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I can feel my lips puckering into a furious scowl as I glare him, cataloguing his features—the hard line of his jaw, the scruff that seems the result of neglect rather than intent, the nose that would be a little too big for his face if he weren’t so damn handsome.
Because he’s almost too handsome. But his nose—like the rumpled clothing and the perpetual lines of exhaustion around his eyes—rub off the sharp edge of his masculine beauty. It’s his physical flaws that make him so appealing. That make him so real.
He’s like the Velveteen Rabbit. His life has worn off his newness and made him more real, more alive for it.
Wait. What?
Did I just mentally compare him to the Velveteen Rabbit? To the most lovable, but heartbreaking character from a children’s book … like, ever?
Cluck me …
I am in serious trouble here. I don’t even want to like Martin. The fact that I’m romanticizing him is beyond worrisome. Suddenly I feel itchy and twitchy. I want to bolt.
“Hey.”
Martin’s sharp tone snaps me out of my cycle of inaction.
When I meet his gaze, he continues. “Just chill out, okay?”
Chill out?
I’m over here, ten seconds away from romanticizing him into a tragic hero! I can’t chill out! I need to get out of here!
“You can’t leave yet,” he says, since apparently he’s also a mind reader. “Now it really is raining. And the food is here.”
He nods in the direction of the waiter, who is indeed approaching with a tray laden with our appetizers.
Something about the way he says it, the simple clear instructions, the logic of it, snaps me out of my spiral and I just … comply. I sit back in my chair, the tension and panic fading as I watch the waiter place down the items Martin ordered: truffle-dusted French fries with aioli sauce, grilled vegetables with a Romesco sauce, and baked brie with fig compote.
It’s all vegetarian. Does that mean he’s a vegetarian too, or did he somehow guess that about me?
Before I can ask, Martin has scooped some of each onto a plate that he hands to me. “Eat some fries. You’ll feel better.”
So I eat a fry.
Just like that.
Yeah, I’m as surprised as you.
The fry is, of course, amazing. The best thing I’ve eaten since the last time my sister cooked for me. Once I’m chewing as placidly as a cow, Martin continues. “I’m not criticizing you.” I open my mouth to protest, but Martin holds out his hands, palms out, in the universal sign of surrender. “Just hear me out.”
I shove another fry into my mouth to occupy myself and nod for him to continue.
“You’re smart and hard working. You don’t owe anyone an apology.”
The compliment chafes, probably because I don’t get many of them. Which says more about me than it does Martin. So instead of pushing back on his assessment of me, I say, “Okay, but you don’t know that guy.” I nod in the direction of the waiter, who isn’t helping me make my point, because he’s still looking down his nose at me from his position by the bar. “For all you know, he’s just as smart and hardworking as I am.”
“I doubt that, since you’re practically a miracle worker.”
I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not. He states it like a fact, but there’s no way Martin Harris actually thinks that.
So I ignore the comment and continue, “He could be a grad student too. He could be doing cancer research. Or be solving world hunger.”
“While also working at Le Petite Bistro?”
Okay, so he’s probably right. Le Petite Bistro is known for hiring only classically-trained, professional chefs. But he probably doesn’t know that, right? “My point is, you don’t know.”
He nods in concession. “You’re right. I don’t know. And if he hadn’t been rude to you from the moment we walked in, I’d go easier on him.” Martin leans forward, giving me a searing look. “If you want me to stop picking on the guy, I will. You’re right. I don’t know anything about him. But I’m not going to stop defending you either.”
