Page 3 of Say Yes to the Chef

She spins slowly in a circle, smiling broadly as she takes it all in.

And I can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

Can’t do a damn thing because she’s completely mesmerized me.

Even surrounded by lush emerald foliage and exotic birds in a rainbow of colors, she’s the most magnificent thing in this room.

“Buenas tardes, Chef Marco,” someone says as they pass.

I blink and possibly nod but don’t look away from the woman as she focuses on a bird sitting atop a low-hanging branch and turns that megawatt smile toward the little creature, and effectively toward me, though she doesn’t seem to notice me standing here gawking with one foot in the lobby and the other in the hall that leads toward the chef’s dining room.

I feel rather than see Lucy step back to my side, my gaze still completely focused on the goddess in the lobby. The woman turns away from the bird—and essentially me—to stride toward the reception desk, and I feel this bizarre sense of desperation, like I can’t go on without seeing that smile again.

“Who is she?” I whisper without meaning to voice the question.

“What?” Chef Lucy says. “Who?”

Forcing myself to tear my gaze away from the woman, then look down at my boss and shake myself from my stupor. “Apologies again, Chef.”

Lucy frowns as she glances at the woman then looks back at me. We’ve had a cancellation tonight. Just one guest.” Her jaw clenches tight. “The numbers are off,” she adds in a murmur.

Lucy is a stickler for order and perfection.

Eleven guests won’t work, not for Chef Lucy Estrada.

She curses under her breath but I’m already ruminating on an idea. I look up at the beautiful woman at check-in and can’t fight the smile on my face. “I’d like to invite someone else,” I say.

Lucy makes an annoyed sound in her throat so I look down and meet her gaze, bracing myself.

“Quién?” She pauses as her eyes tighten into suspicious little slits, then she looks out into the lobby and back at me. “No… porque?”

“I, uh…”Shit. “I recognize that woman,” I lie. “I think she’s a food critic from Las Vegas.”

Lucy’s eyes narrow—probably because she doesn’t believe me as far as she can throw me—but she eventually gives me a curt nod and a “Yes, Chef,” because if I know Lucy, that empty seat will drive her far crazier than agreeing to my request.

It’s obvious the moment she gives in. Her eyes flash with a terrifying glare, but then she turns to the concierge, points at the woman checking in, and murmurs something I can’t hear over the birdsong.

When she turns back to me, Lucy waves down the hall. “Now, if we could continue, we need to stay on task.”

I smirk, throw a quick glance over my shoulder, then follow Lucy down the hall with swift strides, eager to get this first dining experience out of the way because the first is always the hardest, and to—hopefully—find out who that woman was.

And whether or not she’s single.

Oh, how I hope that she is.

Adrienne

The sun’s descent over the Caribbean Sea sets the sky aglow, bright orange and red splashes of color disappearing into deeper purples along the horizon. With the sunset comes a slight drop in temperature, though not enough to need a sweater, and the humidity hasn’t changed since I arrived. My hair is a frizzy mess of curls and my clothing sticks to my skin, but I can’t bring myself to go inside. This beach is too beautiful—and I don’t want to miss a moment of this sunset.

As soon as I settled into my suite this afternoon, I changed into a lightweight pair of linen pants and a matching, loose-fitting button-down shirt, which I’ve kept open. Beneath them both, a small beige crochet bikini I bought on a whim while shopping for this trip with the girls.

They may have coerced—forced?—me to do make the purchase, but that’s neither here nor there.

And, truth be told, though I haven’t worn a swimsuit that exposedquiteso much skin in decades at least, this vacation—my first without Tom—feels like the place to make that leap. My husband was the modest one of the two of us anyway, a man who wore suits every day and matching flannel pajama sets every night. In summertime, he’d switch the flannel sleep shirt with a t-shirt, but that was about as wild as Tom ever got.

I loved him beyond measure, but these last three years have been hell on us both.

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