by Kim Linwood
“Getting hungry?” Breakfast was late this morning, practically lunch, but it’s been hours since then.
She nods.
“We have a reservation at a little hole in the wall here.” I glance at my watch. “We still have a little time, but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
I touch down on the quiet bay soon after, explaining every step. To Liz’s credit, she manages the landing without looking too green. As we putter up to the pier, she unbuckles, eager to get out.
I see it the moment she realizes where we are. Shock and wonder flash across her face.
“But—this is—” She stops.
I want to shove the camera guy in the water and end this fucking charade. She isn’t fooling anyone, and after hours of playing the fool, I want to have a conversation without the red-headed mask of a stranger between us.
“It’s what?” I prompt.
“It’s… It’s beautiful. I guess I wasn’t expecting something so fancy out here.”
“Right,” I bite out tersely. “Fancy.”
It’s not fancy. Not by a long shot.
What it is, thanks to my support and the owner’s genius, is a hell of a lot nicer than it was a decade ago. I turn away, needing to keep moving. I can’t stand here, look in her face and pretend she’s a stranger.
18
Liz
Hunter stalks off. Something’s got his panties in a wad, but I’m not sure what.
I look around, amazed. Of all the places they could have picked for our date, they managed to pick my favorite. Mom would bring me here for my birthdays. It’s almost too much of a coincidence, but I know Chef Dominguez is famous in the area, so sending us here might be exactly that. A coincidence.
Unless Hunter’s finally figured out that I’m, well, me.
Turning away from the worn wooden steps up the beach to the restaurant, I follow Hunter, catching up on the edge of the sand.
“I’ll race you to the point over there,” he says, not bothering to look at me.
“What? I don’t think either of us are dressed for racing.” I gesture down to my heels. I’d look like an idiot trying to even walk there through the sand.
“Not dressed for swimming. Not dressed for racing. I’m not sure you’ll make a very fun wife. Is there anything you are dressed for?” He throws his hands out with an exasperated sigh.
“I dunno… dinner? Light dancing maybe.”
“Lame. Fuck dinner.”
“I’d rather not, but if that’s your thing I suppose it’s better to find out sooner rather than later.”
With a laugh, he unties his shoes. “C’mon, you can do this. You’re scrappy.” His tone is teasing. “Unless you’re chicken.”
“What are you, twelve?” A smile comes unbidden to my lips. This is exactly what we were like at that age.
“Bok bok bok.” He imitates chicken sounds while peeling off his socks.
Two small kicks and I’m gone. His shoes are much more practical than mine, in every single way but one.
How easy they are to take off.
He’s still peeling off his other sock when I go for it, running down the sand as quickly as I can.
“Cheater!” He laughs and picks up the chase.
I know I don’t have a chance. He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and I’m positive he’s faster than me. An early start is the only possible way I have to at least put in a good showing. It’s not exactly made for running, but I’m glad Amanda’s dress is only a little short on me, not short and tight.
I’m halfway there when he comes up behind me. The sand muffles our steps, but we’re both laughing as we run. Pulling on every little bit of power in my body, I literally pound sand in a hopeless attempt at getting to the small outcropping before him.
I don’t know why I bother. Suddenly he’s right next to me, still wearing one of his socks. That’s going to be horrible in his shoe later, so in a way, I did win. A little. He could pull past easily, but instead he matches speeds with me.
“What?” I gasp, barely getting words out between steps. “Not… enough… to… win?”
He grins, breathing fast but looking otherwise completely unaffected. Meanwhile, I think my chest is going to explode. Nope, I never had a chance.
We’re almost there, probably less than a hundred feet to go. I briefly consider tripping him, but odds are that I’d go down first if I try. Maybe if—
His hands suddenly swoop around my waist and pick me up. I yelp in surprise, but he barely slows down, carrying me like I weigh nothing, curled up in his arms. What is he—
“Hunter!” I pound my fist on his shoulder.
He ignores me until he’s at the water’s edge, where he stops. For a second, he moves as if to toss me into the water and I shriek, clinging to him.
“There. It’s a tie.”
I’m way too aware of his heartbeat under my hand, and his strong arms around me. I close my eyes and breathe him in, not even pulling away as he lowers me gently to the ground.
My toes are buried in the cool, damp sand, as we stand chest to chest. “You can let go,” I whisper.
“So can you,” he points out. “And what if I don’t want to?” He looks down at me, his face uncomfortably close to mine. He seems to have worked through whatever was bothering him earlier.
His lips come closer while his bright blue eyes dare me to stop him. A little kiss wouldn’t be so bad, right? It’s what I’d be expected to do if I was really a contestant. I’m not tricking him into anything. It’s what we both want.
My breath comes faster, and my face is warm, but it’s not from the run. My mouth opens slightly, and his lips brush against my own.
Oh God.
Panting gasps and heavy feet sound behind us. We freeze. The cameraman has caught up, and now the moment feels way too public. I’m sure it’d be great for ratings if I moved just a hair, and kissed him. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to share this moment with millions of people.
Hunter seems to agree. He pulls away with a regretful look on his face. “Later,” he mouths silently. Just a single word, but it’s so loaded with promise. My face isn’t the only thing warming up anymore.
Catching me off guard, he moves one arm to my waist, and the other to my shoulder, dipping me with what must look like great passion. My heart hammers wildly. Hunter has angled us so the camera can’t see our faces, but I’m sure it looks like an amazing kiss.
The kind of kiss I wish I was getting.
He whispers in my ear, “It’s for the viewers.” His hand drifts a little south, resting on my ass.
“The viewers?”
“Okay, mostly the viewers.” He swings me back to an upright position, both of us laughing.
We still have time to kill, so we take a walk down the shore. He asks me questions about my life, which makes me nervous, but I tell him little truths while hiding the big lie.
I’m twenty-five. I live in upstate New York. Not much family aside from a difficult mother I’m not close to. I went to college for a year, but left to start working in a dentist’s office.
A warm breeze washes in over us, keeping us comfortable. The day is peaceful and other than the occasional passing boat, it’s pretty quiet. At one point he puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. I let him, leaning my head against his shoulder.
Every single thing I say is true.
But I’m still a gigantic fraud.
19
Liz
I follow Hunter up the stairs to the restaurant. The sun hangs low in the sky, gold and orange stretching across the water, radiating from the horizon. Over the door, a small sign reads: Bienvenidos. Welcome. A message both modest and full of heart, just like the people who run the place.
Soft salsa music drifts out the windows, and the door swings wide almost as soon as Hunter knocks. A barrel chested man with steel grey hair and an infectious smile fills the doorway. His apron is tied tightly over his chef’s clothes, Chef is embroidered over h
is breast. No need for a name, there is only one in this house. Chef Dominguez.
He’s exactly as I remember him.
Throwing his hands out in a broad, welcoming gesture, he hurries us in. “Señor Campbell! So good to see you. It has been too long.” His accent is thick, but well-spoken, as always. They clasp hands and greet each other with a quick, friendly embrace. I’m included in Chef’s smile, but his eyes pass right over me without really stopping. My heart aches at being a stranger in a place I’d always felt at home. Somewhere in the last ten years, Hunter has smoothly slipped into the life that was supposed to be mine.
Maybe it’s unfair, but I hate him a little for it.
Chef Dominguez. Mr. Dobson. My island. My life. Is there anything I get to keep? I’m afraid to start poking around the house and find him sleeping in my old room.
“So, are you going to introduce me to your lovely lady friend?”
Hunter laughs. “Of course. Where are my manners? Chef, let me introduce you to the beauty that is gracing us with her presence this evening, the ravishing Miss Sarah Dreyer.” Hunter takes my left hand in his, and with his right at the small of my back, he propels me a step forward.
My name sounds fake and plastic coming out of his mouth. I hadn’t thought much beyond Hunter when I started this whole mess. Being introduced to a man I used to know feels somehow even more dishonest.
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you, Mr—” I catch myself before I blurt out his name. No one’s told me yet. My hand trembles slightly as he takes it in his calloused palm.
He smiles. “Just call me Chef.” When he gets a better look at me, he pauses, his bushy eyebrows narrowing and his forehead furrowing for a moment.
Crap, he’s recognized me.
He glances quickly between us a couple of times, then seems to decide and takes my hand in his. Raising it to his lips, he kisses it briefly, then beams at me. “Welcome to my humble restaurant, Señorita Dreyer. Please, call me Chef.” He’s always been like that. I’m not sure anyone knows his real first name. He might even have forgotten it.
Just then, his wife emerges from the kitchen, with a smile every bit as welcoming as his. At least until she turns to him and says sharply, “Chef, let our poor customers in. I’m sure they’re not interested in standing in the doorway all day.”
Does she call him Chef in the bedroom too? I giggle at the thought.
“Yes, Maria.” He laughs and steps aside, guiding us with a slight bow and a sweep of his arm. “Please, enter.” He glances over his shoulder and then pretend-whispers to me, “And don’t be alarmed at my wife’s tone. She is really quite sweet.”
Maria rolls her eyes dramatically and disappears back into the kitchen. “Tonto,” slips out before the door slides shut. It’s the most loving way I’ve ever heard anyone call someone an idiot.
I smile. They’ve always been like that. Him boisterous and excited, her quiet and warm, but with a bite. A perfect match. I used to wish I had parents like them. First when my father was gone so much and Mom would cry. Then when Mom and Hunter’s dad were together. Happy for a short while, then miserable for so long. Maybe some day I’ll find someone like that, but I’m not holding my breath. Maria puts more love into her gentle teasing than Mom put into her entire marriage.
I look around. The cozy dining area only has room for a few tables, and tonight we are the only ones here. It’s nearly as I remember it, but well-polished and bright where it had seemed dull and worn. Much like the estate. Hunter not only has my life, he has an upgraded version.
The lucky bastard leans in close. “It’s just us tonight. I made sure of it.”
He means the restaurant, I’m sure, but the implication of privacy makes me think of other—more intimate—things than dinner.
Chef seats us himself, pulling out my chair before Hunter gets the chance. Our cameraman gets a table next to us, where he can sit and be a good little stalker, watching us through his lens.
Nothing like a private, romantic dinner in front of a video camera. I sigh.
The dinner menu arranged before we even sit down, Chef goes off to perform the final steps of his culinary magic. Hunter leans forward over the table. “I’m getting worried I’m going to lose you to Chef. He might be getting older, but he’s smooth.”
My lip quirks up in a smile as I imagine Maria beating him over the head with a pan. “A man who knows his way around a kitchen is quite a catch, but I think I’m safe. Although…” I trail off, giving Hunter an assessing look. “Now that you mention it, if not food, then what do you bring to the table?”
Aside from money, good looks and over six feet of gorgeous muscle.
Hunter smirks. “I’m an amazing kisser.”
“Yet to be proven,” I point out, though if my teenage memory can be believed, he’s absolutely right. “Still, I think I need more than nice lips and a sexy body to sweep me off my feet.”
“Sexy body? I didn’t mention that, but good to know you’re thinking about it. I think I already proved I can sweep you off your feet just fine, though.”
Alright, so I giggle. A little. “Dork.”
His eyes go theatrically huge, and he leans in even closer. “Do you know what a dork actually is?”
It’s going to be something horrible and embarrassing, but I shake my head anyway.
He crooks his finger, and I put my ear next to his mouth. “A whale dick!”
I sit back, blinking. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I know ‘hung like a horse’ is more standard, but I’ll take ‘hung like a whale’, though I’m not sure how you’d know.” He grins. “Yet.”
“No way, I don’t believe you.”
“You want me to show you? Right here? That hardly seems appropriate!” Hunter says in mock horror.
Just as I open my mouth to tell him what he can shove in his blowhole, Chef comes out carrying two plates.
Piled high with fresh seafood, the large serving tray in Chef’s hands exudes an aroma that makes my mouth water. Hunter’s antics are easy to put up with when they mean access to wonderful cooking that drags me right back to my childhood.
Everything smells heavenly, and looks amazing. Prawns, scallops, crab and lobster, they all glisten in a buttery sauce that looks as delicious as it probably is bad for me.
I give Chef a grateful smile. “This looks so, so good.”
He bends his shoulders in a quick bow, and smiles broadly. “Gracias.” Maria appears behind him with wine.
I panic, covering the top of my glass. Alcohol has already done more than enough damage in my life. “Just water, please.”
She looks at me, and then to Hunter. He studies me for a moment. “The same, Maria. Sparkling if you have it.”
Maria nods, coming back momentarily with glasses full of fizzy water and lemon wedges.
Hunter motions to get her attention, and whispers something I can’t make out. She smiles, and before long, the cameraman has his own plate full of food, and our bottle of wine.
Stabbing a scallop with my fork, I put it in my mouth, the tender meat melting over my tongue with rich, buttery flavor. God, I haven’t had food like this in… in I don’t even remember how long.
Something strokes softly along my calf. Looking up at Hunter, I find him chewing a morsel of his own, but his eyes sparkle, and his lips are curled up at the corners in a teasing smile.
I swallow before speaking. “If I leap to my feet and dump my water all over you, do you think that would make good TV? I think it might, but I wanted your opinion before I wasted my drink.”
He laughs, but his foot continues to caress my leg. “Oh, God no. I think it’d make miserable TV. I think you should slide under the table. The viewers would love that.”
“Hmmm.” I swirl my fingertip along the rim of the water glass. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Much watch TV.” Hunter wiggles his eyebrows.
“Well…” I drag out the moment, putting my napkin on the table. Just when
I see a flicker of uncertainty cross his face, I put my napkin back in my lap. “Too bad the film has stopped rolling.”
Hunter looks over at our cameraman, who is chowing down like he hasn’t eaten for a week, the camera forgotten on the table. “Shit.”
Slipping a hand down under the tablecloth, I find his foot. I stroke it gently, trailing my fingers over its contours.
He grins.
As I pass over the top of his foot, I pinch as hard as I can.
“Ow! Fuck!” The foot disappears quickly.
“Good thing we’re on cable.” I drag a piece of crab through the sauce, popping it into my mouth.
Hunter settles back into his chair, letting me get the last word for once. “Not a big drinker?” he asks, casually.
Talk about an uncomfortable change of topic. “No, not really. I don’t mind if you do—so long as someone else is flying us back—but I just… I’ve never seen anything good that it makes better. Not compared to how many bad things it makes worse. Does that make sense?”
I expect him to turn it into a big conversation, like most of my dates have. Making me feel guilty for making them feel guilty if they want to order a beer. I honestly don’t care, but not everyone believes me. Instead, he just nods thoughtfully, and lets it drop. Maybe living those few years with my mother made him more understanding than most.
We finish, and the empty plates are whisked away.
The next dish is a wonderfully tart and peppery flying fish fillet that melts in my mouth. Wonder how much it would cost to hire Chef to work at the estate. Now that would be magical. Of course without Hunter’s money, I couldn’t afford to even keep it going as it is now, let alone hire Chef.
It suddenly occurs to me that if I get my wish, people might lose their jobs. That was never my intention.
The dinner continues, course for course, and each comes out paired with a non-alcoholic concoction. Some fruity, some dry and fizzy, everything delicious. To our side, the cameraman is looking less and less focused as he goes through the booze intended for us.
