I narrow my eyes at him. “Catholic women.”
He laughs at my unexpected response. “Okay, you win this round.”
“I always win,” I say as I shove the empty tumbler toward him. “What’s in the drink?”
He places the glass in the sink with the cocktail shaker. “You tell me.”
I roll my eyes as I realize he wants to turn this into a teaching moment. “Well, it tastes like a passion fruit caipirinha, but there’s something else in there.”
He smiles, though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m right or because he’s stumped me. “Take a guess.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I take an educated guess at the twist. “Lime? No—wait. Yuzu?”
He scrunches up his nose. “How the bloody hell did you guess that so quickly?”
I laugh as I reach for his tumbler, feeling more confident now that I’ve consumed my first cocktail. “I saw it on the drink menu,” I say, then I down the rest of his caipirinha.
He shakes his head as he turns around and grabs a bottle of bourbon off the shelf. “Well, at least I know you’re doing your job.” He tosses the bottle into the air and catches it behind his back.
I can’t help but laugh. “Watch out, Tom Cruise.”
He chuckles as he pours himself a glass. “I used to tend bar while taking my A-levels.”
“So, that’s the secret to your success?”
“I reckon it is, actually,” he replies without a trace of irony. “A lot of chefs underestimate the impact of a great drink menu.”
I think about this statement as I recall all the times I’ve seen him conducting meetings with Mario, Shanice, and Sandro. “Do you base the menu on the drinks?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course not, we plan them in tandem. But most chefs plan the tasting menu and base the drink menu on that. It’s a subtle difference. You’ll understand when we have our meeting tomorrow.”
I smile as I realize what he’s doing.
He’s not telling me the secret to his success. He’s showing me he doesn’t have any secrets from me. He wants to show me—consciously or subconsciously—that he’s not Edward.
The song coming through the speakers changes to one I don’t recognize, but it’s definitely a French song. I hear the lyric c’est l’amour à la plage—it’s love at the beach—and I instantly think of one of my favorite songs. Before I can stop myself, I ask Ethan to put it on.
Without hesitation, he slides his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, and the sound of the guitar makes me smile as “Summer in Paris” by Hope Tala plays through the speakers overhead.
The warm feeling that spreads through me as I shimmy my shoulders to the beat is bittersweet. I want to tell him about the internship, but not even two passion fruit caipirinhas can instill the courage I need to come clean. Not when we’re so close to turning this flirtation into something more.
Instead, I dance in my seat, foolishly hope he’ll magically guess why I requested this song. He smiles as he watches me rock side to side with the music. I spin around on the barstool and lean back, my gaze following him as he rounds the bar. The song ends as he reaches me, but he doesn’t do anything.
We watch each other for a moment, our chests heaving with anticipation. His gaze travels down the length of my body, the hunger in his eyes becoming more intense as his eyes pause to admire the curve of my breasts. Finally, he steps forward, closing the gap between us as he grabs my face and presses his lips to mine.
The animalistic desire in his kiss steals the breath from my lungs, but I somehow manage to push him away.
“The windows,” I say, nodding toward the wall of glass behind him.
He shakes his head as he says, “Hey, Siri. Close the blinds.”
I laugh as a tone sounds from the phone in his pocket, then the built-in blinds begin to lower by themselves. “I love you—I mean, sorry—I meant, I love your…your smart stuff. You know, like, the blinds and the music and—”
He presses a finger to my mouth to stop me. “Never apologize for being yourself, love.”
I swallow hard as the embarrassment I felt a second ago fades, though only slightly. I may have said those three words accidentally, but that doesn’t change that I said them. And, not that I expect him to, but he definitely hasn’t returned the sentiment.
His eyes are fixed on my mouth as his thumb softly brushes my bottom lip. “Promise me something.”
I focus on my breathing as his mouth lands on my jaw. “What?”
His lips sweep across my earlobe and the sound of his exhalation in my ear makes goosebumps sprout all over my skin. “Promise me this is different.”
My heart aches as I instantly understand what he’s asking of me. He wants to know what we have is different from what Edward and I had. He wants assurance that when we take off our clothes, I won’t see or feel his brother.
And, though I don’t say it aloud, I want to know that when I take off my clothes he won’t see what Edward saw.
It’s not quite the same as saying “I love you.” But showing me how vulnerable he feels about my past with Edward is close enough.
I coil my legs around his hips to pull him closer. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I squeeze him tightly against me. I can’t be sure, but I think I hear a soft gasp as he seems taken by surprise.
He’s frozen for a brief moment before he gives in. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he buries his face in my hair and inhales deeply. The steady thump of his heart against mine relaxes me, and I find myself wishing we could stay like this forever.
Alas, he eventually loosens his hold on me and straightens his back. His gaze is locked on mine. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says more than enough. And any trace of embarrassment I felt from accidentally telling him I love him is gone, because he feels the same as I do.
At least, he feels the same right now. I have no doubt about that. We are equals in this moment of reckless passion.
I push him back slightly, so I can slide off the barstool. As I slowly undress, he watches me with trance-like intensity, a smile curving his lips as he adjusts the uncomfortable bulge in his jeans.
My heart is in my throat as my fingers pause at the waistband of my panties, hesitating for a moment.
He seizes the opportunity to step forward and place his hands over mine. “We can stop any time you want.”
I shake my head as I swallow my fear. “You take them off for me.”
I fold my hands behind my back, and he flashes me a sinister smile as he relishes my surrender. But he doesn’t slide my panties off right away. He kisses me first, long and slow as his hands caress my bare flesh, getting to know my body before he claims every inch of it.
I moan as both his hands slip inside my panties, and he grasps my ass. His growing erection presses against my belly, and I cup my hand over his crotch. He groans as I massage the stiff bulge.
Unable to wait any longer, he kneels in front of me and slides my panties down. “Off with those knickers.”
I smile as he helps me step out of them. But when he stands up, he pushes my hand away as I reach for the button of his jeans. Instead, he grabs my waist and lifts me onto the barstool.