The Luckiest

by Wendy Owens

  “Then why not?”

  He doesn’t respond. Taking my hand, he leads me back over by the stairs. He lowers his lips to my ear and whispers in a breathy voice, “Because the first time I’m inside of you—fucking your brains out—I want it to be all you can think about.”

  I squeeze his hand. I can’t help myself. If I don’t, I might actually fall to the floor from the weakness that is rising up my legs. He sees inside you. He knows you’re terrified, and he knows more than you do that you’re not ready.

  “Promise?” I ask, smiling playfully.

  “You can count on it,” he answers, before leading me to the green room, his hand secured safely around my own.

  The painted ladies tower above me, each one a more dramatic display of flamboyancy than the next. It’s obvious that care has been taken to keep them in pristine condition.

  I look down at my feet and study the bits of spongy moss peeking between the cracks of the sidewalk. Just on the other side of the sidewalk is a shared white picket fence extending the length of the street.

  Dean steps over to one of the gates and pushes it open, waiting for me to enter first. He’s smiling at me, and I feel my stomach flutter. I love that every time he smiles at me my body reacts this way, I hope it never changes.

  “Shall we?” he asks, using his free hand to lead the way.

  I give a playful scowl “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  He lets the gate fall shut, taking a few steps forward and scooping my hand up into his. When he touches my flesh, I feel that familiar flutter. Jesus. It’s amazing when you touch me.

  “Day in and day out you’re cooking and serving me and the guys. I’m excited about doing that for you.”

  I glare at the oversized bright red door at the top of the stairwell. “So you do know what I do for you every day doesn’t even compare to this.” I happily correct him.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, releasing me and shaking his hands in the air. “It’s absolutely not the same thing, so how about this: I wanted to create an incredible food experience for you. One where instead of considering the ingredients or timing or prep work, you instead sit back and truly enjoy every single bite.”

  “I get it,” I concede. “I just think it’s dangerous.”

  “Oh yeah?” His inflection as he speaks is clearly flirtatious. “And how is it dangerous?”

  “You want to give me a special night, you want me to enjoy a meal, but this is my passion. Aren’t you worried I might be overly critical of any restaurant you take me? Doesn’t a painter scrutinize when he sees other artists’ work?”

  He leans in; his lips graze my cheek and settle inches from my ear. He whispers, “I think you’ll pleased.”

  I lick my lips, unsure if I’m salivating in a desire for him or the promised food. Perhaps it is both. He moves away, and I nod in his direction. Once again he guides me through the gate and up the small concrete path, lined on either side with green bushes and bursts of color from various flowers. I want this to be amazing, and no matter how hard I make it on him, I have a feeling it will be with him as my companion.

  “How did you find this place?” I inquire, stopping at the top of the stairs for him to join me.

  “That’s my little secret,” he taunts. Dean has assured me repeatedly that I am in for a treat. He knocks on the door, his eyes soft and wide as he eagerly waits. I stare at him and can tell he wants tonight to be perfect.

  An older woman, wearing a flowing navy blue dress paired with simple flesh-toned ballet flats, opens the door. From her appearance, I would not assume she works at the restaurant, but perhaps a patron, though why would she answer the door? Why would anyone answer the door? Why wouldn’t we just walk in? Why kind of place is this?

  “Hello,” the woman nearly squeals in a high-pitched voice. She steps to one side allowing us room to walk through the doorway. “Welcome, you must be Dean and MacKenzie, am I right?”

  “Yes, we are,” Dean answers, taking my hand and guiding me through the open door. I am even more confused than before.

  I see there is no hostess table. No obvious kitchen or wait staff. Immediately in front of us, to our right, is an old wooden staircase. The wall leading up to the second floor is lined, floor to ceiling, with oil paintings in ornate gold frames. Perched above the open stairwell is a massive chandelier, and I suddenly feel as though I have been transported back in time.

  “We have you in the green room,” the woman explains, as if I should understand what this means. I want to ask Dean a million questions but decide I will wait until we are seated. “Right this way.”

  The woman does not retrieve any menus; she simply begins moving around the corner and through what I initially thought was a living room. We follow silently. In the first room I discover my assumptions were wrong. There are three round two-person tables. The room is a bright color, and I wish this were where we would eat.

  I’m soaking in the decor and nearly fall behind. Catching up with the woman, we enter into what I can only assume is the room she had referred to as the green room. The walls are covered in textured wallpaper that has various sizes and shapes of green leaves. It’s lush in its quality, and I fight the urge to run my fingertips along it. A couple is perched at one of the tables, but they are staring longingly into one another’s eyes and do not notice we’re even here.

  The woman seats us, and in the light of the new room I notice more than her stout figure. Her skin appears almost translucent, and heavy rouge marks on her cheeks attempt to add a small piece of color to her nearly pigment-less face. Her hair is silver and gathered in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She reminds me of my Nana—my mother’s mother.

  I sit, trying to see if the diners at the table across from us have a menu. I see neither menus with them nor any sign of food.

  “Will it be field or ocean this evening?” she asks, looking back and forth between us.

  “Field for me,” Dean answers, and suddenly I feel like I am missing something very important. My eyes widen in his direction, and I shrug my shoulders. He grins, very pleased I am still clueless by his surprise. “Do you want a protein that was raised in a field or in the ocean?” he clarifies.

  “Oh,” I gasp. I can feel the woman's eyes staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision. I have no clue what is happening, but I can provide an answer. “Ocean?” I say more as a question.

  She nods and disappears.

  Leaning across the table and staring into Dean’s eyes, I ask pointedly, “What in the hell is going on?”

  “So I have you stumped?”

  “Yes, completely.” I laugh. “Now will you please tell me what is going on?”

  “It’s called The Experience,” he begins.

  I look around the room. “Oh, it’s an experience all right.”

  “You hate it.” He frowns.

  My voice rises when I say, “I don’t even know what the hell it is yet.”

  “Okay, so they have converted this old house into a lot of small dining rooms. Each table can only be booked twice a night so that diners can slow down and really enjoy the dining experience.”

  “Seriously? How can that be profitable?”

  “Trust me, it is,” he jokes.

  “Dean, how much did you spend on this?” I huff.

  “Don’t worry about it … I want tonight to be special,” he insists.

  “So there are only two menus?” I ask for clarification.

  He nods. “One from the ocean and one from the field. They plan each course based on that initial choice.”

  “That’s different.”

  Dean and I glance at one another, smiling. My eyes shift around the room uncomfortably, but I can see from the corner of my eye that he doesn’t look away.

  “What?” I ask, looking him directly in the eyes.

  He shakes his head and delivers me a long blink. “I don’t think I will ever get used to your beauty.”

  I blush. What do people sa
y in response to such amazing declarations? I’ve forgotten how to interact.

  The same silver-haired woman approaches our table with a set of wine glasses and a bottle with deep red liquid inside. I glance at Dean, puzzled.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I reserved us a Malbec. I don’t really drink, but this seemed like a special occasion.”

  “An anniversary?” the woman asks, clearly eavesdropping.

  “Oh, no,” I quickly respond.

  I look down at my lap, embarrassed by my quick response. “No,” Dean jumps in, saving the day. “We are celebrating the fact the one of the most intelligent, beautiful, and tender women I have ever met somehow has become my girlfriend.”

  He might never get used to my beauty, but I know I will never get used to him calling me his girlfriend. “Dean.” I smile, not looking up from my lap.

  “It’s true!” he exclaims.

  “Seems like a perfect reason to celebrate,” the woman says, pouring a glass for Dean and waiting for him to taste. He sips, then nods. She pours us both a serving, then takes off back through a side room.

  “So, honestly, what do you think so far?” Dean asks when we are alone again.

  My eyes scan the room once more. “So far it seems amazing.”

  “Fair enough,” he relents. I stare at the glasses in front of us, and, without thinking, say what pops into my mind. “You know, I don’t remember ever seeing you drink.”

  I peer up at his face; his lips are pressed together, his brows narrow, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. “I guess I know history can repeat itself, and I don’t want to become my father so I’m cautious.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not saying I would be an alcoholic if I drank more, but with a family history of it, why press my luck? I would never want to treat someone I love like my father treated my mother.”

  My heart aches. His wounds are so deep, I wonder if they can ever fully heal. I’m relieved when a young man appears at our table carrying a bread bowl in one hand and two salad plates on his other arm.

  The lanky blond boy seems nervous as he places the bread in the center of the table, and I wonder if he’s new. “Yeast rolls for your enjoyment,” he says softly.

  I realize how quiet the room is when he speaks. The lighting is dim as well. “For the ocean course, we have a citrus-inspired salad, and for the farm course, we have what our chef calls the earthen salad. Can I get you anything else?”

  We both shake our heads, and the waiter retreats to the kitchen.

  I pick up the fork from the table and dive into the layers of spinach, strawberries and tangerine slices, dried cranberries, and candied walnuts. I slide a bite into my mouth and moan as the vinaigrette mixes with all the flavors.

  “Good?” he asks, watching me eat with a smile on his face.

  I nod, chewing my bite and swallowing. “Oh my God, gorgonzola, what an awesome surprise.”

  He laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, shoving another heaping bite into my mouth.

  “I think I love watching you eat even more than I love watching you cook.”

  I raise a napkin to my mouth and giggle. “Creepy much?”

  “I’m serious. You light up around food,” he insists.

  The courses continue, one after the next. We marvel at the dishes, each one more delicious than the last. The forty minutes I expected stretched into two glorious hours of delectableness.

  As we wait for our dessert, my head is swimming. I’m not sure if it’s the wine or the blissful high of the incredible food. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he asks, but his smile and his eyes tell me he knows exactly what I am thankful for.

  I look down at the tablecloth in front of me, splattered with drippings from the evening meal. My cheeks flush. How do I tell him? How do I say, ‘For getting me,’ without seeming like a total dork?

  “For tonight,” I say at last.

  “Thank you for joining me,” he replies. “I hope you’ve enjoyed it.”

  “Are you kidding? This place is amazing.” My voice trails off when I see the waiter approach with the final course.

  He places a hearty slice of chocolate melting cake in front of Dean, and in front of me a dish of crème brûlée topped with a sprinkling of fresh berries. I bite my lip to contain my excitement.

  The waiter leaves us and immediately Dean asks, “Are you okay?”

  “This is my favorite dessert,” I whisper, practically vibrating in my chair.

  He responds with a deep belly laugh, and I feel my face go hot. “You might be the most adorable creature I have ever met, Macaroon.”

  Tapping my spoon on the sugary crust of the treat, I scoop out a bite of the creamy goodness. I close my eyes and allow the explosion of sweet to hit my tongue. “Oh my God,” I moan. It’s the only reaction I can have.

  I open my eyes, and see he hasn’t touched his dessert. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

  “Just savoring the moment.”

  I huff. “Okay, enough with the googly eyes. We like each other, I get it, but is that any reason to let that melting cake get cold?”

  He picks up his fork, laughing. Cutting into the center, a perfect molten chocolate seeps from its no-longer-secret hiding spot. He cuts off a piece of cake, drenches it in the liquid heaven, then leans across the table, extending the fork in my direction.

  I think I might throw up from all the food I’ve eaten, but how can I turn away this new thrilling taste in my mouth? The fork slips past my teeth, and he lingers for a moment. He’s not laughing anymore; no, he’s staring. I press my lips around the fork and slide back. I don’t look away from him. The flavor in my mouth is delightful, but the lustful look in his eyes is making me tremble.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he suggests.

  I nod as he lifts his finger, motioning to the waiter for the check. I can’t imagine this evening could get any more perfect.

  It’s a moment I’ve been waiting for. A moment we both have been waiting for. And now it’s here. Dean steps into me, his skin pressing against mine. One of his denim-clad legs slides between my thighs, parting my legs. My arms wrap around him instinctively.

  “So Storm isn’t coming back?” he whispers against the skin of my neck, his warm breath causing me to shudder.

  “She said she’s staying with Pete.”

  “Good,” he moans, and I feel a bulge pressing against me from the other side of his jeans.

  He takes my hands, entwining my fingers into his, and kisses my neck, then my jaw, and my chin. I can’t take the anticipation, so I turn my face, forcing our lips to meet. I can feel the smile on his mouth. He pulls back from me, lifting his shirt up and over his head.

  I blush and mumble, “Oh shit.” I’d seen him shirtless before, but to be this close to him, touching his firm stomach, gazing at his tatted biceps, I’m not sure I’m actually prepared for the perfection of him.

  He laughs. “What?”

  I peer into his eyes as the backs of his fingertips trace the bare flesh of my arm. “Nothing, I just ... I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” There’s a smirk on his face when he asks me; it’s obvious he already knows my answer.

  I ignore his question, instead running my finger along the detail of the ink on his arm. “Why a ship?”

  “Why not?”

  “Really? There’s no special meaning?”

  “It has to do with never being afraid to take a journey, but do you want to sit here and discuss what my tattoos mean, or did you have some other things in mind?”

  “Like what?” I tease.

  “Well, I know I have a few things going through my mind,” he begins, pulling me close to him, wrapping his strong arms around me, cupping my backside through the fabric of my mini dress and squeezing. I am still self-conscious about how I look in the revealing outfit, even now that I’ve lost weight, but he doesn’t seem to mind how I look.

/>   He’s searching the back of my dress with his hands. “Where in the hell is the zipper on this thing?”

  “There’s not one … it goes over my head,” I explain.

  He smirks at me. “Well then, let me help you with that.”

  Bending down, he grips onto the hem of my dress. My knees feel week. I reach out and steady myself with a hand on the wall of the bus. He takes his time as he lifts the fabric, his fingers sweeping over the flesh of my thighs and stomach as he moves upward. Lifting the dress over my head, he doesn’t take his eyes from me as he allows it to drop to the floor.

  I’m standing here—a pair of black lacy boy shorts and a black bra with lace along the cups the only thing between our bodies. My hands grasp my stomach; I’m suddenly self-conscious about the stretch marks, faded scars of motherhood.

  He sees me, his held tilts, and I wish I knew what’s going through his mind. He grips my wrists and pulls them away from my stomach. Dropping to his knees, I feel his soft lips press against the flesh of my tummy. His hands move around my skin, leaving a trail of fire as they dip under the waistline of my panties and grip the fullness of my bottom.

  I realize I’m moaning and quickly close my mouth to prevent any further noises from escaping my lips. He pulls his head back, looking up at me. “God, you’re beautiful,” he groans, before standing up and looking into my eyes. My breath hitches; no matter how hard I try, I can’t hide what he does to me.

  “I want to see you naked,” he says, and I nod, shocking even myself that I’m so quick to comply. Though I’m pretty sure at this point I would agree to anything Dean asks of me. He wastes no time, gripping the waist of my panties and tugging, letting them fall to the floor. I step out, kicking them to one side while reaching back and unsnapping my bra. But I don’t remove it. I leave that task for him.

  His gaze shifts from head to toe, and one of my legs crosses over the other awkwardly, as if I’m somehow trying to shield myself. He bites his lip as he looks at me, and I feel the inside of my thighs go hot. Moving closer, Dean brushes the straps from my shoulders with ease, watching as it falls to the floor, revealing the roundness of my breasts.