Page 49 of From Paris, with Butter
Laurent tied his apron around his waist and poured me a glass of Beaujolais. As he whisked together a bechamel sauce, I told him about the meal, recounted the demands, the returned profiteroles, the triumphant presentation of the tetilla… I felt as light as air as I spoke.
Laurent assembled the sandwiches, brushed them with melted butter, and set them in a griddle. As they toasted, he gave me his undivided attention. Then, at some unseen sign, he turned around and took the croque-monsieurs out of thegriddle. They were cooked to perfection.
He tried to shoo Minerva out of his chair, but she only sniffed and curled tighter into a donut. Laurent decided to accept defeat gracefully and eat his croque-monsieur standing. He garnished our plates with a sprinkling of minced chives, then set my croque-monsieur in front of me.
It took me about five seconds to devour it.
“That was delicious,” I said once my plate was cleared. “Ten out of ten, no notes.”
Laurent had only taken a few bites of his, but he must have realized I was still hungry because he stood up and went to the fridge.
“I was saving these for the grand finale,” he said as he set down a ceramic platter between us. “It’s no quesarito, but I think they’ll do.” On the platter were a dozen oysters gleaming in their half-shells. He reached for a shallot, finely mincing it with practiced precision, then added it to a bowl of white wine vinegar and cracked pepper. The sharp, tangy scent of the mignonette sauce mingled with the scent of our wine. I couldn’t take my eyes off Laurent.
He turned toward me, a single oyster in his hand.
I didn’t speak; I barely moved. All I did was part my lips just enough for Laurent to bring the oyster shell to my mouth. He tipped it in, and I swallowed slowly, savoring the cold brine, the slick curve of the oyster, and the sudden brightness of vinegar and shallot.
A drop of mignonette clung to my lower lip. I licked it off.
“Mon dieu,” I breathed. “That’s indecently good.”
Laurent smiled his crooked smile as he tipped another oyster into my mouth. It had barely slipped down my throat before Laurent caught me up in his arms and pressed his mouth to mine. I returned the kiss eagerly. All I wanted was Laurent. Every centimeter of me that wasn’t touching him was screaming out to be pressed against his body.
Without a word, Laurent pulled me out of my seat and brought me to the couch. He cupped my face in his hands. I could feel the scars he’d earned from his years of cooking. He kissed me on the forehead, his lips warm and soft, then trailed kisses down my face. He kissed my nose, then each cheekbone, then came a line of feathery-soft kisses on my chin and along my jawline before he againpressed his mouth to mine. I was nearly giddy with desire.
Laurent sank backward, stretching out on the couch and pulling me on top of him. His hands sank into my hair, and he reached his mouth hungrily to me, kissing and nipping his way from my jaw down my neck. When he reached my clavicle, he sucked gently. A moan escaped my lips.
Remembering something, I sat up abruptly.
“The quiche you made.” I could barely remember my name at the moment, but I wanted Laurent to know this one thing. “The third one. The crust was amazing.”
Laurent looked surprised, then he started laughing. He pulled me down for another kiss.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” he said, once he’d finished kissing me. “But that wasn’t the third quiche I made. It was only the third quiche I sent to you.”
Well, now I was curious. “How many quiches did you make?”
Laurent was already flushed, but his cheeks went a shade darker. “Thirty-seven.”
I couldn’t help it; I started laughing.
“What exactly is so funny?” Laurent growled, trying to sound stern, but only managing to sound sexy.
“It’s just that,” I said, gasping as I tried to catch my breath, “I once made eclairs ten times in a week to get the choux pastry perfect. I thoughtthatwas messed up. You broke three dozen.“ A final hiccup escaped me. “Do you measure your garnishes with a ruler to make sure they’re all angled to the same degree? That’s what Chef La Croix does.”
“You don’t even want toknowthe things I’ve done to make a dish perfect,“ Laurent said, eyes sparking.
“I do want to know,” I said, resting my chin on Laurent’s chest.
“You don’t. You’d be horrified and run screaming from this apartment.” I felt his chest vibrate under me as he laughed. Laurent tugged me up so that his face was just centimeters from mine. “And I can’t be scaring you away,” he murmured.
His hands slipped from my neck down my back. I was still wearing the black silk dress I’d gone to work in, although it must have an unholy number of wrinkles by now from being bunched around my hips as Laurent and I romped on thecouch.
Laurent was making gentle circles at the small of my back. I shifted until I was fully on top of him, my heart hammering. His body was solid beneath me, heat pressed against heat. I skimmed my hands down the firm smoothness of his chest, pausing to swirl my fingers in the patch of blond hair at his neckline. A soft groan escaped him.
It made me smugly satisfied to know I had that effect on this man, but then Laurent’s hands trailed to the backs of my thighs, and my own composure slipped. My vision went black as I arched against his touch. His fingers were cool against my skin.
He lifted us both to our feet, still kissing me. For a moment I drank in the sight of him: untamed curls, golden eyes, the dimple just forming to the right of his half-smile. He was still wearing his apron. Suppressing a laugh, I tugged on its strings. It fluttered to the ground.
