I’m in trouble. I’ve grown to enjoy Evan’s company too much. Case in point: the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Miami feels more like a fun road trip than a chore.
Before we reach our destination, Evan states that he wants to grab a quick lunch.
As we pull up to the place, I look it up online and frown. “This is a three-Michelin-star restaurant.”
“That’s why I picked it.” Evan parks the car. “We don’t have restaurants of this caliber in Palm Islet, so I want to take advantage of this opportunity while I can.”
I look from my casual clothes to his. “I don’t think we’re dressed for it.”
“It’s lunchtime. They don’t expect you to get fancy until dinner.”
I sigh. “It also just sounds pricey.”
He waves my words away. “Even if I spent a grand in fancy restaurants every day, it would still take two thousand seven hundred and forty years for me to run out of money.”
I try to wrap my brain around that math and get a headache for my trouble. “Fine. Let’s go.”
He holds the door for me, and I step inside.
Yep. It looks amazing, like a restaurant version of the hotel we’ve just left. Our waitress, though, looks exactly like a poodle—a fact that makes me chuckle into my fist.
“What’s so funny?” Evan asks when she leaves after seating us at the table.
I explain that I find it extra funny that our server looks like a poodle.
“Why?” he asks.
“When I think ‘poodle,’ I think ‘French,’ which is the cuisine here.”
“French Bulldog sounds more French,” Evan says. “But anyway, I was asking why you compare people to dog breeds.”
I shrug. “Because I love dogs?”
Evan cocks his head in a very canine way. “What breed am I?”
I admit that his eyes remind me of a Siberian husky and his hair of a Golden Retriever.
“The latter makes sense,” he says. “I am, after all, a Golden Retriever’s dad.”
He really is a good fur dad, and thinking of him in a fatherly role again tugs on something ineffable in my chest.
I do my best to shake it off. “By that logic, you should resemble Sally in some way too, but that’s not even remotely the case.”
Actually, he is as good at licking body parts as a cat—especially my favorite body part named after a cat.
And now I’m blushing.
“That reminds me.” Evan checks something on his phone, relaxes, and then looks back at me.
“What was that about?” I nod at the phone.
“I’ve been having Boone check on Harry and Sally,” Evan explains. “So I just checked his latest report. He’s already walked Harry, played with Sally, and fed them both.”
Ah. He might just be a better fur father than I am a human mother because I haven’t checked on Reagan at all today, let alone made sure that someone has fed him or played with him.
Feeling suddenly guilty, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and call the camp from there.
A counselor who sounds like a child herself informs me that my son is too busy having fun to come to the phone, and that he’s been thriving at the camp. “His only concern seems to be that he has to leave soon,” she says in conclusion. “Have you thought about extending his stay?”
“I haven’t,” I lie. “But I will.”
Hanging up, I sigh. It doesn’t matter whether I “think about” extending Reagan’s stay. Our tickets back are not the type you can change the date on. Nor would I want him to fly without me. Most importantly, I can’t afford to pay for more camp.
When I get back, the food—a tasting course—is already waiting at the table.
As I swallow the escargot that is our first appetizer, I also swallow a moan of pleasure. My spirits lift instantly, in the same way as from a line of cocaine (I imagine). In fact, my eyes roll into the back of my head, and it’s an effort to refocus them on Evan, who looks so smug you’d think he had hand-fed lettuce to these snails from childhood and then cooked them personally.
“Good?” he asks.
“I didn’t think French food could taste better than the breakfast this morning,” I say. “But this is another level.”
He nods. “That hotel’s restaurant only has one Michelin star; this place has three.”
Seems like despite his need for the simple life, when it comes to food, he’s a billionaire at heart—hence the obsession with Michelin’s guide. Speaking of… “Didn’t that guide originate in France? I figure they’d be extra picky when it comes to their home cuisine.”
“Maybe,” he says. “I’ve always thought it was weird that the guide was published by a tire company.”
I grin. “Why? Everyone knows that tire companies care about three things: the cost of rubber, the growth of the car market, and yummy food.”
Evan’s return grin is heart-fluttery. “I wonder if their guide is the reason the Michelin Man is so chubby.”
I look at the tiny morsels on our plates. “I’m not sure if three-star restaurants are going to get anyone chubby. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the Michelin Man is made out of tires, but even if he weren’t, it’s not nice of you to fat-shame the poor mascot.”
The Poodle shows up at that very moment, with two plates that have a ton more food on them compared to the first course.
Evan watches her leave suspiciously. “You mention small portion sizes, and they bring this out. What are the chances the chef is spying on us?”
“Maybe that’s what separates one star from three stars.” I spear a tiny piece of scallop and put it in my mouth. “Wow.”
Not counting Vitamin D, this is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in years.
We wolf down a few more courses, each better than the last, and when we’re beyond stuffed, we head over to the Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, where we ignore the treasure hunt for a few minutes in favor of simply walking off the meal.
The place is insanely gorgeous and is by far the most romantic location I’ve ever been to. I don’t know if it’s the gardens, the art, or Evan’s company, but I’m on the verge of swooning. And I’m not alone. About a dozen couples are here with us, using the location for their wedding photos.
Am I jealous of all the brides? No. Not at all. What would give anyone that idea?
“So…” I stop and look at Evan. “Any idea where the next clue might be?”
He shrugs. “I have no clue where the clue might be.”
I purse my lips. “Why am I the only one who is taking this seriously?”
“Sorry,” Evan says, but he sounds anything but.
“This is our last chance to find the clues,” I remind him. “I say we comb through this place with a toothbrush.”
“Right.” Evan doesn’t sound too thrilled.
Whatever. Since I’m motivated enough for the both of us, I seek the clues with everything I have, scanning all publicly available areas over and over while channeling my inner Robert Langdon.
Sadly, all my efforts amount to nothing, though I do manage to work up an appetite… for food, not Evan.
Fine, maybe both.
“Dinner?” Evan asks as if reading my thoughts.
“Sure.” After that one appetite is satisfied, I’ll see what I can do about the other.
As we eat at the self-proclaimed “best restaurant on South Beach,” our conversation revolves around things that happened to us before we met, and it feels like we’re both cramming for a final exam about the other.
The frantic get-to-know-you continues as we stroll on the nearby boardwalk, and I learn random things about Evan, like the fact that his favorite color is turquoise and his favorite texture is fleece. Whatever he tells me, I find fascinating, no matter how obscure or irrelevant-seeming—and that’s bad. It highlights how deeply in trouble I am. Or more accurately, the trouble my heart is in.
I stop and very demonstratively glance at my tracker to check the time.
My dear Precious, typically at this late hour, I delight in the changes of your majestic brain waves as you move from one stage of beauty sleep to the next. Alas, today I have to resign myself to keeping watch on the scrumptious juices in your stomach and the delectable ones further south.
“It’s getting a bit late to drive back,” I say. Translation: “Let’s get a room so I can have you inside me, now.”
Evan glances at his watch. “I think you’re right.” He gestures at a fancy hotel nearby. “Let’s go see if they have a room.”
Translation: “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll have trouble walking for the rest of your stay.”
Clearly on the same wavelength, we jog over to the hotel, then sprint for the elevator once the Shih Tzu-like concierge hands Evan the keys.
Once in the room, we strip and race each other to another giant bed, but then things seem to slow down, and the way Evan takes me is unexpectedly slow and gentle. He stares deeply into my eyes when he enters me, and he interlaces his fingers with mine as we come together in a powerful release.
When it’s all over and Evan wraps himself around me in a tight hug, I finally find the words to describe our sex session.
It was as though he was savoring his last moments with me.
Yeah. That’s how I’m going to interpret it, and not use another two words that I dare not even think.
Love making.