by S. M. West
“I know. We need to talk to him. We can’t go on like this.”
“Yeah, I agree. Hopefully, together, we can get through to him. Okay, have a safe flight, and thank you, again. Love you Sam.”
“Love you too.”
Caught up in thoughts of Bas and the worry and stress Alec is going through, I head out the door.
“Sam?” Olivia calls to me. In a moment of clarity, I realize I almost forgot to say goodbye.
“Olivia.” I spin around to face her. “Olivia, thanks for today. I really loved you being there with me to look at those places, and your ideas—wow. I want to hear more, soon.”
Her smile is small and thin, eyes concerned. I’m uncertain if it’s my abrupt departure that has further darkened her demeanor or solely our conversation in her backyard.
“Sure.” She shrugs, wrapping her arm around her middle like she’s protecting herself from me.
My heart pangs. As much as I want to talk it out with her, I’m not in the frame of mind to do so right now.
“Ah, I’ve got to go back to Montreal for a few days, but I’ll be back for Saturday. I’ll leave the tickets at the front desk and text you the details. I hope you come.” I lean in to kiss her and at the last minute, she turns, giving me her cheek.
“Night, Sam,” she says quietly.
Standing to my full height, I carefully examine this woman that has me tied up in knots. This woman who excites me with just the thought of her. This woman I want to know better. Thick tension and unspoken words hang heavy in the air between us. So much promise. So much longing. So much I want to say.
I want to tell her about Bas and give her an explanation about my sudden need to leave. I want to talk about us, about her children, and reassure her that we’ll take this slow. I want to tell her everything will be okay, but now is not the time. My mind is muddled with worry and exasperation at Bas, and I fear I’d just mess up even further and make matters worse. My instinct is to leave things as they are, for now.
Olivia
“You’re a jackhole.”
“Drew,” I reprimand, channeling my mother, the most proper person I know. She’d wash his mouth out with soap if she heard her grandson utter such trash. Paige snickers as she pours cereal into a bowl.
“Mom, seriously?” Drew challenges. “It’s just a game.” He excitedly focuses on the TV screen where lifelike soldiers in full battle gear shoot the shit out of each other—at least that’s what it looks like to me. He’s playing a video game and I know better than to interrupt, but he gets so immersed in it and forgets where he is.
“Exactly, that’s my point,” I answer, not knowing if I have a point, but feeling like I should. I’m straddling a line between being his mother—and thus having the right to question his vocabulary or behavior—and recognizing him as the adult he is now. Drew shakes his head and ignores me. Choosing to not take him on any further, I continue packing up my things.
“So, what time is your flight tomorrow?” Paige asks.
“Seven thirty.” Rummaging through my bag, I double-check that I have everything. “Your dad’s picking you up tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.” She shovels a spoonful of Froot Loops (her dinner) into her mouth. Mouth full, crunching around her words, she adds, “We’re leaving at noon.”
“Paige,” I chide, rolling my eyes at her disgusting eating habits. “Drew, you sure you don’t want to go?”
“Really? We’ve been over this—I’ve got work. Besides, I’ll see Nans and Gramps when they visit me in September.”
“Fine.” I’m resigned to the fact that whatever is going on between Pete and Drew hasn’t been settled.
Pete’s parents are snowbirds who spend winters in Florida, and we used to vacation with them. We’d fly down just before it was time for them to come home, spend a week or so, then drive their car back. This year, Pete asked me to come, his millionth attempt at reconciling.
He’s been incessant with texts inviting me to dinner, drinks, and movies. At first, I responded, declining each time. Now, I ignore him. He needs to move on. As much as I believe he thinks he wants to repair our relationship—and perhaps some part of him truly does—I also believe he’s mostly afraid of moving on. I get it. What we had was far from perfect and at times, downright painful, but it was comfortable and safe.
So, he’s going to Florida with the kids—well, kid, since Drew backed out around the same time he came to live with me. Pete’s tight-lipped about what’s going on; like his son, he refuses to discuss it with me.
I’m headed to Montreal. I miss Sam. It’s been almost two weeks since I last saw him at the food competition, and it wasn’t all I hoped for. As promised, he came back the night before his judging gig. No call or visit. Instead, I got a text saying the tickets were at the front desk and that he’d see us the next day.
I saw him all right—mostly from afar. Sam was very generous, giving us six tickets. Paige brought Marci and her other friend Jessica, and to my surprise, Drew came with his ‘friend’ Laura.
The seats were great, front row center, and the cooking competition was entertaining with big celebrity chefs in attendance. It was fascinating to see the big production of filming a live show, and we even got a chance to taste the food. We had fun.
What fascinated me the most was Sam. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Seeing him in his element was hot. He is a friendly and easygoing man, but in front of the cameras, he was larger than life. Charismatic. Magnetic. If I weren’t already taken with him, I’d have fallen for him then and there. It was easy to see why so many women are infatuated.
Speaking of women, the fans were obsessed. The amount of attention he received at Beaulieu’s the night I met him was nothing in comparison to this. The competition brought the word fangirl to a whole new level—an overwhelming and scary one. No surprise, Sam had the biggest following. He was, hands down, the hottest chef there.
After the show, the crowd was insane, so much so that we couldn’t get backstage. We floundered for over an hour in a sea of crazed fans. Eventually, security came and escorted us to the after party. Sam had arranged it, but once we got there, we saw him for maybe ten minutes before he was ushered out to complete his obligations for the event.
Our brief encounter left me sad and frustrated. While he was his usual kind and social self for the short time we had alone, he was also unusually cool and distant. I think back over our brief and somewhat disturbing conversation.
“So, what did you think?” he asks, hands tucked into his pockets.
While he keeps his distance, his eyes trail my body, lingering on my lips before moving on. Again, his fiery gaze ends its perusal on my mouth, He wickedly licks his lips like he’s ready to eat me. A delightful thrum courses through me, my cheeks heat at his appreciative stare.
“Amazing. Thank you so much for inviting us. I can see why thousands of women go gaga over you,” I jest, although every word is true.
A lazy, sexy smile covers his face and laughter laces his voice. “I’m really glad you liked it, and I’m glad you came.”
“Listen, about what happened at my place…” I start, daring to broach the topic and end this awkwardness, even if it only exists in my head.
A lanky, mocha-skinned man with long dreadlocks interrupts. “Sam, let’s roll, man.” He completely ignores me.
Sam says something short and quick in French. With hands on his hips, the man shakes his head and responds, “Allons-y maintenant.”
“Sorry, I gotta go. There’s a photo shoot and then dinner. It’s all part of the agreement. I’m really happy to see you. I leave for Montreal first thing tomorrow, but I’ll text you. We’ll figure something out.” Leaning in, his lips delicately graze my cheek. All too soon, the kiss is over. “Say goodbye to Drew, Paige, and their friends for me.”
Since then, there’s only been one text from him, three words: How are you? My stomach lurches every time I think about it. I answered immediately, leaving no guesswork as to
how anxious I’d been to hear from him. He never responded. That was four days ago.
I suppose I could have texted him again, but given I’m already struggling with this, with us, I didn’t want to. I’m not on board with the age thing or living in two different cities. Even still, I think about him—a lot—and I’ve missed him. I miss him. He said we wouldn’t label things, then I freaked at my house. I’m ready for some good times; I can do fun and casual, and I’m pretty sure he’d be all for it. Besides, did I mention I can’t stop thinking about him?
By nine-thirty in the morning, I’m in Montreal, outside Beaulieu’s. No one is here, and I’m realizing I’m not sure I thought this through well enough. My attempt at surprising him, reciprocating his sweet gesture with one I think he’d like, is failing miserably. I might have to call him after all and tell him I’m here.
Just as I pull up my Uber app, a delivery van parks. A young man, barely twenty if I had to guess, hops out with a large basket of baguettes and other breads. Sauntering to the back door, he watches me as he deposits the basket and returns to the van.
“Êtes-vous perdue?”
“Ah, um.” Flustered, I scan my rolodex of grade thirteen French and come up empty, so I default to asking if he speaks English. “Pardon, je ne parle pas français. Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Oui. Are you lost?”
“No. I’m looking for Sam. I’m a friend and thought he might be here.”
“He’s at Mon Petit on Fridays,” he states in his attractive French accent. “You want a lift? I’m headed there now.” Slapping the side of the van door, he smiles. I foolishly jump, the sound jolting me out of my stupor.
Quickly, I contemplate the foolishness of getting into a vehicle with a total stranger. He’s a young guy and not particularly big or muscular, so I figure I could likely take him if necessary, sending thanks to Jonah for my self-defense lessons.
“Sure, thanks.”
As I enter Sam’s other restaurant, Mon Petit Chou, behind the bread guy, laughter fills the air. Mon Petit Chou? Chou means cabbage in French. Sam has a cabbage tattoo. I don’t get it—what’s his deal with cabbage? I must ask him what it means.
Two young women and a man with dreads, the same one who was with Sam when he was in Toronto, are laughing. He stands behind the bar and his French banter is light and jovial, though indiscernible to me. That immediately changes once he spies me. Abruptly stopping the fun times, his expression sobers.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His words are deep and almost menacing.
“Ah, I’m looking for Sam,” I quietly reply, nervous.
“He’s not here,” the women respond in unison. As if telepathic, they cross their arms over their ample chests. The tall guy strides toward me like he’s on a mission and I’m his target.
“Get out,” he orders, pointing his long finger at the door. “No groupies allowed.” Groupie? Do I look like a groupie? I certainly don’t think so. Turning his wrath on the bread guy, he snarls, “Zee, why did you bring her here?”
What is it with this guy? I have no clue who the hell he is, but he certainly has a hate on for me. What on earth did I ever do to him?
“Désolé,” the bread guy mumbles, giving me the evil eye before hightailing it out of there.
Thinking he’s onto something, I’m about to follow suit and get the hell out of there when I hear Sam’s deep, rumbly voice. My heart jerks.
“Olivia.” Sam stands at the mouth of a hallway and warmth blooms in my stomach at the sight of his sexy, friendly smile. In less than five steps, he picks me up, twirling me around.
A shrill squeak crosses my lips as I grip his broad shoulders for fear of falling. My fear quickly dissipates, knowing he wouldn’t let me fall. He’s got me. His big hands tightly encase my waist. Closing my eyes, everything swirls and my stomach plummets to my toes. Quickly reopening them, I inhale deeply. The merry-go-round sensation is not working for me. I’m going to toss my cookies.
“Put me down,” I command, digging my nails into his shoulders.
Laughing, he stops, tightening his arms around me in a hug. Burying his face into the crook of my neck, his warm breath tickles my skin and his spicy masculine scent surrounds us.
“I missed you,” he huskily whispers. His lips sprinkle feather-light kisses along my neck before putting me down.
Sliding the length of his chest and abs, his hard ridges send tingles to every sensitive, girly part in my body and heat pools in my core. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I move out of his embrace, internally battling with myself for control.
Confusion and arousal invade my senses. He hasn’t spoken to me in over a week, complete radio silence, and now he acts like everything is okay? As much as my mind wants to talk and figure out where we stand, my body doesn’t give a fuck. It likes what it sees and wants to get to the fun part.
The tall, dark man is not amused with our display of familiarity and affection, a scowl firmly entrenched on his face. Neither of the women are that much better, their pretty faces scrunched up at me.
“Sam, what the hell?” the man inquires accusingly.
Sam chuckles, pulling me in front of him, hands on my hips. His front is nestled closely to my back. “Jerome, Anne, Tal, this is Olivia.” Gently squeezing my side, he continues, “Livvy, these are my friends, and they also work here. Jerome’s my manager and sometime bartender when I need one, and Anne and Tal are hostesses.”
“Hi,” I flatly reply, not expecting much of a welcome even with Sam’s endorsement. I still don’t know what I did to deserve their disdain, but at this point, I don’t care.
“Olivia?” Jerome asks. “The Olivia? The chick from Beaulieu’s?”
I uncomfortably clear my throat at the designation of ‘chick’, giving him one of my own scowls. Jerome smiles at me in what I think is his attempt at flirting, unfazed by my ire. Both women offer quick hellos before resuming their task of setting the tables.
“Yes, the Olivia,” Sam responds with a smile in his voice. Not interested in providing more of an explanation to Jerome, he says to me, “Never mind him. He thinks he’s my mother and my security detail on top of everything else.”
Jerome starts to protest, but Sam ignores him, leading me down the hallway into a room marked Office.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says in a low, gravelly tone that puts a quiver in my belly. When he attempts to pull me into another hug, I place my hands firmly on his chest. Despite wanting nothing more than to roam his rock-hard pecs and abs, I need to focus.
“Sam, we need to talk.” He nods, looking at me encouragingly. Not wasting any time, I dive right in. “I didn’t mean to brush you off that night when I said we needed to talk to the kids. I wasn’t prepared to do it, and because of that I backed away. It was stupid of me and not what I meant to do.”
“I know.” His eyes are soft and understanding.
“Okay, so if you know, why didn’t you text or call after the competition? And why didn’t you respond to my text earlier this week?” I fight to keep my voice calm and hope to God I don’t sound pathetic and needy.
He scrubs a hand down his face and sighs. “I’m sorry.” Taking both my hands in his, he tugs me closer and gently squeezes. “I agree, we need to talk, and I want to, but it’s not something I wanted to do over the phone or via text. I really wanted to see you, talk to you before I left, but there was no time. I had to get home. There are things I want to tell you, but not here. Let me finish up these orders—my bartender’s out today—and then we can go.”
Eager to talk but willing to give him a bit more time, I nod.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Best surprise ever,” he says with a smile, his voice husky as he pecks my cheek before sitting down behind his desk.
Sinking into the oversized, weathered leather couch, I note his office is jam-packed. Next to the couch, which takes up almost half the room, his large, retro desk dominates the other half. A bookshelf sits up against a wall, crammed wit
h cookbooks, some vinyl records, and a few novels. Amidst all the chaos, the surface of his desk is surprisingly neat, sporting only a laptop and lamp.
Sam types on his laptop and studies the screen like it’s the Holy Grail, small lines forming on his forehead as he concentrates. Occasionally, he lifts his head with a small, sweet smile just for me before returning to his task. My phone buzzes with an incoming text—Tamsin.
Tamsin: Where r u?
Me: Montreal
Tamsin: What?? Yay! Say hi to Sam
Me: Lol stop. What’s up?
Tamsin: Jonah is cursing you. Run, girl, run. U r supposed to run with him today
Me: I canceled. Tell him to check his voicemail.
Jonah hardly ever checks his phone messages, and I know that; I should have texted him. He prides himself on being Mr. Technology, all digital age, but he’s not one to actually talk on the phone or to even think about any potential voicemails. Not a good way to run a business.
Tamsin: He says not cool.
Me: You’re with him?
Tamsin: Yup. He suckered me into running. You OWE ME!!
Me: Pace yourself. ILY xx
I sit quietly and patiently, trying not to dwell on what Sam might have to say. Is it good or bad? Why am I stressing? We’re casual—as proven by his recent aloof behavior. This is what I want. He’s not pushing like I feared in my backyard. I feared he wanted more and I couldn’t give it to him, and now I’m afraid I’ll never be able to give him that.
Olivia
“You didn’t answer me,” I say, finally breaking our comfortable silence. Sam’s puzzled. “You never explained why you didn’t text back this week.”
With a ghost of a smile, he says, “I lost my phone. It’s likely somewhere in the Vancouver airport.”
“What?” I shudder at the thought—losing my phone would be like losing my life. “Are you serious?”
