Page 5 of Delicious
We eat in silence for a few minutes, watching the white-apron-clad waiters deftly whisk trays of glasses of wine and bottles of sparkling water to waiting patrons.
I glance around at the other diners. Ben and I are still in our chef’s uniforms, and we stand out a bit. People in Paris dress more nicely than they do in California. Perhaps part of that is the weather—jackets make you look more tailored than warm-weather clothing. But probably more of it is because it’s a major European fashion capital and LA is the land of we’ll wear whatever the fuck we want.
Whatever the fuckIwant would involve taking him out of his chef’s uniform.
“Where are you staying?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation to a different, more neutral topic.
“I have a suite at Le Meurice.”
I blink. “Wow. That’s fancy.”
Ben looks a little embarrassed. “I traveled so much as a kid that, to give myself something to do, I started blogging about where I went. And then what I posted started to get well-known, so I tend to get comped in a lot of places in exchange for a shout-out.”
“What’s your blog?”
“Ben Was Taken.”
I laugh. “I’ve heard of that. That’syou? I had no idea. You’re all”—I wave my hands—“Instagrammy.”
“I took a few photography and design classes. Actually, I try to take classes wherever I am. Never stop learning, you know?”
I nod and take the last bite of my sandwich. “How long are you going to be in Paris?”
“Not sure. I’ve got this short course, and then I have a few places I could go after. We’ll just have to see.” He looks at me, and my heart thumps rapidly. “What about you?”
“I’m not sure, either. I’ve been here a few months, taking cooking classes at different places. I have to figure out how long I have left on my visa.”
Ben studies me, and I shiver.
We pay the bill, splitting it, and step outside.
“Do you want to come see my hotel?” Ben asks. “I could show you my blog.”
“Show you my blog” feels like a euphemism, because we could stand right here and he could show me the website. I don’t need to see his particular room or bed.
Good thing I want to.
“Sure.”
I follow him back toward the park and the Métro stop. As we pass by a crepe vendor on the street, he points. “I haven’t had one of these yet this visit. Do you want one for dessert?”
I pat my stomach. “No, I’m full. You go ahead.”
Ben orders a crepe with Nutella and devours it in a few bites. I guess raw meat doesn’t totally fill you up. He turns and smiles at me. “Let’s pick something up to drink, too.”
CHAPTER4
Ben
Mason and I buy two bottles of red wine from a corner store and walk into the spectacular lobby of my hotel.
I glance at him, wondering what he’s thinking. I’ve stayed in plenty of upscale hotels, and even for me, this place is opulent. But he seems at ease, taking in the old Paris grandeur that’s been carefully updated.
I want to touch him. I don’t know how he feels about PDA, though.
I do know that, one, he remembered that kiss from so many years ago, and two, he’s thinking about it now. Because I sure am. I also know that I’m now transposing the hottest kiss of my life—because yes, it was, partly because of the surprise, partly because of him, partly because of the audience—onto this grown man instead of the teen boys we were.
I give Mason a smile and swallow hard as we head to the elevators. Even in a nice hotel, French elevators barely fit two people along with luggage, and I’m suddenly very aware of being in his space.
