When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)
Page 22“You bargained for the tomatoes, but you were angling for a good price on the lettuce the whole time, you little minx,” a deep, delicious voice murmured near her head, causing a tingling sensation to go down her neck. She twisted her chin and saw Lucien standing closer than she’d expected. His gaze was fixed on the back of her neck like he was considering taking a bite out of her there. Her nipples tightened against the tank top she wore beneath her sundress.
“How do you know that?” she asked innocently.
“Because I watched you eating one of those tomatoes a moment ago, just like Jim Goddard did.” She watched his ungodly sexy lips move as if in a trance until she realized what she was doing and turned away. “After that display, the poor man probably would have thrown his farm into the deal in order to make the sale on those tomatoes. What’s a few crates of lettuce to him, when he gets to witness you turning his vegetables into certifiable sex fruit?”
“You shouldn’t complain. I saved you money,” she said breezily, still not turning because she loved the feeling of his warm breath on her neck, the vibration of his deep voice in her ear.
“It’s just a little hard not to feel for the rest of the helpless men on the planet when I see them so easily seduced by you.”
“Seduced? I didn’t do anything improper,” she insisted, turning to face him.
He shook his head. “You breathe improper, Elise. You could make taking out the garbage an X-rated affair.”
Her breath stuck and burned in her lungs when she saw the heat in his gray eyes.
She stilled, the question evaporating from her brain, when he reached up and carefully wiped juice off her chin.
They loaded all their purchases in the largest black pickup truck she’d ever seen. “These Americans do everything so big,” she muttered as she helped him close the tailgate. She could just imagine what she was going to look like trying to peer over the dashboard of the enormous truck when she took over marketing next Saturday. The brutish truck hardly compared to the Bugatti Veyron she used to fly around Paris in. Oh well. At least she’d earned the right to climb behind the wheel of the behemoth vehicle. She’d never done any such thing for the cars her father gave her.
Lucien checked the platinum watch on his wrist. “Come on, we have time before the lunch preparations. I’ll take you for something else the Americans do big.”
“What?” she asked, her heartbeat escalating when he took her hand in his.
“You’ll see,” Lucien said elusively.
She gave him a doubtful look when he led her to a small restaurant nestled innocuously among expensive Gold Coast town houses.
“The House of Pancakes?” she asked dubiously.
“Is there a party going on?” she asked, bemused as she took in the crowded restaurant and rambunctious atmosphere.
“No. This is a typical Saturday or Sunday morning here. The Americans love weekend breakfast. It’s an occasion for them,” Lucien explained quietly before the hostess greeted them cheerfully and seated them at a small Formica-topped table.
“Look at all the families . . . the friends,” Elise said, examining the diverse crowd, everyone talking amiably or diving into mounds of syrup-drenched pancakes or fluffy omelets. In France, breakfast consisted of coffee and a croissant and was hardly an occasion. The first meal of the day was the least important, and definitely the least social, in her opinion.
She opened the plastic-covered menu and stared in wonder at page upon page of decadently rich food. Lucien must have noticed her amazement because he was smiling when she looked up.
“It’s like culinary Disneyland.”
“I’m always telling people, when it comes to cooking, the Americans do one thing like no other: weekend breakfast. Look at them,” he murmured. He grabbed her hand on the tabletop in a gesture that seemed entirely natural on his part but made her heart jump. She followed his gaze.
“And people say Americans will never understand the true meaning of a French meal,” he murmured under his breath to her, eyeing the tables of happily relaxed people, friends and families talking about their week in a non-pressured manner while they sipped steaming coffee or indulged in a doctor-prohibited meal for one precious moment during a busy week. She saw a teenage boy showing his dubious but interested grandfather something on his iPad, a man reading his International Business Times while his female companion perused a self-help book, their hands held fast on the Formica tabletop. Kids colored on the restaurant-supplied kid’s menu, looking adorably like they’d just rolled out of bed with uncombed hair and sweatpants, shorts, and occasionally even pajama bottoms.
She looked at him and they shared a smile.
“I admire the chef,” she said.
Lucien chuckled. “I imagine it’s more of a cook than a chef. It hardly compares to the complexity and nuance of what you do.”
“Thank you, but I meant I admire him because he gets to bring all these people together. These families,” she added, once again studying all the relaxed, happy people with longing. “You miss having family around, don’t you?”
“I miss having a family. Period.” She was surprised when he reached across the table and squeezed her hand. She saw something in his eyes—something she understood all too well.