I move closer to her and touch her arm but stop and pull away. Don’t touch her. “It makes total sense. You want to take care of yourself and do what you want without other people’s remarks or opinions. I kind of like it myself. It’ll be fun to go out and not worry about anyone around us. Our own little secret for now.” I wink at her.
“All right. Let’s skedaddle.” She tosses a black sweater over her arm and opens the door.
I follow her out. She pulls my arm to go to the right when we exit her apartment building. “We need to take the PATH to the theater.”
“What’s the word? Sketattle?”
“No. It’s pronounced skedaddle,” she says slowly. “It’s with d’s, not t’s. It’s just another word or slang to say let’s get a move on. I picked the word up when I was in college.”
She’s so adorable. I just want to put my arm around her and plaster her to my side. These weeks better go fast. “I should enter all these words and slang into my phone. You have your own language. Like emojis.”
She searches through her bag and pulls out her MetroCard. “Do you have a MetroCard, or do you need a ticket?”
“I have one.” I take it out of my wallet. “Skedaddle sounds too feminine. Tell me something more masculine,” I say as we wait for the train.
The screeching of the train approaches in the distance. “Let’s see…” She taps her chin and then snaps her fingers. “I got one. Jonesing. I’m jonesing for a beer tonight,” she says in a guy’s voice. “I’m craving a beer tonight.”
I’m craving something else right now, and it’s definitely not beer.
We arrive near Times Square, with a good hour to spare before the show starts. Since it’s early September, it’s still bright out and warm.
“Here’s the bar I was talking about. It has a nice terrace in the back. We’ll have some privacy there.” I lead her through the bar and outside. We find a table in a corner and sit down.
She swivels in her chair while looking around. “It’s like a little secret back here. The constant commotion of the city is blocked out. I love the brick walls covered in vines.”
“The leaves on the vines turn blood red in autumn. My parents have the same vines in their backyard.”
“How cool is that? We should come back here then. I’m sure it looks so pretty.”
“The terrace is probably not open once it gets colder but we can try.” If she still wants to be near me. In a month, things could be completely different between us.
I grab a bar menu off one of the empty blue mosaic-tiled tables. “Are you really jonesing for a beer, or do you want something else? By the way, I know the phrase jonesing. I learned that from my cousins.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Let me see what they have. I’m not in the mood for wine.” She flips through the menu. “I think I’ll have a margarita. I’ll wait for a German beer when I visit your restaurant again. With alcohol though.”
“So you do plan on visiting me there? For business or pleasure?”
“For business obviously, but secretly for pleasure.”
She scorches me with her burning eyes.
“You’re not making this easy.” I moan. “Two can play at this game.”
Chapter 13
Tina
I know I’m bad. But I love to flirt with him to see how he reacts. We’re supposed to play it cool, which makes me want to tease him even more. Maybe I feel this way because I’m not supposed to. What’s that phrase? You always want what you can’t have.
The server puts our drinks in front of us. We lift our glasses, tap them, and say, “Prost,” our eyes never drifting from each other. I hope this means seven years of good sex and then some…with him.
“Since you are a ‘star chef’”—I air quote—“do you like cooking for the Hofbräuhaus?” My tongue gets tied. “However you say the name.”
He chuckles.
“You said you’re there all the time. Is it because you’re the chef and manager?”
His posture stiffens. “I don’t cook anymore. Several chefs were hired,” he says while staring at the wall behind me.
I take another sip and put it down. “Why not? Did something happen?”
He inhales deeply and exhales. The breeze that just blew through the terrace took his good mood away with it.
My body tenses. “Oh. I’m sorry, Gerry. Did I say something wrong?”
He shakes his head. “I usually don’t talk about this.”
I raise my hands with regret. “Then let’s talk about something else. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s a fair question. You opened up to me the other day, so I should do the same.” He pauses. “When I opened my restaurant in Hamburg, I already had a good reputation. Slowly the restaurant became well known. The Michelin star was a surprise.”
“Wow, that’s awesome. You must’ve been so proud. How do you receive a Michelin star? Do you receive the star, or does the restaurant?”
He circles the rim of his gin and tonic with his finger. “A star is awarded to a restaurant, but the credit is given to the chef of the kitchen. Inspectors are sent to a restaurant several different times to see if the experience is the same. The chef has no idea when the inspectors are there. They look at the quality and freshness of the ingredients. Presentation is also a major factor, which annoys me, and how the ingredients harmonize.”
“How long had you had the restaurant when you received the star?”
He scratches his jaw. “About eighteen months. It was a dream come true, at the time. Think about it. I was thirty-two years old and had a star already.”
“At the time?” I lean in closer. “You’re not happy now?”
He rests his elbows on the table. “Once you receive a star, you have to work your ass off to keep up with the status behind it. I worked longer hours than I do now. There’s always this pressure to create innovative modern dishes, which are about the size of my palm. The atmosphere of the restaurant had to be of high standard. I had complaints the waiting list to reserve a table was too long. On top of the pressure, it costs a lot of money. There was a profit, but not much. I made more money doing other things like cookbooks, cooking for social events, appearing on cooking shows…I’ve done it all.”
“It sounds like you’ve lost your passion.”
“Exactly. Some chefs refuse to receive stars or want to give them back. Several of my friends or mentors are divorced because they were never home. There have been chefs that have gone mental because they lost a star. Have you ever seen the animated movie Ratatouille? The one about a rat who could cook?”
“Yeah. Great movie. Why?”
“It’s vaguely based on a story of a French chef who might have lost a star and committed suicide because of it.”
Where’s he going with this? Is he suicidal?
I guess my face says it all, because he throws his hands up. “I’m not saying I’m suicidal. I just wanted to say it can make you nuts when you’re trying to keep up with the pace and the reputation. I don’t want to end up like them.
“One day, I was exhausted, and a customer complained about the presentation of his meal, among other things. Long story short, I didn’t act like a gentleman. It’s not something I’m proud of… That was the worst day of my career, and it’s been haunting me ever since.”
Should I ask him for the long version of what happened? Maybe I should just check the internet.
He swirls the ice cubes in his empty glass. “I gave back my star days after.”
“Can you really do that?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Not really, but I announced it to the media, so there wasn’t anything they could do.”
“What happened after you announced it?”
“I sold my restaurant a few weeks later and came here.”
“It sounds more like you ran away,” I say carefully.
He relaxes back in his chair but doesn’t look at me.
“Am I right?” I dig.
&nbs
p; He remains silent as he watches a couple sit down at a table near ours.
“Gerry. Look at me. You can talk to me.”
Finally, his eyes meet mine. “Maybe at the time I did. I had no idea what I was going to do. Slowly, the months came and went, and I was still here. Just when I thought I had to go back, my cousin approached me about the restaurant. I felt it was a sign and agreed to invest. One after the other, I sold my apartment in Hamburg, my belongings, and my car. I like that no one knows who I am here. My staff doesn’t even know I’m a chef. Was a chef.” His voice drifts off.
“You aren’t just any chef. Don’t they recognize you by your name? Your family and friends don’t say anything to people? I just find it hard to believe you can keep it a secret. What about at the tasting the other night?”
“I ask my friends and family not to talk about it. You heard my real name. That’s what I go by as a chef. Plain ole me is Gerry. Why would they know a chef from Germany? There are a million chefs in the US. Let’s put it this way. If people know who I am, they aren’t saying anything.”
I wait for him to continue as I play with the salt on the rim of my margarita.
“But I’m happy where I am right now,” he says.
“And where is that?”
He watches me lick salt off my finger, which causes heat to travel throughout my body.
His golden eyes find mine. “With the most intriguing woman I can barely keep my hands or eyes off of.”
Think of jumping in a pool of ice. Pretend you didn’t hear what he just said.
“How did you take care of everything over there when you were already here?”
“My agent, Barbara, did everything for me.”
The server takes our empty glasses.
I wave my fingers. “Ooooh. You have an agent. Aren’t you cool.”
He laughs, then puffs out his chest.
“I had to at the time. With my schedule, I needed someone to organize my daily activities so I could focus on the restaurant. She still works for me. From time to time she calls me with different offers to encourage me to move back there. Nothing’s interested me yet. Maybe I’m only meant to run a restaurant.”
“Is she pretty?” I blurt out, then instantly cover my mouth.
“Barbara?” The corners of his mouth slightly rise. “Is someone jealous? Would it help if I say she’s old and fat with a wart on her nose?”
I fold my hands on the table and lean forward. “Maybe, or I’m curious if you act toward other business associates the way you do me.”
“She’s fifty, happily married, and has three kids. And by the way, I’ve never been attracted like this to someone I’ve worked with until you came along.”
My eyes avoid his as I pull a piece of imaginary lint off my shirt.
“Back to the Hofbräuhaus. Are you satisfied with just running the restaurant? What about the blind taste testing? You can do that here. I’d love to hear how you came up with the idea.”
He suddenly looks nervous, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. I’ve obviously asked the wrong question again. It sounds like he has a skeleton in the closet, like me.
“What do you really want? Do you have a dream job hidden in that noggin of yours?” I reach over and pretend to knock on it.
He shakes his head. “Noggin? Another word to add to Tina’s Dictionary.”
“Your peach fuzz is soft, like a pussy willow. I’ve been wanting to touch it since I met you.”
He closes his eyes and leans his head forward for me to do it again. I massage it slowly with both hands this time.
He mumbles, “I like it when you touch me. But I guess I’m not allowed to say that since we’re just friends.”
He lifts his head and opens his eyes again, and I slowly take my hands away.
“I like it too,” I mutter. “But we both know we have to avoid it.” I lean away. “I’ll try not to do it again.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair.
“Why can’t I be at my old job? I wouldn’t care if we got involved or if I was let go.”
“I’m not sure about that.” He looks at his watch. “Even though I’d love to continue this conversation, we need to get to the theater. It’s seven thirty.”
“I’ll pay for the drinks since you paid for the tickets.” He lifts his hand to refuse, but I cut him off before he can speak. “No. You aren’t paying for everything.”
After I pay the check, he leads me out of the bar toward the Minskoff Theatre. You can’t miss it with the giant yellow lion’s head on the marquee.
I tug on his arm. “I’m so excited. Thank you again. See how easy it is to please me.”
He leans close and whispers, “No touching, remember?” His breath tickles my ear, making me shiver. He steps back and flashes me a wicked smile.
“Come on. Let’s go inside and find our seats.” He reaches out to take my hand, then freezes.
“Not so easy, is it?” I say as I step away from him.
He shakes his head and clasps his hands behind his back.
I saunter through the golden doors and don’t look back. I purposely sway my hips, but he probably doesn’t even notice.
“Was that little dance for me?” he says from behind.
I play it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I swing my hair over my shoulder.
I spin around in the golden hall leading to the ticket checkpoint. Overhead is a crimson-red wall with a massive lion’s face. “It’s beautiful in here. It’s sad I haven’t been to a show in so long. Let’s take a selfie with the lion in the background. Want to?” I smile ear to ear.
“How can I say no to such a gorgeous smile? Give me your handy.”
My eyes bulge out of my head.
“What’s the matter? Give me your phone.”
“You said give me your handy.” I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh. “Is that some kind of subliminal message?”
“I think your mind is in the gutter. Handy means cell phone in German.”
“Hysterical! Just never say, ‘Do you want a handy?’ You’ll get punched in the face or kicked in the balls.”
“Thanks for the tip. My German seems to pop out only when you’re around. Anyway, can we get on with the selfie before you make us late for the show?”
“You started it. Pull out your handy,” I instigate.
He scowls, which makes him appear even sexier.
“It just flew out. Sorry, I’ll be serious now.” I zip my lip to stop talking.
He whips it out, and we must’ve looked like two idiots. He takes several shots before a decent picture turns up, because he always makes a stupid face. A couple of people photo bomb us. We can’t stop laughing as we flip through the images.
I freeze on one. “I’m going to post this one on Facebook.”
“No. I told you I’m not a big fan of social media.” His voice is suddenly tense.
I raise my eyebrows. What is his issue?
“Also, didn’t you want to keep this between us?” His tone is softer this time.
I bang my forehead with my palm. “You’re right! Forget it.”
He gives the tickets to the doorman, and we proceed through. I fold my arms over my chest. It’s so damn cold in here. Air conditioning sucks. No one seems to know what temperature to put it at. It always seems to be on freezing. I put my sweater on but wish it was Gerry warming me up.
I turn around to face the rows of seats. “So where are our seats? In the back row?”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. This is practically your first time, so we have the best seats. Middle, orchestra.”
My jaw drops. “That’s way too generous. They must’ve cost a fortune. I—”
He presses his finger against my lips.
“Don’t talk about money. This is my pleasure. You’re worth every penny,” he says with a firm tone that would turn on any woman. When he removes his finger from my lips, I press my fingers there. Will my pulse always kick up
when he touches me?
“Fine” is all that comes out from behind my fingers.
He motions for me to follow him. It’s hard not to stare at his ass in those black jeans. I look up and see a smirk on his face as he glances at me over his shoulder.
“Is there a sticky back there flashing attention?”
I clear my throat and fiddle with my necklace.
He motions to the eighth row and scoots sideways to the middle two seats. We sit down, and my eyes spring wide open.
“Great, huh?”
I just nod because I don’t know what else to say. A frigid breeze blows across my shoulders. Above us is the air conditioning vent. Great. I stuff my hands between my knees to warm them up.
He turns toward me. “Are you really that cold?”
“Yes. My hands and feet, and usually my nose, are always cold.” I feel my nose. “Yep, my nose is also. I’m not a fan of AC when it’s so low. There’s always a pair of socks stashed in my desk drawer in case my feet freeze when I wear sandals to work. My lunch hour usually consists of me defrosting outside the office.”
He touches the tip of my nose and laughs. “You’d think it were winter. Give me your hands so I can warm them up.” He grabs them before I can answer.
“You’re like a furnace,” I say as I scoot as close as I can to him in my seat. At least there’s an armrest between us. “I know this is off limits, but I’m too cold.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. “I can warm you up, but you’ll need to cool me down.”
Just his flirty words alone increase the blood flow to special parts of my body.
We exit the theater. “That was so epic when the animals came down the aisles in the beginning.”
“I loved it too, but more so because of the amazement on your face. You’re so beautiful when you glow like that. I hope I get to see it again soon.”
He said I’m beautiful, just like he said in French.
“Speaking of beautiful. A little birdy told me you didn’t say ‘the pencil is yellow’ in French or German the other day in Thomas’s office. You said something else. Would you like to tell me what you really said?” I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms while people funnel around us.
Dreams Collide: Collide Series Book 2 Page 10
