“The first place the designers took me after we left the states was Paris.”
He flinched at the word. But she had to go on.
“When I saw the Eiffel Tower, all I wanted—with every ounce of my soul—was for you to be standing there holding a picnic basket.”
He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. “Why didn’t you call me or write to me? I would have been on the next flight, Monica.”
“I was scared.” The words tasted of ash and regret.
“Of what?”
“I’d wanted to be a model my whole life. I was scared that if you came, it would end. I was scared I couldn’t have modeling and you.”
“Monica,” he whispered with such tenderness it sliced through her.
“And then it was this big whirlwind, months passed, years passed, and then it all just fell apart. We were in London. I was supposed to shoot a big spread for British Vogue for Cora Leigh’s new collection. Cora broke the news to me. She said she and Leigh were breaking up and pursuing different interests. The shoot was off. Both designers wanted a fresh start, and that meant neither of them wanted me. They gave me a one-way ticket back to San Francisco, and that was it.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. She’d never recounted the whole story to anyone.
“If I would have known…” Gabe began, but his words trailed off. Shame or maybe regret flashed across his face.
“I couldn’t reach out to you when everything fell apart. You would have thought I only wanted you because I couldn’t have modeling. You’d never believe the loss and regret I felt the minute I left Langley Park. You’d never believe that I loved you. And now everything’s a mess! Oma’s accident, Oktoberfest, what happened in Portola Valley. Why would you forgive me, let alone ever want me?”
A beat passed, then two, and Gabe said nothing. His eyes, once warm and tender, had gone blank.
A chill swept through her, so cold it burned hot. Every fear she’d kept locked in her heart, every regret she’d harbored in her soul was validated by his empty stare.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You could never want me.”
15
“Want you?” Gabe repeated.
He stared into Monica’s pale blue eyes, red-rimmed from her tears. He’d traveled the world, and she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
In the darkest parts of his heart, all he ever wanted was to be good enough for her. Never in a million years had he thought she’d felt an ounce of regret over leaving him. But thanks to Oma and then Chef Russo, he’d turned his pain into purpose. Regret into resolve. He’d pushed harder and practiced his craft endlessly, all because of her. She was the fire behind his mise en place. But he’d lost focus. He’d fallen prey to his success. The accolades. The rave reviews. The television appearances. They were all a distraction, a production of smoke and mirrors designed to hide the paperboy who was never good enough.
She sat on the side of her bed. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she stared at the bracelet. “Please, Gabe, just go.”
“No.”
“Then stay. Stay and gloat. It must feel pretty good to see me like this after what I did to you.”
He dropped to his knees in front of her. “I need to show you something.”
She lifted her head. One button at a time, he worked his way down his shirt and tossed it onto the floor.
“Why are you doing this?” Monica asked, turning away.
“I need you to see this. I need you to understand.” He took her hand and placed it above his heart on his mise en place tattoo. “Look at it, Mon.”
She glanced over but was quick to avert her eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s French. It’s kind of the code of all chefs, all professional cooks. It means to put in place. It’s every part and every component of a dish in one place, ready to be seamlessly constructed.”
“What does that have to do with me, Gabe?”
“Look at it, Monica. Look at the M.”
She pressed her fingers into the hard muscle of his pec and gasped. “Sunflowers! My sunflower!” She left her fingertips on his chest and lifted her locket with her other hand. She stared at the intricate design, her gaze bouncing back and forth between the ink and the locket.
An identical interlacing of sunflowers made up the M in his mise en place tattoo. He’d gotten it a year after he’d arrived in New York City. Until that point, he’d been relegated to prep work and kitchen clean-up. That night, Chef Russo had promoted him to line cook. After a whirlwind dinner service, he was too amped up to go home. Instead, he’d walked the city streets. Even at two in the morning on a Tuesday, New York was alive, pulsing, like a machine that never stops. He’d followed a woman with a sunflower tattooed to her shoulder into a tattoo parlor on the lower east side and ended up her next customer. She’d inked the M from a drawing he sketched. Only after he got home did he realize where he’d seen that design.
For more than a decade, that M, his mise, fueled his desire to be the best.
Because, if he were the best, that would mean he had become enough.
Enough for her.
Over and over, she traced the M. “Why did you do this, Gabe? Why would you want to be reminded of me?”
He cupped her face in his hands. “I was so hurt when you left.”
She flinched, but he tightened his grip and slid his fingers into her hair. “Monica, all I ever wanted was to be enough for you. That M is what drove me to be more than just some paperboy from Kansas. That M was a daily reminder to be better. Work harder. I thought I got it to remind myself that you were wrong and that I was going to prove you wrong. But that’s not what the M is for. That M is my drive. That M is my purpose, my mise. What I’m doing right now, the television appearances, the books, the travel, it may be a way to make a living, but it’s not a life. That M led me back to you. From the moment I saw you inside the bakery when I was twelve years old, you have been my mise en place.”
Her bottom lip trembled, and he brushed his thumb across the smooth skin, wet from her tears.
Her glassy eyes held his gaze. “What happens now?”
“Now,” he said, leaning in. “Now, I’m going to kiss you, not because I’m trying to prove I’m enough, but because we’re enough, the two of us. We don’t need to be measured by our mistakes. Together…we’re enough.”
He pressed his lips to hers and kissed her salty tears. He inhaled her apple-cinnamon scent, the scent he’d never been able to forget.
“I missed you. I missed you so damn much,” he whispered between kisses.
Monica wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Everything about her was home. Her sweet sighs, the sweep of her bangs against his forehead, the press of her breasts into his chest. His body remembered it all. Each kiss. Each lick. Each stroke.
He pulled back. “I want to look at you. I want you bare. You’re mine, Monica. I want you all for me.”
They came to their feet, and Monica ran a finger from his tattoo down to the button on his pants. “Are you playing, too, or is this a one-person peep show?”
His cock pulsed to life. There she was. There was the Monica he knew. Her eyes no longer burned with pain and regret. Now, they shined with lust.
Kiss me like I know you want to kiss me.
He could hear her words and see the spirit of that teenage girl in the twist of her sexy smile.
She pulled off her shirt and unbuttoned her jean shorts.
“Turn around,” he growled. “I want to watch you peel those off that perfect ass.”
She complied but looked over her shoulder before removing the garment. “You’ve gotten bossy.”
“Not bossy,” he said, unzipping his pants. He freed his cock and gave his shaft two hard pumps. “Focused. Now bend over and take off those shorts.”
She bit her lip, and he gave his cock another pump. Christ, she was perfect!
Slowly, she worked the jean shorts down her long legs. His need to sink d
eep inside her grew. His balls tightened. The fire in his belly ignited into a full-blown inferno. He’d screwed a lot of women over the years. He wasn’t proud of his string of one-night stands. The women left satisfied, most only wanting the thrill of sleeping with somebody from television. He’d temporarily quelled his desire with these easy fucks, but they never left him satisfied. They didn’t know they were competing with the memory of Monica.
She removed the shorts and turned to face him.
“I want you bare,” he said, his tone a low, sultry rumble. The black bra and lace panties looked amazing in contrast with her milky white skin, but he wanted to see her, all of her.
She undid the clasp on her bra and slid out of her panties. In the soft glow of the lamp, she was a goddess, more beautiful than Jean-Leon Gerome’s painting of Venus Rising from the Sea.
“Lay down,” he commanded.
She crawled up the length of the bed and propped herself up on an elbow. Her eyes raked his body and settled on his cock. A fresh shot of desire added fuel to the fire already burning inside him. He stripped off his pants and boxer briefs and prowled the length of her body. Inch by inch, he kissed a trail from the tip of her toes all the way up to the apex of her thighs. His tongue pressed a lazy lick to her folds. He could feel her heat. Taste the sweetness of her arousal.
The night they’d lost their virginity, he had been aware of everything. All his senses on overdrive. But years spent on perfecting his culinary craft had given him new insights and honed his attention to detail. No longer the eager, horny teenager, Gabe Sinclair the man had learned to savor and slow down.
She entwined her fingers into his hair. Her hips bucked, urging him to return to her slick center. He released a low chuckle against her sensitive bud.
“Don’t tease me, Gabe,” she breathed.
“I remember you teasing me that entire summer. I remember you brushing that sweet ass of yours up against my cock. I remember all those stolen kisses, hidden behind the ovens.”
She relaxed her legs. They butterflied out to the sides, leaving her open and completely exposed. She propped up onto her elbows and met his gaze. “We’re not teenagers anymore.”
He grabbed her ass then slid a finger inside her slick center. “No, we are not.”
Monica bucked from the pressure. “Gabe,” she moaned as he went to work.
He set a steady pace, licking and sucking her most sensitive place as he squeezed and massaged her buttocks. He worked her core until hot spasms of pleasure had her crying out his name. Her body, pebbled with goosebumps and chest heaving, shuddered in his hands.
She opened her eyes. It took her a second to focus and meet his gaze. “That was…”
“Worth three Michelin stars? The best orgasm you’ve ever ordered?” he asked with a grin. Satisfying this woman was something he’d never tire of doing.
She released a sweet sigh. “Get up here.”
He covered her body with his and positioned his cock at her entrance. The electricity sparked hot between them. He brushed her bangs to the side. “Do we need a condom?”
He never fucked without one, but the memory of sliding into her bare had his cock weeping with desire to thrust inside her unsheathed.
“I’m still on the pill, and I’m clean. It’s been a long time since I’ve…” she trailed off.
He pressed a fierce kiss to her lips. “The past doesn’t matter, Mon. None of it does. Look at me.”
She slid her hands up the length of his back and twisted her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You really mean that, Gabe?”
He thrust his hips, and his cock surged inside her in one clean, carnal blow. “I swear it.”
He pulled out then thrust in again. She arched her body toward him and dug her fingertips into his shoulders. The sweet slap of their bodies coming together combined with his growls and her moans created the perfect symphony of sound. It fed his soul, hungry for her and her alone.
He devoured her mouth, licking the seam of her lips and pumped a rhythm that had her writhing beneath him. Her core clenched around his cock and pulsed with her release, and he couldn’t hold back. Focused solely on their lovemaking with no distractions and no second-guessing, he’d fucking found his mise en place. He roared as his climax washed over him and rolled his hips, seated to the hilt inside her.
Without breaking their connection, Gabe shifted to his back and brought Monica onto his chest. Her sated body was warm and pliable in his arms. He arranged a pillow beneath his head and looked around the room. “I can’t believe I’ve never been in here.”
She nestled her head into the crook of his neck and hummed an amused sigh. “I was always terrified Oma would catch us making out in the bakery. I was sure she’d come at you with one of the copper saucepans if she got even the tiniest whiff of what we were doing that summer. She was always so strict. I couldn’t imagine sneaking you into my room.”
His hand moved up and down the length of her spine, painting slow trails through her sweat-slick skin. He bit back a laugh.
She lifted her head to look at him. “What is it?”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Your grandma knew.”
Monica’s body went rigid. “About us?”
He nodded. “And not only that, she also knew that I didn’t throw the brick through the bakery’s glass door.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She knew it was Chip. She’d seen the entire thing from the window.”
“When did you find this out?”
“The night you left.”
She rested her head back on his chest. “All these years, she never said anything. Did she tell you why she pretended not to know?”
He twisted a lock of her hair. “She knew how I felt about you. She said she’d known it for years. All that time, I thought I was so stealthy watching you. I hadn’t even considered she was watching me.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“She thought I’d be good for you.”
“So, she forced you to work in the bakery and hoped I would fall for you?”
Her words came out a cross between wonder and outrage.
He released the lock of hair. “She was right.”
“But how is that fair to you?”
“Mon, your oma changed my life. She was the one who set up my chef apprenticeship and, you’ve got to know, those weeks with you in the bakery were the best weeks of my life.”
“Mine too,” she said and pressed a kiss to his neck. “I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that Oma did all that. I know she loves me, but you know her. She’s strict. She’s stoic. It’s just hard to imagine she’s more—”
“More than just your grandma,” he supplied.
“Yeah, I guess it’s childish to think that I was her entire world…me and the bakery, of course.”
“I think there’s a lot about your oma we don’t know.”
Monica hummed her agreement into his neck. He could feel her cheeks move against his chest as her lips stretched into a smile.
“She loved my grandfather. He died shortly after I came to live with them, but I remember the way he looked at her.”
Monica traced the M tattoo as a stretch of silence swallowed the room.
“Gabe?” she said after a few beats.
She was wearing her locket. The weight felt cool and reassuring, resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and focused on her touch as she traced and retraced his ink. But when she didn’t go on, he rested his hand on top of hers, stilling her fingers.
“What is it, Mon?”
“I don’t think we should say anything to Oma.”
“About what?”
She slid her hand from his grip and trailed her fingers down the hard planes of his stomach and onto his cock.
He released a low hum. “I don’t think we should ever tell your grandmother about this.”
“No, silly,” she said,
coming up onto an elbow. “Us.”
Something twisted inside him. That paperboy wondering if he was enough.
“What are you saying, Mon?”
“Look at who you are.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She shook her head. “I’m saying it all wrong.”
“Just say it.”
She released a heavy breath. “This Oktoberfest is really important to my grandmother. The bakery isn’t doing well. I’m sure that’s why she’s been making mistakes and forgetting things. I know she’s getting older, but I also think she’s preoccupied with the business.”
“The fire?” he asked, relaxing a fraction.
“Yeah, but it’s more than that. Gabe, I’ve let her down. I left her, and I want to show her that I can do it. I can run the bakery and make Oktoberfest a success.”
“I want that, too. Together, we can do it.”
She tipped her head down. Her dark eyelashes masked the blue of her eyes. “With all the PR, I want to make sure it’s focused on the bakery and the festival not—”
“Not the TV Chef who dates models and screams at young couples?”
He hated to admit it, but she was right. He’d come back to Langley Park to clean up his image. The press would jump all over it if he and Monica went public.
Bad Boy Chef dating a former cover girl.
A jolt of anger shot through him. Why had he dated all those models? Fuck, he knew why. Just another round of look, I’m good enough.
“None of them meant anything to me, Mon.”
Her body stiffened.
He pulled her in close. “Life has brought us back to Langley Park and back to the bakery. Back to where everything started. This is our do-over. Our second chance.” He swallowed hard. “But I agree with you. I’ve messed up, and I don’t want to bring any of my negative press to Oktoberfest.”
“What should we tell people? You know they’ll wonder what’s going on. I smashed a cupcake in your face in front of your closest friends and family.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Christ, was that only hours ago?
She drummed her fingertips on his chest. “We can say we called a truce for Oma.”
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 94
