Chapter 10
***
"Alright, we got about 7 hours. Is there anything in particular you want to do?" Lucas asks, standing outside our hotel.
"Um...not really," I shrug impassively, "I'm not very familiar with New York."
"Alright, how about we go to the Chelsea Market, they have some nice restaura-"
"I want to take a picture on the Met steps."
"Huh?"
"Like Blair Waldorf. Ooh! We can do a little video where I say," I narrow my eyes with a breathy voice, "'you know you love me, xoxo, Gossip Girl."
"Next." He deadpans.
"And I want to see the Brooklyn Bridge."
"Do you know how long of a walk that is?"
"Ugh," I scoff, hands on my hips, "why do you ask if you're going to say no?"
"You're right, I shouldn't ask. I should just put you on a leash and take you wherever I want."
I know he expects me to get angry, but that would just mean he's winning. "Like your little pet?" I smirk.
He blinks at that, taken back, then chuckles under his breath when I raise a smug eyebrow.
~
"You know, I think this is the first time you're actually being useful." I say to Lucas, who's done taking the 100th picture of me on the Met steps.
He rolls his eyes, handing me my phone so I can check if it's up to my standards. "Wow, no seriously, you're really good at this."
"Thanks." He gives me a dry smile. "It's not like it's my job or anything."
I suppress my amusement and get on my feet, wiping the dust off my skirt. "Good boy. We can go now." I slip past him, giggling at his murderous glare.
~
"This is taking too long!" I whine, on the verge of tears. "Brooklyn Bridge is a stupid, overcrowded, and overrated journey to hell."
In the last forty minutes, countless tourists, with questionable appetites and negligent deodorant habits have breathed down my neck, the sun has scorched my skull, and the end is nowhere near.
"I told you." Lucas says for the 10th time. "If you'd let me lead, you would've been having fun right now."
"Please, you'd probably take us to some misogynistic bar, with overpriced whiskey and stinky cigars."
"Fine, then continue to suffer."
"You know..." I drawl. "I heard that Chelsea Market has some really nice restaurants—"
"Nah, I'm good."
~
Ok, fine.
Lucas has impeccable taste.
I don't know how it's possible, but my jaw is on the floor, eyes out of their sockets, and heart pushed against my ribcage. "I want to get married here..." I whisper weakly.
A rooftop restaurant - no, it's not even a restaurant, it's a blooming greenhouse in an Italian countryside. Innumerable flowers adorn the ceiling, wrapping around benches and columns. Adirondack chairs and bird houses scatter in the mystical space, basking in sunlight and chatter.
"This is one of my favorite places," Lucas smiles as he takes in my reaction, "They decorate and change their menu according to every season."
The waiter places glasses of cold water and asks what we'd like to order. I'm still distracted by the beauty around when Lucas grabs my attention. "Do you know what you want to eat?"
I look at the menu, flustered for zoning out, then scowl. "The fuck is this?"
The waiter looks like I just insulted his grandmother, but Lucas chuckles, "which one?"
"All of it! Everything's in Italian, it's like they don't want any foreigners here." I squint to read, while Lucas continues to laugh. "Arancini...pansotti liguri...flounder e ceci..."
The menu gets taken from my hands, exposing his smirking face. "I'll order."
I bite my cheek to stop from smiling, then have to chug down the water to cool as he starts ordering in sexy gibberish. "What'd you get?" I ask when our waiter leaves.
"Impatient much?"
"Don't you know already?"
He nods with exasperation, as if knowing me is such a hassle. But I roll my eyes, because we both know it's a privilege.
But the environment steals my attention again, and I sink in my seat, soaking everything with awe.
"What?" Lucas asks, watching me with curiosity. "What's on your mind?"
"I just like places like this." I look at him. "I've always wanted to have my own restaurant." He stares like I'm an alien, eyes slightly wide and eyebrows bunched. "What?" I frown.
He snaps out, shaking his head. "Nothing."
"Ok..."
The waiter brings a lavender toned cocktail with a floating purple flower. I lift and swirl it with admiration. Lucas's eyes soften at my approval, and he lifts his whiskey glass.
"Cheers to you. For being lucky enough to explore New York with such a handsome devil."
I snort, clicking our glasses. He smiles over the rim of his, while I take a sip of mine. "How interesting..."
"Thought you'd like it."
The waiter brings two plates of appetizers, one seems to be tomatoes and mozzarella with basil and vinaigrette; the other has grilled artichokes. Lucas went overboard, but everything tastes amazing, and I make sure to leave room for the main dish.
Eventually, they bring the entrees - a medium-rare steak with grilled vegetables and fries. When I go for a bite, the seared, caramelized exterior blends into the tender center, making love to my tongue with seasonings and rich flavor.
"Mmm," I moan softly, "why does steak taste so good?"
"It's the Maillard reaction." Lucas says, cutting his piece in perfect, thin slices.
"The what?"
His eyes lift on me. "It's a chemical reaction when meat gets heat," he stabs his fork in one of the slices and lifts it to eye level. "When the outside gets brown, the amino acids and carbohydrates create compounds known as 'umami.' It's what spreads on your tongue, hits the back of your throat, and leaves you craving more."
When an inevitable blush invades my face, he smirks. "You pervert."
"You're the one sexualizing steak!" I protest with full cheeks.
"That's how it is! There's a whole science and art behind it, look." He dips the piece in a mushroom sauce and brings it to my lips. "Taste it."
I take the fork to eat without assistance, growing hotter under his gaze. "Yeah, it's delicious..."
"That's because mushrooms have umami too. Do you notice the thick, full-bodied feeling in your mouth?"
I start choking and reach for water, while Lucas throws his head back with a deep, heartfelt laugh. After I've taken a breath, I glare. "How do you know all this anyway, did you go to culinary school before joining the Marines?"
"No, I just learned it growing up."
"Aren't you full of surprises..."
He doesn't reply, and my curiosity peaks, but I don't know how to approach it safely. So I lift my glass instead. "Cheers to you. For exploiting a normal dining experience with erotic narration."
"You're welcome." He gives a lopsided smile as we finish our drinks. "Another one?"
"Sure."
~
"Thanks for bringing me to this place." I say when we finish our meals.
The sun has descended into an orange glow, and strings of lights have dotted the floral sky. Italian tunes murmur, glasses clink and laughters tumble. Candles bounce on every surface with golden warmth.
Goosebumps rise on my arms from the cold, making me shiver. Lucas stands up and approaches one of the patio heaters in the corner. To my surprise, he wheels the seven feet stainless steel towards us, ignoring the startled looks from guests and waiters.
"I was fine..." I smile.
He just rolls his eyes, settling back. "If you got sick, you'd blame me. I'm not risking it."
"You're so dramatic," I laugh, "I'm not that bad."
He smiles crookedly, eyes mischievous. "But you are pretty ditzy outside of work, aren't you?"
"Excuse me?" I scowl, but he snorts, focusing on his drink. Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Psht, just because we spent a few hours together, doesn't mean you know anything."
"Hm, let's see. You dumped cherries on my head, kissed a girl you barely knew, forced me to arm wrestle, punched me, gave me a cold shower, and dragged me around town to play Bella Waldorf."
"Blair! It's Blair Waldorf. How dare you butcher the queen's name."
"How old are you again?"
"You know what, Lucas? You're just jealous. Don't be a hater."
He laughs, deep and unrestrained. "It was a compliment!"
"Were you dropped on your head? How is that a compliment? Try again."
"Ok, dictator."
"Lucas." I warn.
"You like saying my name, don't you?"
"N-no?"
"I think you do."
"Don't take your thoughts seriously," I smile, hand under my chin, "they're usually incorrect."
"You're funny."
"I know, you should learn from me."
"Yeah?" He smirks, reaching for the water pitcher to fill my empty glass.
"Thank you." I mumble, blushing as I sip.
"You're welcome, you drink like a camel."
I spray my water, folding with laughter, and thankfully he laughs too, handing me a napkin.
Silence rests for a moment, and I wonder in comfortable bliss. "It's funny how a certain setting can make you feel a kind of way, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know, I've always thought that when a restaurant has everything right- you know, with the food, the service, the ambiance - that it can put people in a trance, almost like a spell," I look at the tables of families and couples, chattering and nibbling with joy, "even if they don't get along or haven't seen each other for a while, they can get together and connect."
He glances around, forearms on the table, "yeah, that's why I like this place." He looks back at me. "Not everyone can see that."
I shrug, "like I said, I've always wanted to have my own restaurant. I pay attention to these things."
He eyes me again with strange suspicion. "How come?"
"Oh. Um...it's sort of a sad reason."
"That's ok."
The encouragement and patience in his expression makes me intertwine my hands, focusing on the texture of the wooden tabletop. "Well...when I was little, my mom and dad used to fight a lot. They'd go for days without talking, and it'd give me anxiety. So one day, I started this tradition of making breakfast for us."
I can't help but smile a little at the mental image of my 5 AM preparations. "Every Sunday, I'd go outside, clean the patio, set a white tablecloth, with silver utensils and fancy napkins. I'd watch YouTube tutorials and try new dishes - french toast, tartines, omelettes, croissants. I'd garnish each plate with flowers, maybe write little, motivational note, put a piece of herb from the garden."
I trace the pad of my finger along the rim of the glass. "Then I'd wake my parents up, and they'd come out in their pajamas and smile, forgetting about their fight."
Lucas is so focused on me, that I lean back and squirm self-consciously. "Not that it fixed anything. They got divorced, they barely speak to me. But, I don't know, I've always believed that food can be healing."
"Why does it matter so much?" He asks quietly.
"What?"
"Helping people, or healing them, whatever you want to call it. Why does it matter?"
"Because." I smile at his confusion, "everyone around you carries an invisible burden; their clouds get so dark, they can't see clearly. I think it's special if you can bring them back, make them feel safe, and cared for, and most of all, not alone, with just simple things like a plate of food and company."
Sadness and shock deepen Lucas's expression, as if my words struck him with guilt. "Did I say something wrong?" I ask.
He dips his head, shaking it quietly. Then after a minute, as if coming to a decision, he sighs. "My dad used to say the same things."
I stay still, processing, tentative to not ruin this moment. Waiting for him to take it at his own pace.
"I'm sorry for running out when you asked about his initials..." he continues, "I don't talk to people about it."
"I'm sorry for asking." I offer softly.
Somehow, I know that prying about his father's death or giving my condolences will make matters worse, so I try a different direction. "Was he a chef?"
"He was," he smiles, making me relax. "He's the one who taught me about umami."
I nod, lost in the way his chestnut eyes swirl with specs of gold; even the hard lines of his face seem to dissolve.
Something about the silent exchange makes him bite his lip, and I start to think it's something he does when he hesitates.
Then he continues, I don't know why, but he does. "Our Sundays involved ruining the kitchen and getting yelled at by my mom." He chuckles with boyish amusement. "Until he'd make her breakfast in bed and kiss ass, then she'd roll her eyes and eat, acting like his little judge."
I giggle, and he laughs, prior tension lifted. Even his hands seem to come close across the table. "He'd do these big gatherings with friends and family, where he'd cook for everyone."
His smile falters then. "All night, he could stand by his grill, probably in so much pain, but you'd never know."
My chest aches for him. "He sounds like a really good man."
"He was."
He seems lost, and distant, and I wish to bring him back, see him warm again. "Did he have his own restaurant?"
Hardness returns to his face, and it quicks my pulse with regret. "Excuse me," he rises on his feet, voice cold, "I need to use the restroom." Then he walks away before I can say another word.
I groan, palming my forehead with frustration. I either suck at conversations or Lucas needs to print out an instruction manual to maneuver around him.
A couple of minutes later, our waitress stops by with the check, so I slip her my credit card.
But just as she turns on her heel, Lucas appears and opens his palms to take the black server book. He swaps my credit card with cash from his wallet, telling the waitress to keep the change. Then as she walks away, he finally looks at me, raising a silent eyebrow.
The expression coils my abdomen with unexpected flutters, halting the air, gushing blood to my face. Something about his effect must be obvious, because he smirks at me slowly, a wicked satisfaction flashing briefly in his eyes before he beckons me to the elevators.
It seems that his mood is back to normal, though I'm too scared to risk it. Instead, I marvel at the enchanting ceiling one last time while we wait for the doors to open.
Sad to leave this place, I reach my hand to snap a small, pink flower from the decorated column by my side, smiling at its delicateness.
"Excuse me," a passing waiter chides like I committed a crime, "that's not allowed-"
Lucas fucking growls - ok, no, he clears his throat - but it comes out so threatening, that even I flinch.
"Ok." The waiter concludes, scooting away.
The elevators open, and I sneak a glance under my lashes, unable to hide my amusement. Lucas suppresses his own, pressing the button to the first floor, confining us behind closed doors.
I bite my lip to stop from smiling, and tuck the flower behind my ear.
~~ A/N ~~
OH EM GEE, are we sensing some real intimacy here?!
I know some of ya'll are expecting them to jump each other's bones, but, you should already know that's not my style hehe
Thank you for reading, voting, and commenting!