Page 2 of Falling for Paris
She was teasing now and leaning closer. He got a whiff of her hair, fragrant with hints of flowery shampoo. But it was the undertone of honey on her skin that distracted him.
“After you pick your half, I will take the first bite from my half,” he answered.
She pointed at the portion closest to him. He tilted the plate to give her access. She hesitated. Rafael didn’t want to risk turning hisincredible and hot sandwichintocold and boring blob, so he took the half she didn’t choose and bit into its crisp shell and gooey center.
“It requires more nutmeg,” he declared thoughtfully while chewing.
“When I made this for French class, my teacher never mentioned nutmeg,” the young woman commented before daintily taking her first bite. Rafael waited with bated breath. He had taken the trouble of making it instead of grabbing something from the menu. When the fresh mustard seeds and gruyere were delivered that morning, Rafael knew he wanted to flavor it with the herbs he had dried from the garden. He was terribly interested in what she thought of his simple dinner.
“I don’t taste any nutmeg but this is the absolute best ham and cheese I’ve ever had!” She took another bite and moaned.
“Focus on the tip of your tongue to catch the flavor. Some of the sweetness,” he muttered stupidly about nutmeg and other irrelevant details of the palate. Another moan from her and he certainly could not speak, anyway.
“Oh, I see what you mean. And the herbs are so fresh,” she gushed. Her eyes focused on him again. “Are all the restaurants in Paris run by young people?”
“I’m just a kitchen helper.” Rafael chewed, quite pleased that she noticed the summer flavors he’d layered.
“Maybe for now. One day you’ll be a super fancy chef,” she declared with flair. “And you should open your French restaurant in Seattle so I can have this every day.”
She couldn’t possibly know how much her words affected him. Paris was a city full of talented food connoisseurs with more access to resources and professional skills than Rafael could hope to have as the son of an elementary school teacher and housewife.
“You cannot have only this simple meal every day,” he retorted because something in him rebelled at the thought that she would eat the same thing repeatedly. He would like to feed her many, many other things, he thought foolishly. Rafael felt a little drunk on her attention and praise.
“Then I’ll have the wife. Crack me an egg, Chef. I’m ready for aCroque Madame.”
He raised a brow and even in the faint light he saw her cheeks flush.
“Sorry, that was a terrible joke.”
“What other foods did you make for French class?” He tried to appease her embarrassment by changing the subject.
She smiled and took another bite, making him wait for the response. He didn’t mind. Watching her eat food was its own nourishment.
“The culinary talents of Professor Jorgen were limited, unfortunately. But I enjoy baking,” she stated. “I thought my cookies and brownies were decent, but can you imagine making croissants from scratch?”
In fact, Rafael knew how difficult it was to attempt to make croissants from scratch. And rather expensive if you had to amend your mistakes again and again.
“So you are in Paris for French class?”
“Yes. The class is about to finish but I plan to stay longer. My dad’s a pilot so I can fly on stand-by.”
“Stand. By?”
“When I’m ready to go home, I arrange to take an unsold seat.”
“For free?”
“Not exactly. But much cheaper.”
“And then you will be back in Seattle.”
“That’s right. Where you’ll open a restaurant,” she said, winking. “And the name will be…” She paused, looking at him expectantly.
He was slow to realize that she was asking for his name. “Rafael,” he stated. “That’s my name.”
“Chez Rafael,” she declared. “I’m Victoria.”
“It is nice to meet you, Victoria. And since you are the inspiration for my French restaurant in Seattle, perhaps it is your name that it should be named after.”
