In every single picture of the chef du jour, he has a different woman on his arm.
That’s my answer as to why he never showed. Gabriel is a ladies’ man. A bad boy. The consummate playboy, out with a new beautiful babe every single night.
As I head in to my meeting with the Italian chef, I hope against hope this man can do something amazing with spaghetti at a picnic so I can call off the rest of my appointments.
He can’t.
Then, it turns out the burrito man is now booked for another event.
At the Indian restaurant, the manager tells me it would be his first time catering an event, and he can only cook for fifty. We’re expecting more than three hundred. I thank him with a smile, then sigh heavily as I leave and head to the Village to see the man who swept me off my feet once upon a time.
As the train chugs into the station, I change my shoes then tug on my top, showing a bit more shoulder than I usually do. He loved to kiss me there. He loved tattoos, too. I didn’t have any then. I have three now, including the lily. Let him look. Let him stare.
I slick on lip gloss as I leave the subway, check my reflection in the shop window on the corner, and make my way to Gabriel’s on Christopher Street. My heart beats double time.
When I reach the brick-front eatery on the corner of two cobbled streets, I’m more impressed than I want to be. His restaurant is so cool and hip and sexy, with a dash of old-fashioned charm in the hanging wooden sign.
I narrow my eyes and nearly breathe a plume of fire onto the entryway. He probably charms the female patrons with his witty words, his panty-melting grin, and his fucking amazing food.
Then takes them to his bed and runs his tongue…
Stop. Just stop.
I clench my fists then take a breath, letting it spread through my body. I remind myself I’m here for business. I’m here for the dogs. This is my chance to raise a lot of money for a cause that matters dearly to me.
When the hostess greets me and I tell her I have a meeting with Gabriel, a part of me hopes that he’s grown a paunch, acquired a receding hairline, or perhaps lost a tooth in a barroom brawl.
But as he strides toward where I wait by the door, the saying take my breath away means something entirely new.
Oxygen flees my body.
The twenty-four-year-old guy who dazzled me when I gave him my virginity a decade ago has nothing on this man in front of me.
He’s as beautiful as heartbreak. With cheekbones carved by the masters, eyes the color of topaz, and hair that’s now shoulder-length, he’s somehow impossibly sexier. My fingers itch to touch those dark strands. My skin sizzles as images of him moving over me flicker fast before my eyes.
I try to focus on the here and now, but the here and now makes my heart hammer with desire. Everything about him exudes confidence, charm, and sex appeal, even his casual clothes. He wears black jeans, lace-up boots, and a well-worn V-neck T-shirt that reveals his lean, toned, inked arms. He had several when I knew him—now his arms are nearly covered in artwork, and they’re stunning. His ink is so incredibly seductive.
He holds out a hand and flashes me that grin that makes me want to grab the neck of his shirt, yank him close, and say kiss me now like you did all those nights before.
Instead, he takes my palm in his then presses his lips to the top of my hand, making my head spin. Then he speaks, his accent like an opiate. He’s French and Brazilian, and I don’t know which side dominates his voice. I don’t care, either, because the mixture of the two is delicious. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you, Penny.”
Oh God. Oh shit. He’s excited to see me.
My stupid heart dances.
I swallow, trying to tap in to the section of my brain that’s capable of language. I part my lips, but my mouth imitates the Sahara. I dig down deep, somehow finding the power of speech, and manage a parched, “Hello.”
So much for playing it cool.
“Shall we sit down?” he asks, his delicious voice as sensual as it was that summer.
Yes, and tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you were trapped in a cave, that spies stole your phone, that you were offered the job of the century in Nepal and you couldn’t bear to see me again because then you’d never have taken the gig. You had no choice, clearly. Seeing me would have made it impossible to resist me.
Because that would be him eating his goddamn heart out.
Instead, I’m greeted with another enchanting smile as he says, “It’s so good to meet you. I want to hear all about your charity and to see if we can work together for your event. My business manager believes this could be a great partnership for us both.” He gestures to a quiet booth in the far corner. The lunchtime rush hasn’t begun. I sit, then he slides across from me.
As I begin to share information with him about Little Friends, a fresh, cold wave of understanding washes over me.
He doesn’t recognize me, and I honestly don’t look that different than I did ten years ago.
Which means…he doesn’t remember me.
Chapter Two
Gabriel
As I head to the kitchen to grab a plate I’ve already prepared for her, something in the back of my mind nags at me, like someone is poking me, trying to tell me something. Maybe rustle up a memory best forgotten. It’s on the tip of my tongue. The edge of my fingers.
Pressing my hands to the steel counter, I close my eyes and let my mind slip back in time. A beautiful face flashes past me, and I wish I had photos of her. She took many, and was supposed to send them to me, but I never heard from her again.