Single-Minded

by Lisa Daily

  “I don’t scare that easily,” I say, with more boldness than I feel.

  “I’m very glad to know that,” he says. He glances around at the servers cleaning up. “They’ll be done in fifteen minutes or so.”

  He seems anxious for them to leave.

  50

  I smile at Daniel, unsure of what to say.

  “Would you like a drink or anything?” he asks. “Maybe some dessert? I noticed you didn’t have any.” I shake my head no. But I could get used to this, a guy who worries about whether or not I’ve had enough dessert.

  I feel awkward, incredibly awkward.

  “Why am I here?” I ask, a little too bluntly.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, apologetically. “Do you not want to be here?”

  “I’m just confused,” I say. “Is this about work?”

  “Is that why you stayed?” he asks.

  “I stayed because you asked me to,” I say. A perfectly ambiguous answer. I’m suddenly afraid of giving myself away.

  I hold tight to the railing of the boat, looking out into the dark bay. The night sky is sprinkled with stars and I wonder what it might be like to lie on my back on the boat deck and just look up.

  Daniel stands next to me, wordlessly, looking out over the water. On the other side, the artful arch of the Ringling Bridge spans into the darkness. He reaches out and takes my hand, entwining my fingers in his, and the two of us stand there awhile longer, still in the moment.

  His hand is warm, gentle, and I smile at how giddy I feel at this small romantic gesture.

  “There’s something about you that feels like we’ve known each other a very, very long time,” he says softly.

  “Years long, or reincarnation long?” I ask, only half joking.

  He smiles. “Lifelong.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I think, cher,” he says, “that there’s something about you that feels like home to me.”

  “You mean I remind you of New Orleans?” I ask, both confused and wanting him to say more.

  “No, I mean, when you’re around I feel comfortable and excited and part of something, if that makes any sense to you.”

  I nod.

  The crew finishes cleaning up and leaves for the night, and Daniel and I move to our usual table by the railing, sipping our wine and not saying much.

  I’m still not sure exactly why he wanted me to stay, although I’m hoping that it has more to do with the dance than the restaurant project. I’ve decided to play it casual, stay loose, and see where Daniel is going with this. Which will only require me overcoming basically every single aspect of my personality.

  “I’m glad you came tonight,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “Is this weird,” he asks, “with us working together?”

  “Not yet,” I quip. “But you know me.”

  He laughs. “I do.” He sips his wine and fiddles with his cocktail napkin. “So, did you really think I was gay?” His mouth is set in a smile, but his eyes are serious.

  “I wasn’t sure,” I say. “I mean, I would have been fine with it either way.”

  He looks crestfallen. “Really?”

  “Sure, I’ve worked with lots of gay chefs before.” I smile to myself. It’s been thirty whole seconds and I haven’t professed my massive crush on him, or tackled him to the ground to kiss him or anything! Clearly, I’m on a roll.

  Daniel takes a deep breath and reaches across the table to touch the back of my hand. “There are a hundred reasons why I should bring this up later,” he says. “We’re working together, you’ve just gone through a really rough divorce … but every time we’re together I just want to spend all day talking to you. And when you leave, I can’t stop thinking about the next time I’ll see you. I kept feeling there might be something between us, but now that I know you’ve been thinking I’m gay this whole time, I’m wondering if I was just imagining it all.”

  I smile. “I did think you were gay. So imagine how confused I was. I kept thinking, am I actually flirting with a gay man? And then I’d think, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Not gay.” He smiles.

  “Not gay.” I nod.

  There’s another awkward silence between us, and after a seemingly interminable pause, Daniel speaks again.

  “So, I don’t want to make our working relationship awkward. I like you a lot. I’d like to spend more time with you if you’re up for it. And if you’re not interested, or you feel that it would compromise you professionally or make working together uncomfortable, or if you might be interested but it’s just way too soon, just say the word and I’ll keep it to myself. Forever, if you’d like. Or until tomorrow. Either way.”

  “You’re a client,” I say.

  He grins. “Only for one more week.”

  All is quiet but for the waves lapping against the side of the boat. Daniel’s chair is angled toward mine, close enough for our knees to touch while we’re talking. I try not to look at him gratuitously, but he’s funny and handsome and has these crazy sexy blue eyes and the anticipation of what he might say or do next is driving me to mad contemplation. There’s something so delicious in the waiting and wondering.

  For a long time we sit there not saying anything, enjoying the quiet of the bay and the occasional steamy knee bump.

  Daniel puts his hand near the armrest of my chair and gently strokes my forearm with his index finger.

  “Are you chilly, cher? Do you want my jacket?”

  “Thank you, I’m fine,” I say. Despite the fact that I’m not the least bit chilly, I’m tempted to borrow Daniel’s suit jacket just to feel his warmth, even by way of an article of clothing, to inhale his scent more subtly than, say, taking a big snort next to his neck the next time he leans forward. I wonder if men think the same way, if Daniel would notice the heat of my body inside his jacket, or if he’ll smell my perfume lingering long after I’ve gone home.

  “Do you mind if I ask why you thought I was gay?” he asks.

  “I think initially I assumed so because you came with Carter to the divorce party. When we first met, I didn’t feel even a flicker of interest on your part. There was the Sterno…”

  “My manners were atrocious that night,” he says. “I apologize. I was struck mute by how distraught you looked, I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was odd, actually, I’m rarely at a loss for words. Lifetime spent in the hospitality industry, I suppose.”

  “And then, there’s the calling everyone cher, from me to the construction workers to Carter…”

  “That’s an old and fairly unbreakable family habit. I was teased unmercifully about it in college. I tried to stop when I was in school at Boston University, and eventually I just gave in. If it offends you, let me know and I’ll do my best to call you Alex instead. Or Dr. Wiggins, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t mind it,” I say. “I actually find it sort of charming.” Very charming in the sense that it makes me go wobbly in the knees every time he says it. A tidbit I’ll be keeping to myself for now. “But you have to admit,” I say, “not a whole lot of straight guys call their head carpenter cher.”

  “Well, Scully is a very sweet guy.” He laughs.

  “I’m sure he’s delightful,” I say.

  “Is that it?” he asks. “Colloquialisms and man dates and Sterno? Nothing else?”

  “You have to know that with everything that’s happened in the last few months, I’m seeing gay everywhere I look.”

  “Gayvision. Gaydar. Gay-colored glasses, so to speak?”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “So it wasn’t my dancing?”

  “You’re a really good dancer.” I laugh. “Really good.”

  He stands up, and extends his hand, “This is my favorite song, cher. Would you like to dance with me?”

  I listen carefully for the song we danced to before, but this time instead of a bouncy Cajun beat it’s a slow, big band, crooner kind of song. Maybe Har
ry Connick Jr. Sort of timeless and romantic. I stand up to dance with him and he pulls me close.

  “I think you’re full of it. I thought the other song we danced to was your favorite song.” I laugh. He holds me delicately, but his arms are strong and firm.

  “You’re on to me, cher. I confess, any song that’s playing when I’m dancing with you is my favorite song.” I smile over his shoulder and he pulls me in a bit closer.

  “So here it is,” he whispers in my ear. “Alex, I think I could be falling for you.”

  51

  He pulls me closer still as my heart flutters wildly. “You’re smart and charming and a bit goofy, and tenderhearted, and incredibly compelling. Am I rambling? You’re beautiful, so beautiful. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I don’t know what to say. “Thank you” doesn’t seem appropriate. I feel the same way, obviously, but I’m so terrified of being hurt or betrayed that there’s a part of me that just wants to shut this down, keep it on a professional level. On the other hand, my heart is practically jumping out of my chest.

  He stops rocking and looks into my eyes. We’re inches apart and I’m mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes. A girl could drown in those eyes. And it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

  “It’s too fast, isn’t it?” he says. “You’re just barely divorced and you were really hurt by it, and you probably don’t even want to think about maybe falling in love again someday.”

  Falling in love? I’m not even positive I want to date. But I nod, still unsure of what to do.

  “The trouble is, I can’t … stop thinking … about it. Falling.”

  “You should be. You’re worried I’m going to push you over the side of the boat again, aren’t you,” I tease. He’s being so earnest and sweet, and I have no idea why I feel the need to crowbar in a little levity. I’m just scared out of mind.

  “A little.” He smiles, and then his face grows serious. “You’re not saying much. Am I going too far with this?”

  He’s looking at me intently, and I return his gaze, memorizing the cleft in his chin, the color of his eyelashes, the fullness of his lips.

  I pause, almost afraid to answer. “No, it’s not too far.” He smiles at me, and begins to sway gently to the music again. My body follows his.

  His hand presses tenderly at the small of my back, bringing me closer until our bodies are touching.

  His lips brush my ear, sending a current of electricity from the nape of my neck to my fingertips. “Is this too far, cher?”

  “No,” I answer, “it’s not too far.”

  He moves slowly, deliberately, his breath leaving a trail from my ear to just millimeters away from my mouth. I close my eyes, tasting his warm breath on my lips.

  “Is this too far?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” I say, slowly opening my eyes.

  “Okay,” he says, taking a slow step back. Gentlemanly. Good to know.

  “Kidding,” I say, raising my eyebrows playfully. It takes him a second for my answer to register.

  “Are you just trying to torment me?” he cracks.

  “A little bit,” I reply. “Is it working?”

  “A little bit.” He grins at me, and I smile back. He moves his lips toward mine again, at an achingly slow pace. This time, I watch his eyes intently as he draws near. His lips touch mine, gently at first, then he kisses me hungrily, evidence that we’ve both been waiting for something a very long time. It’s soft and urgent and tender—exactly what a kiss should be. The kind of kiss I never, ever got from Michael.

  Daniel still holds me near with one of his hands behind my back, and the other clasps my hand in his and holds it close to his heart. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

  “Your hands are so soft,” he says.

  “All the better to…,” I tease.

  He laughs and it strikes me how delightful it is that he finds so much merriment from everyday life. After my last six months, which seem so heavy, and drenched with sadness as thick as pea soup, Daniel’s inherent joie de vivre is a welcome vacation from my real life. I feel more like myself with him than I have in a really long time.

  He kisses me gently on the top of my nose, my cheek, and then hesitates at my lips, in that achingly delicious limbo you feel when you know he’s about to kiss you and the anticipation is practically driving you mad, even though the limbo itself is almost as intoxicating as what’s surely to follow.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time,” he says breathlessly.

  “Me too,” I confess. So much for playing it cool.

  “Really?” he asks playfully. “Since when?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, “I’m not sure it would be professional of me to admit it.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since the day I startled you and you fell into the bay.”

  He grins, and another adorable dimple appears.

  “Especially after I saw you with your shirt off,” I say, shocked at my own boldness. “You?”

  “You’ll think I’m a cad if I admit it,” he says.

  “So unfair,” I tease. “I told you, now it’s your turn.”

  He grasps my other hand and gently pulls me towards him. “I wanted to kiss you the first time I ever saw you.”

  “You mean here?” I ask.

  “No.” He laughs. “At your divorce party. I thought you were stunning in a way that just knocked the wind out of me. And then I was just so awkward. You looked so sad. Of course, the timing was completely inappropriate, you’d just gotten divorced that day. I was a plus-one, and wobbly on the etiquette of asking out the hostess. And then when you walked into my restaurant, I thought maybe destiny lent a hand. I felt so at ease with you.”

  “You feel at ease with everyone,” I say.

  “That is the result of growing up fourth generation in a restaurant family and learning to be a host as soon as I could walk. I’m comfortable around most people, and I can get along with just about everyone—but I don’t usually feel so connected to someone I’ve just met. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I say.

  We stay there dancing and talking for a while—maybe minutes, maybe hours. In his arms, I feel as though I’ve lost all sense of time.

  We talk endlessly, about the projects I’m proudest of, what thrills me about environmental psychology, his favorite things about New Orleans, my favorite spots in Sarasota. He tells me about how his father lent him out to other famous New Orleans kitchens like Tujague’s, Brennan’s, and Commander’s Palace over the summers when he was a teenager, so that by the time he started college he had already worked with some of the best chefs in the country, including Emeril Lagasse and Paul Prudhomme.

  “How was that experience? Was it intimidating?”

  “Not really,” he says. “You have to remember that I grew up with these chefs. Their kids worked in my family’s restaurants, I worked in theirs. To me, they were like uncles. And having grown up in kitchens, there’s really no place I feel more comfortable.”

  He pauses, then asks, “Do you want to take some dessert upstairs to the studio? Kick off your shoes, hang out on the couch?”

  Taking my shoes off would feel great, but there’s no way I’d trust myself to be alone with Daniel twenty feet away from his bed. First, the Nate debacle has taught me to be more careful. Second, Daniel isn’t the subcontractor of a client, he is my client. At this point, my career is everything I have, the only thing in my life I have any control over, the only thing I can truly depend on. I need to tread very carefully, to take things slowly with Daniel rather than just rush right in.

  “I promise to behave myself,” says Daniel.

  “I can’t promise the same,” I say. “So I’d probably better go.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I smile, kissing him playfully. “Yes, I’m sure I can’t promise to behave myself.” He
grins in response and pulls me closer.

  “We should definitely go upstairs, cher,” he says.

  “I should definitely go home,” I say.

  “If you must,” he says. “I understand. Mmmm … good night then.” His lips linger at my neck.

  “Good night,” I say, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

  He turns his head and kisses me on the lips, now more urgent than ever. Suddenly my fingers are stroking his hair; his arms are around my body, pushing me fervently against the deck railing as we kiss. The firm surface at my back and Daniel’s passionately insistent body pressing against me, and I can barely catch my breath. I don’t want to catch my breath.

  My hands move down from his hair to his chest, and I snake one around his waist. I can feel the strong muscles in his back through his shirt, and I can barely stop myself from yanking up his shirt to touch his bare skin, something I’ve thought about near-constantly since I first saw him with his shirt off in this same spot we are now kissing. His breath is fast and heavy, matching my own. His warm fingers touch my skin where my back is exposed from my halter dress. His touch is addictively exquisite. I want to climb on top of him, straddle him, devour him.

  “I should go,” I say breathlessly.

  “Stay, cher,” he says. “Do you really need to leave?”

  “I do,” I say. If I don’t leave now, I know I’ll be here all night. As much as I’ve fantasized about Daniel in every way possible, I know I’m not even remotely ready for that yet. It’s too soon, and I still don’t trust my own judgement.

  “Okay,” he says. “I understand.” He brings my hand to his lips again and kisses it gently. “Until tomorrow, then.” His eyes never leave mine.

  I nod and let my hands drop to my side. Gathering up my wrap and my clutch, I turn to look at him one last time before I go. He’s dashing and charming and clearly wants me. I have to be some sort of lunatic to leave him pining for me on the boat deck. What if tomorrow he just acts like nothing ever happened tonight, like everything is the same?

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” I say, shaking the worrying thoughts from my mind.