Page 6 of Say Yes to the Chef

“Do you know the chef?” a woman to my right and down one asks.

It isn’t until all eyes turn to me that I realize the question was meant for me. “Oh, I say, laughing awkwardly. “No.” I turn toward her and offer a smile, but she just gives me a puzzled look, then smiles and turns to the people on the other side of her to resume their conversation.

“He sure sems to know you,” the man immediately to my left says with a chuckle.

I swivel my head slowly in his direction and hold his gaze.

His smile falls, then he gives me a curt nod.

A short while later, the servers begin to file in, twelve of them in total, and each carrying a plated dish covered by a stainless metal cloche. Like finely tuned choreography, they step diagonally behind each of our chairs and wait.

The young chef returns, standing in the center of the long table, eyes lingering on me briefly before he begins to address everyone.

“What we have here,” Chef Marco begins, “is the Trío del Mar.”

The server hovering behind me and to the right leans forward and places the plate in front of me, then lifts the cloche, and I’m hit with the heady mix of creamy coconut, something spicy and rich, and various other scents that I can’t yet place but make my mouth water nonetheless. The fragrance bouquet is only slightly rivaled by the artfully curated presentation.

It’s absolutely stunning.

“At the top of your plate is the Pulpo de Avellana Mole,” Chef Marco begins. “Octopus with a hazelnut mole sauce that will transport you to the southernmost parts of Mexico.” He pauses to allow everyone to murmur in awe at the beauty of the dish. “Continuing clockwise, we have the Tres Camarones en Crema de Chipotle y Coco. The third dish we have for you tonight is a Pescado Blanco en Pasilla de Oaxaca Adobo… heredado de me abuela Santiago.”

My mouth waters while Chef Marco explains the various ingredients in each dish, reintroducing them in English as he does so, which I’m grateful for. Though I know some Spanish, I have grown a bit rusty over the years and Tom was always the one with the quick translating skills in that brain of his.

When Marco has finished, the handsome chef bows slightly as he says, “Provecho,” then he splays his hands out in presentation and adds, “Enjoy.” Meeting my eyes once more, he turns and strides back through those frosted glass doors into the bustling kitchen beyond.

I lean over the dish and breathe deeply, taking it all in. I focus on the pulpo de…shoot. I can’t remember what he called it. No matter. It’s a single octopus arm, curled into a delicate C atop a thick schmear of a rich golden brown sauce, with a sprinkling of chopped hazelnuts resting over the top. I dip the tines of my fork into the thickest part of the sauce and bring it to my mouth. It’s sweet and nutty, rich with an earthy depth of toasted coconut and maybe… ancho chile?

I turn to the side to ask Tom what he thinks—

And suck in a breath.

Old habits.

With that mistake, I’m struck by a wave of heavy sadness. I haven’t grown accustomed to dining alone yet, and this is an experience I would love to share with someone special. Instead, surrounded by the white sand beaches of Tulum, tucked between eleven strangers who barely register my existence, I’m about to sink my teeth into what promises to be a delicious, extravagant meal…

And I have no one to share it with.

With a sigh, I unfold my cloth napkin and a note falls to my lap.

I set the napkin on the tabletop and uncurl the scrap of paper.

Please meet me on the beach at midnight.

Chef Marco

I gasp and fist my hand around the scribbled invitation as heat creeps up my neck, likely on its way to paint my cheeks ten shades of Embarrassed Crimson, Pantone’s color of the year.

This has to be a severe case of mistaken identity. I don’t know this man; I have never seen him before in my life. There’s no explanation that makes sense. He’s mistaken me for someone else.

Hasn’t he?

I look up as the doors slide open and a server enters the room, my gaze drifting past them into the kitchen.

One drop dead gorgeous, too-young-for-me chef stares back at me with a delicious smirk on his lips and promise in his dark brown eyes.

My brows furrow as I mouth, “Me?”

His only response is a grin so devilish I can feel it between my legs.

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