Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I’m losing my focus. Avril has me losing my goddamn mind.
She retakes her seat opposite me. “This is very romantic,” she says on a smile. “If any date could make me fall in love with you, it would be this one.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “You’re good.”
“Good?”
“Like with the seduction stuff. The clothes, the private viewing of the Met, the dinner in here…it’s all very…you know, the kind of thing you read about in romance novels.”
“I don’t read romance novels,” I say.
Her eyes twinkle as she smiles at me. “Well, I do, and this is the kind of stuff that heroines really like.”
“Good to know.”
“Being your girlfriend must be…something else. Unless, you’re not like this with your girlfriends.”
She’d be right about that. Not that I’ve had any serious relationships, and nothing recently. I’ve certainly never taken anyone to the Met before. Relationships always seem like a big risk. New York’s a small city and everyone knows someone you know. I need to be the man people have no doubts about—that people trust completely. I knew I couldn’t do that if I had a trail of exes scattered across Manhattan. But it hasn’t felt like a sacrifice. I’ve never met anyone I particularly wanted to share my life with. And now, with Avril in my apartment, I’m being forced to share my life with someone, and instead of running away from it, I want more.
“Are you fishing for information?” I ask her, as our appetizers arrive.
She laughs like she’s been caught out. “Maybe. What is your relationship history?”
I pick up my knife and fork. “Nothing much to tell. You?”
She sighs. “I seem to be on this merry-go-round where I meet guys who are okay and we date and then he’s an asshole or I’m bored or they’re bored, and we break up and it’s fine and I just get back on my carousel horse and start again.”
“I can’t imagine any man ever being bored with you for company.”
“Right?” she says and then dissolves into laughter. “I’m kidding, but there’s always something, you know?”
Who are these men she’s dating? Is it possible that New York is inhabited by a bunch of idiots?
“Some with mommy issues. Some money issues. But a lot of them just don’t know what they want. They think they know, but they don’t. Or they pretend to want a relationship when what they really want is sex. And that’s fine. If you want to bang your way through your thirties, I’m all for it, just don’t pretend you want anything more, you know?”
“And what do you want?” I ask. “You want to bang your way through your thirties, because, seriously, I’d be happy to help you with that.”
She laughs. “I’d be happy for you to help me with that too.” She pauses and pulls in a breath. “That’s a night I won’t forget anytime soon.”
My chest expands at her memory. It was an incredible night. “Same,” I say.
She clears her throat. “But we’re not fixated on it. We can be professional. No waters need to be muddy.” She looks up at me. “Right?”
“So far, so good,” I reassure her.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches for her handbag that the waiter brought a stool for and placed next to her chair. She pulls out a bunch of papers that have been folded in three. “I’ve been doing a little research.”
“Research? On Boston?”
She sighs. “Well, yes, but this isn’t about that. This is about culinary school. Basically the best school in the country is Culinary Institute of America. They have a campus upstate in Hyde Park. It would be quite the commute. Buuut,” she says before I can even think about what she’s saying, much less respond, “what you do have in Manhattan is the Institute of Culinary Education. It’s basically five blocks from your apartment.”
“You want me to improve my omelet making?” I ask, a little perplexed about why she’s talking to me about cooking school.
“Your omelets are perfection. But you were saying that you’ve lost a little enthusiasm for your job. And you’re rich. You could do anything you wanted. So I was thinking that you could go to culinary school. You love to cook.”
I sit back in my chair and she thrusts the papers into my hands. Has she been researching career opportunities for me? I’m not sure how to respond, I’m so shocked. “I’m not a chef,” I stutter. That was my dad.
“But you love to cook,” she says with a smile. “You were born to cook.”
“I cook because I can. Because I was taught.” My dad taught me. He was always in the kitchen, and if I wanted to spend time with him, then learning to cook was the way to get his attention.
“But you’re great at it and you enjoy it, right? Maybe you could do something more with that.” She takes the papers from me. “You can look at these later.” She glances down at her plate. “And maybe it’s not going to culinary school. Maybe you want to own restaurants. Serenissima. You could help them expand.”