Page 23 of Tarek

“Is it?”

With his fingers together, he stares at me. His stormy grey stare feels like he can see every imperfection on my body. I pull my jacket closer to my body.

“Dreas, said it was a culinary journey, and he was right. I have a question though.”

Speaking of Dreas, with quick strides, he brings a slate charcuterie board, covered in cured meats and an assortment of cheese. The board had enough to feed six people.

“I’m a man who like to keep his promises,” he says casually.

Another waiter appears with two glasses and a bottle of Rose’.

He leans to the side reaching into his pocket and pulls out a small black box stamped with the words Treasure London, along with a slender black and gold lighter.

“What are you about to do?” My eyes are trained on the smooth gold and black box.

“Smoke. Would you like one? You can’t go wrong with a TL.” Happily, he flips the black lid of the box to reveal long black and gold cigarettes.

“No thank you. But are you going to smoke now?”

His brow does a downward slant. “Well they are not on the table for decoration Bella.”

“But this is a smoke-free zone.” My arm extends to the diners at their tables.

“You must be confused. This is my restaurant.”

“Agreed but I don’t want to bask in the ambience of nicotine, when I’m still savoring the taste of your food on my tongue.”

Meekly I smile, he taps his fingers on the table looking down at his cigarette and lighter.

It’s like he is having an internal war of relinquishing control.

“Fine.” He pushes the cigarettes and lighter back inside his pockets.

Excitement rushes through me, I don’t know why but I like that he listened.

“Thank you.”

Tarek grunts and he begins to plate pieces of bread and cheese.

He reaches over and places the plate in front of me.

“I am stuffed.” I push the plate away.

“This is for grazing. To complement our conversation. Now your question.” He stops to unbutton the sleeves of his dark shirt. It’s like a slow reveal of the tattoos on his forearm. The 3D hyper realistic tattoo design showcases the monochromatic palette of black and grey. It’s littered with astrological symbols and a winged falling angel.

“I like your tats.” I reach out casually touching his forearm with the very tip of my nail. He stops folding his shirt and lifts his eyes to me.

“It’s Michelangelo’sThe Creation of Adam. This is Icarus. I have a small pantheon of god’s riding up my sleeve.” He continues to fold his shirt on both sides. His jet black hair is slicked away from his face, a chiseled jawline, a straight nose, Tarek looked like the God’s on his tattoo.

“Now your question, ask it,” he commands.

I smirk at his tone, you can tell by the way he speaks, that he’s used to people following his command without question.

“What inspired you to become a chef and a famous restaurateur? I don’t want to hear the classic magazine answer. I want the truth.” Picking up a piece of prosciutto, I begin to wrap it around a bagel breadstick.

“The truth. I had the best housekeeper from the Caribbean, and she said there is magic in cooking.”

“Ah, so you wanted to be a wizard. I see,” I reply.

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