I open my eyes and shake my head. There’s no way that woman at the booth is her. Surely, she would have said something. She doesn’t use the same name. She uses a variation of it that the woman I’d known swore she’d never use. Penny. “Penny doesn’t fit a Wall Street analyst. But Penelope does,” she’d said.
But that was ten years ago. Maybe she changed her mind. She might very well go by Penny now.
Except Penny—the woman at the table—isn’t a Wall Street analyst.
I snag the white-and-blue dish and return to the booth. I present it to Penny—the woman who manages an animal shelter and does not run reports on stocks—with a flourish. “Try it. It’s a specialty sandwich. I made it just for you.”
Her eyelids flutter. “For me?”
I flash her a smile. “Of course I made it for you. I want you to experience what I can do,” I say, and she blushes. The prettiest shade of light red splashes across her cheeks, so I quickly add, “What I can do for your event, of course.”
She drops her gaze to the plate, regarding the mini sandwich. “It looks amazing.”
“It tastes even better,” I say, leaning back in the booth. I’m not short on confidence in the cooking department. Even so, I want her to love it. “It’s a variation on a Bauru, a traditional Brazilian sandwich. Roast beef, French bread, pickled cucumbers, but with a few new ingredients to give it a special flair.”
She picks it up and takes a small bite. Her eyes sparkle as she chews. And yes, she looks sexy eating my food. I can’t think of much that’s more sensual than a beautiful woman enjoying what I’ve concocted for her. And Penny is a most beautiful woman. Long, lush hair. Warm, inviting eyes. A red mouth ripe for kissing.
As I watch her, I do more than look—I study her face. That gnawing reminder reappears in my brain, a little voice telling me I know her.
That faraway face glimmers once more in my mind. Penny’s hair falls in soft waves, curling at the ends. But hers is darker than the hair from the image in my mind, and so much longer. Hair changes, I know. But still, I try desperately to connect the two women—to make sense of the images in my mind. The woman I’m picturing—the woman I had to banish from my thoughts years ago—was so young, so fresh-faced, with lighter hair that hit her jawline and an innocent smile that knocked me to my knees. This woman is more…sophisticated. It’s an alluring look, though, one that captivated me from the second she walked into my restaurant.
I didn’t get her last name when my business manager set up this appointment. Just Penny. But she reminds me so much of the woman I met in Spain and spent the best three nights of my life with.
If she’s one and the same, why didn’t she say something when she arrived? Maybe because Penny’s not Penelope. She’s not in the same line of work. Banking and charitable work aren’t exactly the same field.
She nods several times as she finishes, then points to the rest of the sandwich. “This is absolutely incredible. I could eat it every day and never tire of it.”
I beam, soaking in her praise like sunshine as I try to figure out the mystery of her. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
“No, I don’t just like it,” she says, shaking her head adamantly. “I love it. It’s a…” She pauses as if she’s searching for the words. “A heavenly sandwich.”
And my grin extends to the next state. “I couldn’t be more pleased that you feel this way.” But my mind returns to Barcelona as I remember the woman there heaping praise like this upon a dessert we shared. “It’s divine,” she’d said that day. I shove aside the fleeting memory. “It would be perfect for your picnic event, wouldn’t it? We need an amazing dessert, though.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She almost seems reluctant when she utters a yes, then follows it with, “It would be. And we do.” Something in her tone sounds wistful, and it tugs at my memory once more.
I simply must know if I’m seeing double.
“Have you ever been to Miami?” I blurt out. Maybe I met her there at my other restaurant, and my mind is fooling me that she’s the woman I couldn’t find at that fated time ten years ago.
She frowns in confusion. “Yes, but many years ago.”
I lean closer to the table, soften my voice. “Forgive me, but you look so familiar…”
Her eyes widen, and something vulnerable seems to flash in them. She brings a hand to her hair. “I do?”
I nod vigorously. “Yes. So much. It’s eerie.”
She swallows. “We all remind each other of others, don’t we?”
“Perhaps we do,” I say. I’m not sure what to make of her answer so I return to the matter at hand, telling her more of what I would make for her charity fundraiser. My business manager, Eduardo, alerted me to this opportunity the other day when it landed on his desk. With my new restaurant opening a few months ago, I’ve been looking to make a splash in Manhattan. Reviews have been amazing and business has been robust, but I know that fortunes can turn on a dime. Hell, do I ever fucking know that. “And I would make the most fantastic desserts for you, too,” I say with a wink, because that reminds me of the afternoon I met the girl in Barcelona—we’d both been eating dessert at a street-side café, where we’d started flirting. “Desserts are my specialty.”
“What would you make?” she asks, then she murmurs oh God when I tell her what I’d create for the sweetest course. The soft sound she makes stirs something in my chest, then sends a rush of heat below the belt. That sense of déjà vu sharpens, and a reel of images snaps before my eyes, like puzzle pieces fighting to connect.