Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Not sure what he means by that, but I really can’t afford to be out of this much cash right now. “I’ll take what’s owed, but that’s it.”
“All right. If you insist. You can write me a check for the other five thousand and bring it tonight. Eight o’clock. Wear something nice.”
Hold on. Is he asking me on a date? No. That can’t be right. “Logan, can’t I just mail you a check?”
Silence.
I look at my phone, and the call is ended. He hung up.
A text rolls in with an address. I look it up, and it’s the expensive French fusion place downtown. I know it because Larry and Dick like to take big clients there to woo them. I’ve never been. Way above my pay grade.
I’m about to decline, but then I think of Logan’s incredibly sexy vibes. That walk… Like he owns the world. He definitely had this way about him—a confident masculinity, a subtle air of strength, but with a generous heart. I think…I like him.
Maybe I should go.
I don’t reply to the text, just in case I lose my nerve, but my first stop is my closet.
“Crap! Nothing?” I have casual work attire, but no nice-nice outfits. I grab my keys, hoping I get to the boutique before they close. It’s a little place I found with cute dresses for people on a budget.
Wait. No. I should just go to TJs. Get something sensible and conservative I can wear anytime. But what I really want is to look my best tonight. I want to look sexy.
Stop being silly. Logan isn’t going to be into me. Look at the man.
Two hours later, I’m walking into Chez M. Jean, tugging on the back of my dress while also trying to be inconspicuous about my thong situation. Get. Out. Of. My. Crack. You evil string…
I pick it out with a snap, fairly sure the valet guys just saw me pick my ass before the front door closed behind me.
I walk up to the host, who’s standing behind a podium in a tux.
“Hi, I’m supposed to be meeting Logan Strike,” I say.
“Ah, Mr. Strike.” The host smiles. “Yes, he called ahead and mentioned you might show up. I can show you to your table. I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”
“He’s not here?” It’s just after eight.
“I am afraid not, madam. But he said to ensure you were seated, served champagne, and pampered in every possible way while you wait.”
Well, crap. I really want to leave, because how rude of him not to be here, but he did make arrangements to keep me in bubbly while I wait. “Okay, but if he’s later than twenty minutes, I’m not staying.”
The host’s eyes go wide with panic.
“Is he going to be longer than that?” I ask.
“I do not know, madam, but Mr. Strike made it clear,” he leans in close to whisper, “that he would have my ass fired if you left before he arrived.”
That’s not very nice. I mean, what does the host have to do with my free will? It’s a little heavy-handed.
I sigh. “I’ll stay as long as I can, but I’m not about to sit alone drinking all night.”
“Ah! I have the perfect solution. Madam shall not be alone.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Really? You spent six years cooking for the king of Tavolara?” I have no clue who that is.
“Oui!” proclaims Chef Jean. “It is there that I perfected my famous pig in a blanket.”
“You mean those little sausages wrapped in bacon?” Doesn’t sound very French.
“No, no. I cook an entire pig wrapped in a delicate layer of fragrant petals from the vanilla orchid.”
“I’m not sure what that is.”
“May I?” He points to my phone.
“Sure.” I unlock it and hand it over.
He searches for something and then shows me the pic. The flower is bright pink and looks like a vagina.
“Oh. Wow. That is very…special.”
“It is. This is why Mr. Strike and I are starting our own line of exotic oils. It will be called the Pleasures of Chef M. Jean.”
Suddenly, a woman wearing an apron covered in blue stuff emerges from the kitchen. “Chef, we need you.”
“Did Rafael blow up the blueberry compote again?” he scorns. “I will fire him this instant.” Chef Jean looks at me. “My apologies, Mila, but I must leave you now.”
“No problem.”
Chef Jean snaps at a passing waiter and instructs him to fill my champagne glass. I’ve already had two on an empty stomach. Plus, I need to drive my clunker home, and one headlight is out. Not that I ever drive drunk, but there’s a chance I’ll get pulled over. I really need to eat something and start preparing to go home.
“Excuse me,” I say to the waiter, “but can I see a menu?”
“Right away,” he says.
“I hope you’re not ordering without me?” says a deep, smooth voice.