Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I let out a low, impressed breath. “Wow. So this could be a big night for the chef and staff, but they have no idea.”
“Exactly.” His gaze dipped to my breasts again, before lifting back up to my face. “Not that I’m going to be. . .truly paying attention to the dishes as much as I had initially intended.”
Oh.
Warmth flushed through me like champagne bubbles.
I picked up my drink and took a sip, because this man was going to ruin me.
Lust laced his next words. “I have suddenly become distracted from my mission tonight. Let’s hope the food can somehow wow me as much as you.”
Damn.
I cleared my throat. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Twenty years.”
“Wow. Is it fun?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering his answer. “Many would think so. I spend three weeks every month, daily, eating two full meals at various high-end restaurants all over the world. Basically, I don’t have a lot to complain about.”
“And how does one even get this job? Like. . .I’m probably going to apply.”
He chuckled. “Well. . .I went to culinary school. After graduation, I worked as a chef in a Stellar-starred restaurant for a few years. Had tons of articles written about me. Made my parents proud. Felt good. Then, I got bored with being a chef, quit, and became a food critic. I found that it was much more fun to be at the table, than in the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.”
He shrugged. “Eventually, I was approached by Stellar to be an inspector.”
I tried to do the math in my head. “So you’re. . .in your forties?”
“I’ll be hitting fifty this year.”
My brows lifted. “Really? Well. . .you look more like you’re about to hit forty.”
“Oh no, I’m not as young as you.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
He continued, completely unfazed by my near-death experience. “In fact, here’s some advice, young one, enjoy your thirties as much as possible.”
“Thirties?” I set my drink down, shaking my head. “Fabien, I am forty-seven.”
For the first time, his smooth seducing mask cracked.
Genuine shock flickered across his features. “Really?”
“Yes.”
His head tilted slightly as he assessed me. Then, with a slow, indulgent glance, he murmured, “Remarkable. Skating around the beach and surfing all day must really keep the youth in one’s skin.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t with you.”
His lips curled. “And what do you do, Rae, my California girl?”
The way he said my. . .it sent something warm curling low in my belly.
I cleared my throat. “I’m an intimacy coordinator in Hollywood.”
His brows lifted slightly. “An intimacy coordinator?”
“Yep. I choreograph sex scenes in films.”
He blinked.
Then, blinked again. “Oh my.”
I snorted. “Yeah. I’ve got a dope job too.”
He let out a slow breath, as if recalculating everything he thought he knew about me. “Oh no. Your job beats mine.”
“No way.”
“It really does. What’s a film you’ve done?”
“Have you ever seen Seven Days?”
“I believe the entire world has seen that movie and I’m sure a lot of babies were made after that.”
I chuckled.
His eyes darkened immediately. “Very steamy.”
I lifted my glass, pretending not to notice how his voice dropped a full octave. “Well, I coordinated all four sex scenes. So. . .you’re welcome.”
He stared at me like he wanted me naked.
I nervously finished my drink.
Then, suddenly, he exhaled and said, “I have so many questions, but none of them are appropriate.”
I raised a brow. “Oh really?”
“Oh yes.”
“Tell me them.”
“No.” His smirk was almost devastating. “I’m a gentleman.”
“Are you?”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Absolutely.”
“I feel like that’s a lie.”
He leaned in slightly and his voice shifted to a low purr. “Perhaps in a few weeks or months, I’ll ask you those very ungentlemanly questions.”
Weeks. Months. Oh he’s trying to put in some serious time with me. God yes.
“You’ll ask me later because. . .” I swallowed. “I’m going to give you my phone number?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “If you do not give me your phone number, I know people who can get it.”
I snorted. “That sounds very spy-like.”
“I’m basically an international spy.”
I laughed, but the anticipation in my veins buzzed.
Because this man—this French, sinfully smooth, dangerously confident man—was already planning to see me again.
And I wanted him to, but before I could respond, Cosmo reappeared, smiling as he presented the first course to the whole room and tons of waiters began to bring the plates over.
I checked out the one that our waitress placed in front of us.
Interesting.
It was a glistening, indulgent plate of something rich, sauced, and sensual.
"Hello, Alchemists," Cosmo said. "For this course, we have a special rule from the chef on this Valentine’s Day evening."
He scanned the room with a mischievous smile. "No utensils allowed. You must use your hands and you also must absolutely feed each other."
A ripple of laughter and hushed excitement spread through the space.