn't bother me. Sure, it's unjust, unfounded and unwarranted, but I see straight through Percy's bullshit.
Besides, I have bigger, more important things on my mind: Nicole.
I pick up a small business card sitting on the coffee table, and I flip it over in my fingers.
There's an embossed orange flame on one side, edged with gold foil, and on the other is my name, and phone number, along with a quote: "Play with Fire."
Three words that I repeat like a mantra.
To me, they symbolize action, motivation, perseverance, and triumph.
Regardless of what's thrown at me right now, my mind is relentlessly fixated on my restaurant… and Nicole.
I wish circumstances with her would be different. We come from two different worlds, and sometimes it’s as if we speak a different language. I can't read her all the time.
How could she and I ever work out? We have two competing restaurants, and there's also the fact that I need to stay focused. I don't have time for anything else in my life.
I feel time slipping through my fingers like water. The harder I grab at it, the quicker it disappears. That's an unsettling thought.
But maybe I shouldn't view this as a race or a competition, and maybe I'm just still unable to accept it for anything else.
Something inside of me feels missing—could that missing something be Nicole? Could she be the remedy?
No, she couldn’t possibly be… could she? Not with what's been thrown at me recently. But still, I wonder…
What's she doing right now? Is she looking at the same skyline? What is she thinking? Is she feeling what I'm feeling?
I just can't seem to shake her from my mind, and it pisses me off. I'm irritated by the fact that with all these big fish I have to fry, she's what's causing me the most internal conflict.
It isn't her fault—it's mine. I need to get my fucking life together before I worry about other people like this, but that'll have to wait for now.
It's useless… nothing can get her out of my mind.
I take another sip of my drink, tilting my head back as the bourbon burns a fiery path into the pit of my stomach.
Fire.
Action.
That's it, I decide. I need to do something.
I can't sit here and let thoughts of Nicole consume me.
I walk over to the kitchen and grab my cell from the granite counter top. I scroll through my contacts until I find her name.
I hesitate for just a moment, a split second of time, asking myself if I'm making the right decision. I pace the kitchen, shuffling my feet across the marble floor, fingering the screen of my phone. My fingers hover over my contacts, frozen, waiting for me to act.
Fuck it. You only live once, I think to myself.
And with that I dial Nicole.
It only takes two rings for her to answer. And the voice that answers is the softest, sweetest music to my ears.
Fuck. There's no more guessing.
There’s no doubt about it. I've made the right decision.
Nicole
My phone vibrates under my pillow.
I'm dozing off, but it instantly shakes me awake. It's a light, familiar buzz that always leaves me shuffling my hands through my pillows and sheets, scrambling to answer it before the caller is sent to voice mail.
What if it's someone from the restaurant? Or family? Or...?
I know you shouldn't sleep with your cell phone next to your head, let alone in your bed, but I can't help it. I panic if I don't have it nearby.
"Hello?" I answer.
"I need you."
It takes me a few seconds to realize who it is.
"What time is it?" I ask, looking over at the clock on my nightstand.
"The night's still young—come over," Palmer says.
His voice is smooth and deep, like coffee and cream, and despite the fact that I'm tired, I find myself saying yes.
"Good," he says. "I'll text you my address. See you soon."
And just like that, the phone line goes dead.
I toss my phone onto my nightstand and wonder what in the hell I'm doing.
I don't understand why I'm leaving. It's the middle of the night, and I'm perfectly comfortable between my sheets. I started my night with a hot bath, and freshly shaved legs.
And let me tell you… I don't think there's any feeling better than freshly shaved legs against clean, cool sheets. It's heaven.
But here I am, agreeing to get out of bed and drive over to Palmer's place.
I swing my feet out of bed and grab my clothes. I don't have the energy to put on anything more than jeans and a t-shirt, so I quickly dress, throw a thin coat of red lipstick, light mascara, and then drag a brush through my hair before pulling it up into a messy bun on top of my head.
Tomorrow I have a long drive ahead of me—hours. I promised to meet my family for lunch, which is going to be exhausting, dodging my mother’s questions about why I'm not married yet and when I'm going to giver her grandkids, and my dad asking me when I'm going to put this restaurant stuff behind me.
He doesn't take it seriously because he doesn't understand food. And he certainly doesn't see this restaurant as something I should pursue for the rest of my life.
I love my family, but sometimes they're a bit… much. Or, rather, they’re not enough. Not when it comes to supporting my dreams.
Which is why I should be sleeping.
But I can't… not after hearing his voice.
Why can't I just forget about him? When the Pearl on Park first opened its doors next to The Old Tale, I never would've imagined that I'd be feeling this way about Chef Palmer.
He's the competition. I mean, what am I thinking?
I take one last look at my face in the mirror. I've never considered myself an especially beautiful woman�
�I'm more likely to be considered "cute" than "pretty"—but here I am, being pursued by one of the most eligible—and, yes, I'll admit hottest—bachelors of the culinary world.
But could I really see myself dating a guy who might ruin my business?
I stop myself just short of answering that question. I justify it by saying that at least Palmer is the best sex I've ever had.
I'm talking mind-blowingly good. Sex like that is hard to walk away from.
I look at the clock and am reminded that it's only getting later and later, and so I grab my purse and keys, and leave the apartment.
Once in the car, I type in Palmer's address and wait for the GPS to route me.
I look down at the map. Swanky neighborhood, I say to myself. But what did I expect? Palmer is a culinary rock star.
As soon as my phone says, "You've arrived at your destination," I look up and see just how breathtaking his apartment is.
A valet parks my car, and a doorman ushers me inside.
"I'm looking for Chef Palmer," I say.
"Is he expecting you?"
"Yes, he is."
"One minute," he says, making a quick phone call, and I can only assume that Palmer tells him to let me through because immediately he says, "Right this way, ma'am."
I walk to the elevator, and as soon as I step in and see the door close behind me, my heart starts to thump in my chest. It's beating to a whole new drum, as if it has a mind of its own.
My heart and mind are racing in equal measures. Why am I so nervous? This isn't the first time I've met with Palmer… but it is the first time I'm meeting him at his apartment, in his space… not mine.
And for some reason, it makes everything feel so different.
It's new, and it makes me feel vulnerable.
I watch the elevator climb to the top penthouse suite, and as soon as the door dings open, I take one last deep breath and step out.
Everything about this building screams luxury. It couldn't be more different from my own apartment.
Finally, at the end of the hall, I see two massive doors. It's the entryway to his apartment.
I straighten my hair and knock.
It seems like an eternity before Palmer answers, but in reality, I know it must've only been a few seconds. Regardless, as soon as the door opens, my heart catches in my throat.
He's wearing an easy smile and smells like summer on the Atlantic, and I want nothing more than to feel his body against mine.
He doesn't give me a chance to say a word. Instead, he scoops me into his strong arms, lifting me nearly off my feet, and in this moment, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Nicole
The moment his lips touch mine, I become his.
There’s no other way of saying it. Whatever it is about Palmer, I simply can’t resist him.
I don’t even know why I came here. Is that all it takes—one phone call, and I’m knocking at his door? I’ve never thought of myself as the easy type, but when it comes to Palmer…well, when it comes to Palmer, I have no idea what to think.
He was supposed to be this cold figure, a harsh man that cared about nothing but his ambitions. But that’s not the real Palmer.
At least that’s not the Palmer I’ve come to know.
"I’m glad you came," he whispers and, leaning in, Palmer brushes his lips against mine once more. As he kisses me, my hands roam over the fabric of his shirt, untucking it and pulling it free from his pants. My fingertips feel the outline of his abs, and I almost lose it.
Butterflies hit the pit of my stomach, outstretched wings on their maiden flight. Palmer's lips captivate me with a wanderlust that I have never felt before. My skin is covering with prickles from the chills rushing up and down my spine.
As stupid as it might sound, I believe these are the kind of feelings women succumb to in romance novels. As a young girl, I could sit for hours and read how the perfect romantic tryst would begin. I never really believed in them, but I wished they were right.
And now here I am, living a romance like that. Wait—did I actually say the word romance? Oh, Palmer’s messing with my mind more than I’ve begun to imagine.
But I didn’t leave my bed tonight to think about the meaning of things.
No, I came here because my body demanded it.
“I had to come,” I tell him, whispering these words against his lips.
Our lips are softly massaging against each other, our tongues locked in a tight embrace. My hands move up Palmer's chest, and I start unbuttoning his shirt; I keep my eyes locked on his as I do it, my knuckles softly brushing against his tanned chest on the way down. Then, I take my hands to his shoulders and push the shirt down. It floats down to the floor softly, landing at his feet.
I can't believe how perfect he is.
I use the tip of my fingers to trace over his flesh like a soft feather, and I can feel him tense slightly, but not in a bad way.
"Nicole… keep doing that and I won’t be held responsible for my actions," Palmer mumbles against my lips, our tongues taking turns at tasting each other lips.
I move my hand up to the back of his neck, cradling the back of his head in my palm.
He’s a weakness for me. The truth is I’ve imagined this in my mind, over and over again, never knowing if we’d be together again.
After the first time it happened, I just tried to push it off my mind. But then he stormed inside The Old Tale, pulling me against him as if he needed it more than anything in his life. And now… now here I am.
I want to pinch myself to make sure I'm not daydreaming again. Gripping a little flesh on my hip, I smile against his lips.
Oh, he’s real, more real than anything else in my life.
Pulling back, Palmer looks at me, chuckling.
"Did you just pinch yourself? This is real, Nicole. And by the end of the night…you will never forget just how real it is."
I widen my eyes, my lips parting a little in awe. Palmer knows me too well already. I've let my guard down, and though that isn't bad, it does scares me.
"Shh, kiss me again,” he whispers, his voice gentle and seductive. “I feel like I've become addicted to those lips already."
I lean up on the tips of my toes, grasping his bottom lip with my teeth.
Pearly white teeth clamped onto his lower lip, I press my body against his and close any space between us.
I feel my nipples hardening against the cup of my bra, my breasts mashed against his naked chest. I can feel his heartbeat too. It’s slow and steady, but I can tell that its pace is slowly building up.
And so is mine.
I'm Alice in Wonderland and I’m falling down the rabbit hole farther and farther as the clock ticks on.
I’ve never felt this way—so consumed with another person that I’m already looking forward to doing this again. I mean, we haven't even started yet.
Palmer reaches around to the back of my black pencil skirt, pulling the zipper down. I can feel as the teeth release each other.
"I want you so fucking much, Nicole… you have no idea," he continues, his hungry eyes locked on mine.
As my skirt falls down my legs, he then takes his long fingers up my legs, closing in on my inner thighs. I almost feel he’s going to press his hand against my pussy, but he makes a quick detour and rest both hands on my hips; hooking his fingers on my black silk panties, he pushes them down slowly, the cool air in the room caressing my nakedness.
“C’mere,” he whispers then, his hands going back to my waist. He grabs the hem of my blouse and pulls it over my head, my hair cascading over my naked shoulders as he throws the blouse to the side.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he tells me, his fingers going around to my back, looking for the clasp of my bra. He releases it the moment he finds it, and I feel the cups drooping over my breasts, my nipples becoming even harder than before.
He removes the bra gently, his eyes widening as my breasts jump into sight.
The only thing I’m wearing right now are goosebumps, and there are a lot of them.
Palmer slides his hands down my back, not stopping till his palms grip my ass. Holding me tight, lifting, he takes me to the large leather couch that takes over his living room, and lays me back on it.
The only light in the room is coming through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon is full tonight, and it blends with the dim lights of the night, the towers around Palmer’s apartment like beacons.
Palmer stands at the end of the couch, his eyes staring at my feet and working their way up my long, tan legs. He’s taking in every inch of me into his memory. He’s etching the perfect masterpiece in his mind.
I suck in my stomach when his eyes stop right between my thighs. Suddenly, and I don’t even know why, I feel a little shy. We’ve done this before, but with him…it always feels like the first time.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down softly on a pillow. It's incredible the way he makes me feel.
I clear my throat, my voice shaking a little.
"Do you like what you see, Palmer?"
Of course, he does. Why am I asking this? I can tell by the outline in his pants that he likes what he’s seeing.
And if likes it as much as I like what I’m seeing, this is going to be a good night.
"How about I show you how much I like it?" Smirking, Palmer doesn't wait for me to respond. He moves between my legs, kissing my lower lips.
"Oh, God!" Trembling, my whole body shakes the moment I feel the warmth of his breath on my pussy lips.
"Open your legs wider. Put them on the floor." Palmer’s voice is authoritative, demanding, but it doesn’t need to be. I’ll do anything he says at this point.
I can’t—and I won’t—resist him.
I open my legs wide, the wetness of my pussy drawing his gaze. My inner folds are glistening, the soft pink tint slowly deepening in color. I'm more aroused than I’ve ever been.
Palmer’s between my legs, his tongue swiping up the outer lips like a brush painting a canvas. Long strokes over the mound, soft ones as he goes further down.
He’s driving me completely insane, and I want more. I want him to wiggle his tongue between my lips; I want him to satisfy my desires.
Caught On Tape Page 57
