Page 63 of Sinful Escape

“Really?” He took another bite, yet the crumb remained in place. “That’s a big statement.”

“Trust me. And wait till you taste the fish. It’s to die for.”

While he devoured another slice, I dragged my eyes away from that crumb to survey the room. It wasn’t the grandest restaurant in Lyon. It wasn’t the most expensive, either. But it had character. Every aspect had something interesting to look at. Sometimes I thought Sophia had missed her calling and that she should’ve been an interior designer, and then I’d taste her food again and decide that no, she was doing exactly what she was born to do.

Maybe being a tour guide was something I was born to do. I loved it. And I’m good at it. But would it be appealing in a country that didn’t have so much history?

Sighing at the unanswerable question, I pushed back on my chair. “Excuse me. Duty calls.” I made my way around the ladies' table, confirming that they were happy. They were. At the men’s table, I paused behind Samson. “Did you like the bread?”

“Best I’ve ever tasted.” Mike, across the table from Samson, licked his fingers. The way he did it, slowly, with his eyes flitting from my gaze to my cleavage and back again, had a tantalizing shimmer swirling inside me. My stupid brain was both disgusted and fascinated. Mike was young and model-worthy gorgeous. Why he’d be paying me any attention was a mystery of ‘missing sock’ proportions.

“Okay, I’ll leave you, boys, to it.” I scurried to the safety of my own table. Roman captured my gaze with his exquisite eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the safe option after all.

Sophia and Matthieu emerged from the kitchen carrying three plates each. The meals were delivered with such swift efficiency it was hard to believe they were the only staff in this restaurant.

Sophia placed my meal in front of me and just the sight of it had me salivating. The meal was a feast for my eyes as well as my stomach. It was served in the copper pot it had been cooked in and consisted of little fish dumplings with a fluffy mousse-like consistency, smothered in a rich cheese sauce that resembled thick baked custard. I shuffled my chair forward and placed a spoonful of quenelles de drochet into my mouth.

My taste buds sighed.

Roman’s eyes widened, and after a slight roll upward, his gaze met mine. “This is amazing.” He ate some more and when he moaned his approval, I knew he’d agree with me that Sophia’s quenelles de drochet was one of the best meals in Europe.

“I told you.” Running my spoon through the rich sauce, I scooped a good dollop over the dumplings. This was the ultimate comfort food.

“I’ll have to tell Mamma about this. She will want to bake it for her friends.”

Nodding, I took another mouthful and vowed that before I left Europe, I too would learn how to make this. But sorrow hung in my belly like soggy bread. Even if I did learn to make it, I didn’t have anyone to cook it for.

I wanted to slap myself.

I’d been on my own for years, so why the hell did it bother me now?

Sophia always managed to place a sneaky glass of champagne on my table when I wasn’t looking. Grateful for her devious actions, I gulped half the drink in one go.

“So, Red, you never did answer my question about whether your mamma remarried?”

Shit! I couldn’t believe Roman got the jump on me with another personal question. I was definitely slipping.

In an attempt to delay my reply until I’d formulated a suitably ambiguous response, I scooped another spoonful. But when I raised it to my lips, a drip of sauce landed on my breast. Double shit. When Roman’s eyes swept from the red splatter on my left bosom and met my gaze, I wanted to die. A blaze of heat raced up from my chest like slow-moving lava. It hit my neck, my cheeks, my ears. I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked like someone who’d fallen asleep on a sun chair and stayed there through summer.

My whole adult life had been dedicated to avoiding unwanted attention to my breasts. The universe never got that memo.

Roman handed over his napkin, and cringing, I wiped up the mess. He cleared his throat. “You were saying?”

I blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Your mamma?”

“Oh.” Grateful for the distraction, I blurted out something I’d been trying to forget for years. “Mother was a free-love kind of woman. Men came and went through our caravan all the time. So, no . . . she never remarried.”

“Caravan?”

Damn it, another secret is out. “Yeah, as in trailer.”

Roman blinked at me with an expression that was hard to decipher. “You grew up in a trailer?”

I folded the soiled napkin and placed it aside. “Yep. Like I said, we moved around a lot.”

“Ha!” He raised his glass, proposing a toast. “Salute. And you said your growing up was boring.”

---