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She listened to the podcast all the way to work, with Lindsay wrapping up the broadcast as she pulled into a parking space in the deck downtown.
“Until next time, girlfriends. This is Lindsay the Sexy Diva, reminding you that a healthy relationship begins with you. Be the best you can be, in and out of the bedroom. Until next time...”
Marissa grabbed her messenger bag and hopped out of the car. She had a lot of work to do, not least of which was scheduling dates for Bruno based on the list of three he had given her last night.
Marching into the building, she recalled their first conversation and the blunt way he discussed satisfying his lovers. If he was half as good as he professed to be, one of these women could be the first Mrs. Bruno Santana, and she would be a lucky woman indeed.
Chapter Eleven
Bruno arrived early to La Petite Maison, a quaint little French restaurant in downtown Decatur where he and Deanne, his first date, would be meeting. Marissa had made all the arrangements based on his and Deanne’s mutual appreciation of French food and this restaurant in particular.
He walked inside to the welcoming hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. The soft lighting created a warm ambiance in the cozy dining room, which contained approximately twelve tables, ten of which were occupied.
On the walls, pictures of Parisian landmarks reminded him of his time in France—the good and the bad.
He remembered Lorraine Dubois, his first love, a French socialite who made him question his decision to start from the bottom in someone else’s kitchen. She had expected him to simply get the money from one of his parents to finance his first restaurant, but he’d wanted to enter the restaurant industry the right way. He had wanted to pay his dues and work side by side with other cooks as he learned the ropes.
Her words echoed in his head, and her tear-streaked cheeks flashed in his mind—all a reminder that so-called love was impatient and fleeting.
Unlike Lorraine, Marissa had understood his insistence on choosing the harder path. I think your commitment to your craft is admirable. She would have been encouraging if they had met in his twenties.
He had been young, but fortunately, common sense had prevailed. The long hours had been grueling, but those years had been some of the best of his career, instilling in him the pursuit of perfection, the reward of hard work, and the importance of using the finest ingredients. Paris had made him fall in love with the art of cooking and helped him hone his skills to the chef he was today—causing him to coin the phrase that all members of his staff knew well: I do not accept mediocrity.
A slender woman with frizzy, curly hair and a makeup-free face approached. He’d been there enough to know her name was Marie. “Bonjour. How many?” she asked in a thick French accent.
“Two. My date should be here shortly,” Bruno said to her French.
“This way.” She led him to a table in the corner.
Before long, Deanne arrived looking as lovely as he remembered. The mustard blouse she wore flattered her caramel complexion, and the gold hoops in her ears brightened her features as they peeked between the strands of her hair.
Bruno came to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. “Good to see you again,” he said in a warm voice.
“Hello, Bruno. Thank you.”
She settled in the chair, and he sat across from her.
Marie returned to take their order. They selected two appetizers to share—escargots de Bourgogne and pâté de campagne. She recommended the Chablis as an accompaniment, to which they both agreed.
As they waited for the wine’s arrival, Bruno asked, “How has your week been?”
Deanne sighed. “Crazy busy. Hectic, but that’s nothing new. I love my job as a producer, but some days I want to pull my hair out. What about you—how was your week?”
“Similar. Business has been booming at the restaurants, which is a good problem to have. I try not to complain because the alternative is much worse.”
His attempt at humor fell flat, with Deanne nodding absentmindedly as she checked her phone on the table beside her.
Marie returned with the two glasses of wine, the pale gold color catching the light as she placed them on the table.
Bruno sipped his, enjoying the crisp acidity and citrus flavor. As they waited for the food to arrive, he made another attempt at conversation.
“What do you do when you’re not working?”
Her gaze flicked to his, and her eyes softened. “Paint. Not that I’m any good,” she said with a laugh.
“I’m sure you’re better than you think.”
“No, I’m really very bad. I’ve taken classes and been told in no uncertain terms to stick to my day job.” She laughed and tasted her wine, a hum of appreciation filling her throat. “But I’m not trying to become the next Picasso. Painting is relaxing and different from what I do on a day-to-day basis at CNN. With that said, I’m sticking with my hobby, and no amount of criticism is going to change my mind.”
