Simon
Gabriel points to the angel food cake. “This tastes like a sweet pillow melting in your mouth, does it not?”
“Like a blueberry pillow,” I add since the cake is covered in blueberries and blueberry sauce.
He brings his fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. “It is home, plus flare. That’s what I want. I want this feeling in Gabriel’s on Christopher,” he says, since he’s already picked a spot in the Village for the new restaurant he wants to open—his first in Manhattan, coming on the heels of his wildly successful eateries in Miami and Los Angeles. He’s French and Brazilian, and his creations are a fusion of both cuisines.
He turns to the men in his entourage, and says something in French, his native language. It’s rapid-fire, and makes me wish I fully understood what he’s saying, rather than just a word here or there, especially when his goateed business manager says something to me about wine. Eduardo is soft-spoken, so the question is mostly lost. Gabriel steps in, and repeats what he said.
“Sure. More wine,” I say, sliding over the glass, because more wine is always the right answer in the food business. The restaurant we’re at tonight is a few blocks away from the one he wants to open.
Gabriel pours more of the cabernet, sets down the bottle, then flips his long, wild hair off his shoulders. This man is a rock-star chef in every sense of the word. The hair, the tattoos, and of course, the talent. As for me, I can boil water extremely well and order takeout or delivery even better, but I’m excellent at sniffing out talent. And Gabriel is the real deal.
The trouble is, after his victory on a popular reality TV cooking show, nearly every big restaurant investor in town has sniffed him out, too, and wants the chance to back his first Manhattan establishment, especially since it’ll be the flagship for a much bigger business expansion into cookware, cookbooks, and more. That’s why I’ve spent the last few weeks buried in paperwork, developing the proposal that I hope will win his business.
We chat for a few more minutes about New York and food. “Manhattan needs your panache, Gabriel,” I tell him, as my phone buzzes faintly in my pocket. I can’t look now, since I want to give them my full attention. Besides, if there were an emergency with Hayden, Abby would call rather than text. “We’ve been sorely lacking in the sort of style you’re known for, not to mention your daring in the kitchen.”
“That makes me sad for your city,” he says, his lips pulling into a playful frown.
“Exactly. But just imagine how happy you can make the taste buds in Manhattan.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “I can hear them crying out for me now. Gabriel,” he says, mimicking a host of adoring fans calling out his name. The thing is, he does have fans, and not only because he’s masterful with a skillet and a knife. Women flock to him at his restaurants and his events, and I don’t think they’re after his lasagna recipe.
By the time the meal ends, I’ve got a good feeling that I can land this deal. We’ve skirted the subject of terms, but tonight’s not the time for that. Besides, he knows my track record when it comes to investing, and what I bring to the table in capital as well as experience.
I take a final bite of the cake, then set down my fork, leaving the dessert half-finished.
“That is a sin,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
I laugh. “True. My daughter would tell me there’s always room in the dessert drawer.”
Gabriel eyes the remaining slice of cake on the table. “Now, as your punishment for not finishing your dessert, you must take the extra piece home for your little girl.”
I adopt a serious look. “Punishment accepted. And thank you. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Sweets are the way to a woman’s heart,” he adds.
Eduardo says something in French, and Gabriel laughs, translating as he taps his chest. “He tells me, isn’t that my mantra?”
“And is it, Gabriel?” I toss back.
“I’ve been known to make a woman swoon with my crème brûlée,” he says, shrugging sheepishly.
An idea strikes me—to take the extra piece to Abby.
I haven’t taken dessert home for a woman in ages. My ex was one of those anti-sugar people, so treats were verboten. I never took any home for Miriam. She’d have scoffed at the offending item, and told me precisely how many calories were in a piece of pie, a slice of cake, a tart. She knew how to suck the fun out of dessert, of food, and come to think of it, of life in general.
On the crowded sidewalk outside the restaurant, we say good night. I shake hands with Gabriel, Eduardo, and the others, then hail a cab and let them take the first one. I grab the next taxi right behind it, and on the ride home I finally check my phone.
Abby: He brought her a fish!
I blink, and it takes me a second to process what Abby is talking about. Then it hits me. Mr. Eagle. She’s updating me on the eagle. Okay, I’m not going to read anything into this, even though this is the first time we’ve texted about anything not related to work or schedules or kids.
But I grin as the car swings up Madison Avenue, and a warmth spreads through my body. I don’t think it’s from the wine. It’s from what feels like the cusp of flirting.
Simon: Was it a big fish?
Look, I know we’re talking about the predator’s catch. Not other things that could be big. But still. It is big.
Her response arrives quickly.
Abby: Of course :) Mr. Eagle only takes home big prizes for his woman.
Absently, I tap the angel food cake in the takeout box next to me, then I write back.
Simon: As the man of the nest should. He is the hunter.
While the car streaks along the stretch of pavement, lights from late-night New York winking on and off, her name appears on my screen.
Abby: He’s all about delivering on the You Had One Job premise.
That makes me laugh, and we keep up the playful banter a bit longer. Ten minutes later, I arrive at my building and head inside and up the elevator, buoyed by a slight buzz from the wine, but mostly from the texting. When the elevator stops on the eleventh floor, I’m keenly aware that this is one of life’s pivotal moments.
No, I’m not the eagle, and this is not National Geographic.
But this is one of those moments when something happens—when this thing for Abby shifts from a simmer to a bubbling-over-the-pot boil. Start with nearly seven months of lust, add in a pair of eagles, chase it with a leftover dessert from a dinner with a chef, top it off with the absence of a wine-red tie.
I unlock the door and find her on the couch. Damn, she looks good in my home, with the lights dim and the quiet of the night wrapping its arms around her. She sets down her iPad, and I hold up the dessert.
“I brought a cake,” I say proudly, as if I’d wrestled it from a fierce lion. “For you.”
Okay, fine.
I’m totally the motherfucking hunter, and this is my prize for the woman I so badly want to woo.