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“What’s your worst tasting chocolate? I’m not talking about an unpopular flavor. I want one that’s truly awful.”
The guy behind the counter shoots me an offended look. “We only sell quality chocolate at this airport, Mademoiselle.”
“Fair enough. In that case, what’s your worst tasting quality chocolate?”
I’m met with a horrified look this time. I want to tell the guy that him selling me awful-tasting chocolate won’t hurt his shop’s image. It’s nothing but a prank my brother and I pull every birthday.
It all started with him gifting me a bottle of perfume that smelled like a garbage truck on a hot day. Just the memory of it makes me queasy. I got back at him by sending a quartet to his office, who sang the cheesiest song I could think of. Apparently, they caught him off-guard by the cooler while he was flirting with a new colleague. Boy, did I have to listen to him going on and on about me cockblocking him.
And then he got back at me by telling the only guy I ever brought home for Christmas that I had a snake fetish. It ended in tears. For everyone involved. That day, I swore he’d never win this stupid game, even if it meant pranking him until he was old and back in diapers.
So, yeah, neither of us is planning on giving in and being the first to stop this ridiculous thing. Which is why I need some horrible-tasting chocolate before I board my flight home.
The guy crosses his arms over his chest. “If you could please decide and make a purchase? There’s a long line of customers behind you, and they don’t want to miss their flight because of your weird request for horrible chocolate, which we don’t sell.”
Wow. That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?
I shake my head. “Never mind. I’ll go search for some smelly cheese instead. Do you know if they sell gorgonzola around here? The really old kind that turns your stomach when you open the packet?”
“Please leave, Mademoiselle. You’re scaring people.” It comes out as a beg rather than a question.
The man behind me snickers, and I turn around. “Is something wrong? Do you think this is funny?”
“No, I’m just glad I’m not the one you’re shopping for.”
“I’m not a bad person. Believe me, the guy receiving my gift deserves it.”
“Is he your boyfriend? Did he have sex with another woman? Forget an anniversary?”
“Ew, no.”
He chuckles. “Ew?”
“He is my brother, and we’ve got this thing going where we buy the worst possible gifts for our birthday. Anyway, why am I even telling you this?” My gaze travels down to his hands. “And what are you planning to do with an entire box of olive oil?”
He laughs as he places the box on the counter. “Why? Do you want one to give to your brother?”
“Does it taste bad?”
“Of course not. This olive oil is top of the line. That’s why I always bring a box home whenever I’m in Paris.” He shakes his head. “That brother of yours must have done something unforgivable to you.”
“Unforgivable is a big word.”
He shrugs while he hands his credit card to the cashier. “That depends.”
Is this weird? Me chatting up a random guy at the airport’s chocolate shop? I’m not usually this outgoing, but I’m nervous about flying and haven’t slept in days.
I get a good look at him while he signs for his purchase. Handsome guy. One very present dimple. American accent. Broad shoulders and white teeth. A lover of copious amounts of olive oil, judging by the amount he’s buying.
He pockets his wallet and grabs his duty-free bag from the counter. “If you’re set on buying that duty-free smelly cheese, I can give you some pointers. But I don’t think you should be traveling with it if you don’t want dirty looks from your fellow passengers.”
“What are you, some secret cheese connoisseur?” I joke.
“I’m a chef.”
“A real one?”
He laughs, showing me that damn dimple again. “No, the fake kind that uses an Easy-Bake oven. Of course, I’m a real chef. I run L’artichaut, a restaurant in a mountain town called Trout Creek.”
I stop in my tracks. “Trout Creek?”
“Most people have never heard of the town, but I can guarantee it’s an amazing place to work and live.”
“I agree.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a proud former citizen of Trout Creek,” I tell him. “My family still lives there. It’s my brother’s birthday this weekend, and I’m traveling back home to celebrate. Paris was a layover from Spain, where I’ve been working as a botanist for the past three years.”
A playful grin spreads across his face as he gets his boarding pass out of his pocket. “What are the odds? You’re not supposed to be at gate 75B in forty-five minutes by any chance?”
My eyes grow wide. “That’s my gate! And my boarding time!”
Jeez, why am I shouting? I sound like a crazy person.
“Looks like we’ll be traveling across the ocean together.” He extends his hand to me. “I’m Stuart.”
The moment our palms touch, electricity jolts my entire body awake. Fuck, this guy is gorgeous. “Emma.”
“Well, Emma, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to accompany you to your gate. Excuse me, our gate. And I’d love to hear all about the shenanigans between you and your brother and your work as a botanist. Color me intrigued.”
I grin. “Lead the way.”
For the first time, I hope my flight gets delayed. At least then I can spend some extra hours with Stuart. I realize it sounds crazy, and I’ve only known the guy for ten minutes, but already I don’t like the thought of saying goodbye to him.
As far as men are concerned, luck hasn’t been on my side. I’ve tried. Hard. Every relationship I’ve had petered out after a couple of dates. I’m not picky, but I do have standards. Having dinner with a man who keeps interrupting me because he’s texting his friends isn’t my idea of romance. Neither is witnessing my blind date turn into an aggressive lunatic after a woman in a Porsche cut him off. The conclusion after nine of these horrible dates was simple: there aren’t any decent men left.
Maybe it’s time to revisit that conviction because unless Stuart is extremely good at hiding a bad side, he’s the most perfect man I’ve ever met.