Page 89 of Blue Gold

Glancing at him, I pursed my lips, bitter that I’d have to wait even longer before I could have a proper taste.

28

DANIEL

“I want, euh… soup, but no cream, s’il te plaît,” Elliot said, eyes focused on the menu. “Oh, and… uh, no croutons,” he added before handing the waiter back the menu.

“I’ll have the Pomodoro, please,” I said, also handing him my menu. “And a bottle of your finest wine, please.”

After writing down our order, the waiter walked away, yet Elliot’s stare lingered on him.

“Doesn’t it bring back memories?” he asked, turning his eyes to me.

It sure did.

“I think I’m still full from that seven-course meal you cooked for me.”

“Please. It wasn’t even that much food,” he tsked.

He’s delusional.

Our waiter returned with the wine, and after presenting the bottle and giving me a taste, I approved, and he filled my glass.

“I sure miss your cooking,” I admitted, not minding the waiter, who now filled Elliot’s glass.

“I miss it, too…” Moving his eyes to the waiter, Elliot thanked him before the guy placed the bottle on the table and left us. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve cooked for what… a year?”

My lips curved in displeasure. “Well, that’s a shame.” I then thought of his order and asked, “Why did you only order soup?”

Elliot pulled a pack of smokes from his pants pocket and placed it on the table. “I don’t like to eat a lot in the evening.” Taking one cigarette out, he used his lighter to light it before wrapping his lips around the tip and taking a deep inhale. “It’s making me sleep bad,” he said after blowing out the smoke.

“And smoking doesn’t?” I grimaced, not happy with this bad habit of his.

He took another drag before waving his hand around us. “Everyone here smokes.” Another puff. “Besides, we asked to sit outside so I could smoke.”

True. But even though we had a beautiful table right in one of Milan’s hidden alleys, and the guests around us also poisoned themselves with those damn cigarettes, it didn’t mean Elliot should have done the same.

“Merci,” Elliot told the waiter, who’d just placed an ashtray on our table, along with some bread.

Ignoring the waiter, I focused on Elliot’s stunning appearance. Somehow, he’d gotten even more beautiful since I’d last seen him face-to-face. I did manage to catch a broadcast of a new jeans commercial he was in, but nothing matched seeing him in the flesh. Since NYC, he’d gotten a haircut, and now, with his dark hair slicked back, defined clean-shaven jaw, and sharp blue eyes, he looked like a movie star from Hollywood’s golden age. It was funny to compare this Frenchman’s beauty to one of America’s classics, but it was hard not to with him looking like he was just pulled out of an old Western.

“You’re staring,” he said, making me smile.

“Oh, am I?”

“Mhm-mhm.”

Pleased, I grabbed a bun from the basket, tore a piece off, and popped it into my mouth. Making sure to chew the bread with a smile, I continued to stare at Elliot, who held both his wine and cigarette in the same hand.

Taking a drag, he then blew the smoke out and shook his head. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

Neither could I, but last Saturday, I was struck by such longing that I had to ask my secretary to book the flight.

“I told you I missed you on the phone, didn’t I?”

“You were horny.” He placed his wine down but kept the cigarette. “Men say a lot of things when they’re horny.”

“And how would you know?”