Page 95 of Boss of the Year
For that, I received a smile as smooth as browned butter. “And here I thought you were my chef. A little salt makes some things even sweeter, doesn’t it?”
To that, I had no retort.
“I think we’re done here.” Lucas stood and waved to Tanaka-san, who was working in the corner of the kitchen. “Let’s clean up and go for a walk.”
While Tanaka-san wrappedup our miso-making project to send home, I followed Lucas to the outer grounds of the factory, which led up a hillside terraced with rice paddies. According to the owner, the area grew the rice necessary for the production of koji, the cultured grain that fermented the miso.
“Why did you want to take me here today?” I asked as we started on a path that wound through the paddies, crowded by the golden fronds of rice nearly ready for harvest. “Was it just another experience?”
“For me as much as for you.” Lucas stopped at a muddy walkway covered by some boards, held out a hand for mine, then guided me across the walkway.
When we continued on the path, he didn’t let go.
And I didn’t take my hand back.
“You’ve been getting out more, I noticed, and I’m proud of you. Today, I wanted to join you.”
I grinned. “Now, who’s the sweet one, Lucas Lyons? Sounds to me like the Ice Man melteth.”
He rolled his eyes. “You get this look on your face when you experience something new, and it’s catching. I think I forgot what the joy of novelty feels like. Or maybe just experiencing pleasure for pleasure’s sake.”
I nodded as we walked. “I sort of grew up with thedolce vitamindset, Italian grandparents and all. But I never really lived it until I was in Paris.Joie de vivre, they call it. Not quite the same thing, but similar.”
“I thought that meant being very lively. Happy to be alive.”
I shook my head as Lucas released my hand to walk ahead on a narrow path. “It does mean that, but it’s also used more to capture how people find joy in small pleasures. Things that don’t need a lot of money. The French don’t live for their jobs, see? They have a strict thirty-five-hour work week, and everyone takes all of August off. They don’t start until ten, and they take long lunches. They have things like socialized healthcare that allows people to enjoy their incomes instead of having to squirrel it all away until they are old.”
“You hear about it in theory, but I can’t imagine that makes for much productivity.”
“Productivity isn’t the point. The French believe people have a right to pleasure, not purchases. They also think that pleasure shouldn’t ruin your budget. With just fifteen euros in Paris, you can get apichetof really good wine, a baguette, and some cheese at a café, then sit with your book and read for three hours. You people-watch, you read a passage, you enjoy the beautiful architecture, history, and art that surrounds you. It just seeps into your soul.”
By the time I finished, Lucas had stopped walking. I halted alongside him, beside a shed at the top of a paddy, from whichwe could look down the hillside over the rolling golden terraces and down to the valley below.
He looked like a starving man in need of a good meal. A parched man dying of thirst.
“Lucas?” I ventured. “Are you…are you all right?”
“You make it sound so easy.” His voice was strained. “Pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Living with so little. To need only a few dollars and let go of the rest.”
I reached for his hand again. He stared at them, connected.
“It’s different for everyone,” I said as kindly as I could. “Maybe because I grew up with so little, I know I don’t need much.”
As a breeze flew by, he brushed a bit of hair out of my face in a move so tender, I couldn’t help but lean into the gesture.
“Maybe you grew up with little,” he told me, “but you deserve the entire world.”
My heart stuttered. And the bird in my chest, which I now saw as a dove waiting for its mate, started beating its wings.
I should’ve said thank you. Should’ve stepped back and played it safe like I always did.
Instead, I stared at Lucas Lyons’s mouth like it was the softest meringue atop the perfect tart. That mouth had kissed me in the conservatory. A kiss that had left me breathless, stunned, and utterly rewired.
And then I’d slapped him for it. Told myself and him it had meant nothing. That it wasn’t real. For days now, I’d been telling myself I couldn’t want that kind of thing with him anyway.
But I was lying. I wanted pleasure for its own sake. I wanted heat and weight and skin andhim, just because he felt good.
If I couldn’t admit that, then what was the point of anything I’d learned?
