by Lisa Daily
“Are you interested in this piece?” asks a female voice from behind me. She’s an older woman, maybe seventy, with curly gray hair, a rainbow-colored infinity scarf, and paint-speckled fingernails.
“It’s lovely,” says Daniel to the woman. He leans over and whispers to me, “It is incredibly beautiful, but maybe not your taste, not something you’d hang in the living room?”
“Would you like to meet the artist?” asks the woman. “He’s here tonight.”
Oh sweet Jesus. Nate is here? We need to leave. Right now.
“Not tonight, thank you,” I say, dragging Daniel toward the door. “We have to be going. So sorry!”
Daniel looks confused but smiles politely at the saleswoman, and then follows me out into the rain anyway. The torrential downpour stopped as quickly as it started, and now it is merely sprinkling.
“Do you mind walking in the rain a bit?” I say to Daniel, dragging him down the street.
“Not at all,” he says. “I love walking in the rain. Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”
“It was just … odd…,” I stutter. “It did look a lot like me, and I just felt really … awkward.”
“I understand,” says Daniel.
He probably can’t, really, unless a one-night stand happened to paint him in the nude also, but I appreciate his kindness. If he has any suspicions that the woman in the painting is me, he isn’t saying a word about it. And for that, I am grateful.
But I am going to kill Nate.
57
Daniel and I walk back to his car holding hands, and I hardly want to let go once we reach the passenger door—as though it might never happen again. Daniel closes my door and gets into the driver’s side.
As he starts up the car he says, “It went by too fast.”
I know just what he means. The traffic is light and we arrive at my house around fifteen minutes later. Daniel parks his car in my driveway and walks me to my front door. I pull my keys out of my purse and stick the house key in the lock. I debate with myself as I turn the key—should I invite Daniel in or not? Asking him in for a cup of coffee or a nightcap would be the polite thing to do, but I’m worried that if I let him past my front door that things will move too fast between us. And unlike Nate, I really care for Daniel. I don’t want to let my outright lust get the best of me before I have a chance to get to know him better.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I say.
“Thank you for having dinner with me tonight,” he says, as he leans forward ever so slowly. His lips are an inch or so from mine, and every cell in my body wants him to kiss me. I lean forward just a bit, bringing my lips closer to his. We stand like that until the agony of anticipation is too powerful to overcome. He slides his arm around my waist and leans in to kiss me, his body pressing deliciously against mine. I let myself melt into his embrace, my arms around his neck.
We stand out there for a long, long time, kissing against the door. I drink in every detail of the moment, the scent of his skin, his soft yet insistent mouth, the length of his eyelashes when he closes his eyes to kiss me, the firmness of his back and arms. I want to invite him in, but I’m certain of what will happen if I do. My body is as ready as it’s ever been, but my brain is warning me to go slowly, take my time, get to know him better before I leave his clothes in shreds at the bottom of my bed.
“Invite me in,” he whispers softly in my ear. His kisses trail from my ear down my neck, leaving a wake of shivers and goose bumps in their path. My flesh is on fire, and it would be so easy to say yes. I want to say yes.
“It’s too … soon,” I say breathlessly, “I need to slow things down.”
He smiles and his blue eyes dance in the porch light. He leans forward and kisses me gently on my lips, slowly moving to my cheek and kissing me again, and then nuzzling my neck. “We’ll go as slow as you want, cher.”
He steps back, kissing me once more, softly, on the cheek. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” I say wistfully, wondering if I’m out of my mind for letting this delicious, gorgeous man go off into the night. I sigh, step inside my front door, and watch him leave through the open door.
He steps back from the front porch and walks to his car.
“Sweet dreams,” he says, just before he opens his car door.
“Sweet dreams,” I reply.
He grins. “I’m certain of that.”
*
Wistfully, I watch Daniel leave.
And the spilt second he pulls out of my driveway, I’m on the phone with Darcy.
“Nate is a painter.”
“Hunky tool-belt Nate?” she asks. “Wait … I thought he was a drywaller.”
“No, I mean he paints portraits.”
There’s a long, long pause on the other end of the line.
“What kind of portraits?” she asks.
“Nudes,” I say.
“Oh shit.”
58
I feel this incredible new buzz of sexual tension every time I’m around Daniel that I never experienced before with Michael. I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know it could be different, that it should be different. Maybe, like me, Michael didn’t know either, until he did.
Everything is fun with Daniel, not just our nights out together, which have been incredible—but the mundane stuff too, like the two hours we spent rearranging tables for the setup in the bar. The space is unusual, so it took a few tries. (Okay, like eighteen.) But Daniel was so patient, and he kept me laughing while he moved them all around, back and forth, until the arrangement was perfect.
Designing the environment for Boudreaux is a challenge, because what Daniel wants it to be is intangible in many ways. How I dress a restaurant signals its customers what to wear, how long to stay, how much their check will be, and what kind of experience to expect. But what Daniel wants Boudreaux to communicate is an extension of himself. Elegant but comfortable, polite, Southern, hospitable, creative, romantic, fun. The Boudreaux legacy. Those values are challenging to convey in the selection of table linens, the size and grouping of tables, the angles of the chair backs and depth of the seat cushions, the flow of foot and staff traffic from dock to deck. They are, however, embodied in Daniel, in who he is as a person and a chef. I’ve decided the best way to give Boudreaux the feel of Daniel Boudreaux himself is to create a neutral backdrop for his warmth and creativity, using soft, flowing whites and colors of the sea. Mixing the traditional with the new, and pulling every bit of history and charm out of that boat that he loves so much, from the polished mahogany bar to the stunning arched leaded-glass windows to the collection of photographs of Daniel’s beloved family of cooks and grand Louisiana eateries.
It feels like we’ve spent every minute together this week, working on Boudreaux all day, and then hanging out together, laughing and relaxing into the night. It’s scary to me, how fast I’m falling for him. But there’s something about him that makes me feel safe, something that feels like we’ve known each other forever.
I’m just afraid to trust it.
I mean, I felt that way about Michael and look what happened.
Daniel seems so fearless to me. It’s like he’s not even worried about the possibility of things ending in a big ball of flames. I’m not sure I could ever do that.
On Thursday night, two days before Daniel’s opening, we get all dressed up for a big night on the town, and end up in an epic Yahtzee battle for the mermaid statue from the storage room. We never quite manage to make it off the boat.
Because if you’ve ever had a Yahtzee smackdown with a guy with deep and dreamy blue eyes, you know what a turn-on that can be.
59
It’s almost noon on Friday and Daniel and I are still wrapped up in the sheets and each other’s arms. We stayed up late, all night and into the morning, making love and talking about everything under the sun, like we wanted to know every single thing about each other before a giant meteor hit the planet and the world ended. I know i
t’s technically been less than a week since our first date, even though we’ve known each other for a couple of months, and I wanted to take things slowly—but we’ve been spending practically every minute together and he feels like someone I’ve known forever. Maybe it’s weird to feel this way so soon, even when I swore to myself I’d be cautious, but he feels safe, trustworthy, like we belong in each others’ lives.
Also, he’s sexy as hell and my willpower reserve is completely, down-to-the-dregs depleted. Not even emergency measures like granny panties or hairy armpits could have kept me out of his bed by this point.
Sunlight streams through the skylights and the breeze off the bay gently billows the sheer curtains to the rhythm of the sea. I lean against Daniel, nestled in the crook of his arm, and he tenderly strokes my hair and plants tiny kisses on the side of my face, as though he’s memorizing every detail. I’ve never slept on a boat before, and even though the ship is large and steady, there’s still a barely perceptible movement with the water—I slumbered more deeply and had more vivid dreams than I could ever remember having had before.
“Are you hungry, cher?” asks Daniel, and I nod in response. I’m starved. Daniel sits up to get out of bed, and I marvel at his firmly muscled back and strong shoulders. The kind of muscles that come from working hard, a lean strength earned from enjoying every opportunity of living life by the ocean: paddling a surfboard, windsurfing, kayaking, and swimming out to the sandbar.
“How could you, Daniel?” a furious, clearly distraught woman screams from the top of the spiral stairs. She storms in, her face red with rage and heartbreak. She’s tall, maybe six feet, with long black hair cut bluntly, angry dark eyes, and the pale skin of a vampire. I have no idea who she is to Daniel, but I feel like the worst sort of woman. Panicked, I gather the bedsheet around me, and scramble to find my clothes, which are strewn about the floor.
“Sasha, please calm down,” says Daniel, holding a pillow in front of his manhood. Like that’s going to save him. This woman is pissed, and from the looks of it, she has every right to be.
“I will not calm down,” she screams at him. “How could you do this to me? Who is this … woman?” She says it like it’s a dirty word, and I feel the shame coloring my complexion.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” I mumble, yanking on my dress and scooping up my shoes, my bag, and horrifically, my bra, which is lying just a few feet in front of this tall, screaming woman. She glares at me as I speedily retrieve it. I have no idea where my underwear has gone, but I’m sure as hell not going to stick around to find out.
“Alex, wait,” says Daniel, but I’m already halfway down the spiral staircase. Barefooted and brokenhearted, I sprint past the workers on the boat and run down the dock in my bare feet. The ground is searing hot, and I hop onto a little patch of grass to slip on my shoes. I promise myself I won’t cry until I’m safely alone in my car, but the tears start coming and I can’t stop them. I lecture myself that it’s only been a week with Daniel, there’s hardly anything between us, that I clearly don’t know him as well as I thought I did if he would do this to another woman, and involve me, just as I’m getting back on my feet again. By the time I reach my car, my body is wracked with sobs. Desperately searching for a Kleenex or even an old drive-through napkin to stop the snot now streaming out of my nose, I tell myself that it isn’t just Daniel I’m upset about, that the experience with the screaming woman just brought up my feelings about Michael. But on a cellular level, I know that isn’t the truth. I’m crushed that Daniel is not the person I thought he was. I liked him, I really liked him. And even though we’ve only been romantic for less than a week, what we have together felt bigger than the amount of time we’d acted on our feelings. What we have together felt real.
I allowed myself to let go with him. And I hate the fact that my instincts have steered me off a cliff once again.
60
“He’s an asshole,” says Darcy. “You can do better. I’m coming over tonight and we’ll drink mojitos and talk smack about him.”
I’m sitting in my car at the stoplight near the kissing statue.
“As much as I appreciate the offer,” I say, “I can’t drown my sorrows in mojitos tonight. I have the wildlife fundraiser and I should have been at the job site an hour ago. I’ll bet Olivia is completely freaking out.”
My phone buzzes, speak of the devil. It’s Olivia herself.
“I’ll call you later,” I say to Darcy. “My client is on the other line.”
“Which one?” asks Darcy.
“The socialite,” I say.
“Well, that manicured ball of insanity should keep your mind off anything to do with Daniel,” Darcy says. “Call me later.”
We hang up, and I switch over to speak with Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington.
“Olivia, hi, how is everything going?” I ask, driving home as quickly as traffic will allow. I need to get home, shower and change, and make it back to the Ritz-Carlton for Olivia’s event as quickly as possible. I should never have spent the night at Daniel’s. For lots of reasons.
Olivia is in full-blown panic mode.
“Where are you?” she hisses. “My event is in six hours!”
“I’m on my way,” I lie. “I’ll be there within the hour and I’m yours for the rest of the day.”
“Unacceptable,” says Olivia curtly.
“I’ll be there as quickly as I can,” I say. “See you soon.” The phone line goes dead suddenly. Did she hang up on me? What grown-up person goes around just hanging up on someone, just because they’re angry? My irritation at the manners breach is short-lived; mostly I’m relieved to get off the phone with her. I love my clients, at least most of them. But I know I’ll feel relieved once Olivia’s event is over and I don’t have to deal with her ten calls a day and her random and irrelevant dog grooming skirmishes and hatred of tourists and ball gown issues, ninety-nine percent of which have absolutely nothing to do with me or the Wildlife Foundation. I’ll smooth things over with her once I arrive at the Ritz-Carlton. I’ve done a dozen events there over the last few years, and I’m always pleased by how elegantly and efficiently they pull together my event plans. Olivia’s wildlife fundraiser is going to be amazing, and I have full confidence she’ll get that 20 percent bump in donations she hired me for. One more day, and I’ll be done with her.
As much as I prefer to be at an event site all day on the day of, I’ve already been at the Ritz every day this week preparing the staff. They completed most of the setup before I left yesterday evening. And we were fortunate that the main ballroom wasn’t booked on Thursday, so we were afforded an extra day to prepare. Christie, the hotel’s fantastic events manager, has my highly detailed notebook for every element of tonight’s benefit, and the staff at the Ritz are top-notch at execution.
Besides, most of my work has already been completed; all that is left is to ensure that every detail is perfect before we open the doors to guests for cocktails at six-thirty.
There was really no need for me to be at the Ritz at the crack of dawn. But I feel guilty about it anyway. And life would be a little sweeter right now if I were at the job site, rather than in Daniel’s bed, thirty minutes ago.
My phone buzzes again, and I look down to see if it’s Olivia calling again. Daniel’s devastating face appears on my phone. I hit IGNORE and toss the phone in my purse. I can’t bear to speak with him right now. I need time to pull myself together. Thankfully, the wildlife event offers me a valid reason to ignore his calls. I already told Daniel I’d be busy all day today. I’m crushed.
Five minutes later I pull into my driveway, and my phone buzzes again. Daniel again. I ignore that call as well. The grand opening of Boudreaux is tomorrow night, and while I’ll have to spend a good chunk of the day at the floating restaurant tomorrow prepping for the big event, I won’t have to see Daniel again after tomorrow night. My heart sinks. Oh Jesus. Will that woman who barged in this morning be at Daniel’s opening? Will she be hanging around the boat
all day, glaring at me while I try to do my work? What a nightmare. Of course, she probably has every reason to glare at me. I’m apparently the other woman.
An odd thought strikes me and I wonder if this was how Bobby Cavale, the basketball player that Michael had the affair with, felt when he learned that Michael was married. Did Michael at least tell Bobby so that he could go into whatever they had with his eyes open? Or did Michael spring it on him like he had me? A horrible thought crosses my mind. What if Daniel is married? I never even asked, I just assumed he wasn’t. I feel sick at the thought. Not that it isn’t bad either way. I’m not sure if a ring and a piece of paper deepen the heartbreak over infidelity, I think it probably sucks either way.
I hurry into the house, drop my bra, my bag, and my wrap by the front door, and head for the shower. Morley, who clearly misses me, follows me into my master bathroom, and rubs up against my bare legs.
“Hey Morley,” I say as I lean down to pick him up, “did you miss me?” He purrs for a split second, and then hisses at me, extending his back claws to deliver a nasty scratch on my belly. “Good to see you too,” I mutter as I set him back down on the bathroom floor. “No,” I say, my voice rising. “It’s not good to see you when you scratch me and hiss at me.” Now I’m yelling. At the cat. “I love you, and I take care of you, and I deserve some respect!” Morley looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I feel better, weirdly better, as I shower quickly, taking special care to rinse Morley’s most recent scratch, which is bleeding just a little. Take that, rotten cat.
I decided to forgo shaving my legs because I figure no one will get close enough to notice and I’m pressed for time, but I shave my armpits because I can’t stand not to. Drying off quickly with a fluffy white towel, I grab a vibrant red skirt and jacket, and throw them on the bed as I track down a strand of silvery beads, a funky statement ring, and a pair of pewter-colored heels that I can stand in all day while still looking fabulous. I dry my hair quickly, and pull my event go-bag out of my closet. Usually when I do fundraisers like this, I need to work all day getting the event set up, and then quickly dress for the benefit itself. My go-bag has everything I need for a quick change and up-do: perfume, deodorant, wardrobe tape and emergency supplies, a pair of ballet flats, a strapless bra, a small metallic Jimmy Choo clutch that goes with everything, and a palate of smoky evening makeup, all labeled and neatly organized inside. It saves me time not having to pull the items together every time I have an evening event.
