Read Online Hotelles by Emma Mars - Free Book Online Page A

seeds; pan-seared lobster cooked in its own juices, served with shellfish in a champagne sauce, the effervescence of which tickled my tongue and made me groan in delight.
    â€œIt’s to die for!” I whispered as David reached out to intercept a drop of sauce escaping the border of my lips.
    It was obvious that my happiness was his. He was more delighted seeing me so undone by these delicacies than he was tasting all the amazing flavors himself. His enjoyment was vicarious. I for one was happy to flatter his imagination. My taste buds were so sensitive, so inexperienced. They felt pleasure in a way his could not, since for him fantastic dinners like this were so commonplace.
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    â€œNO, SERIOUSLY . . . I WOULD love to know how to make something like that.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t?”
    â€œSure, I guess I would,” he breathed.
    His laughter winged through the air.
    Since we’d started seeing each other, I had barely gotten the chance to show off my admittedly meager cooking skills, a pale facsimile of my mom’s culinary know-how. Food, like everything else, was part of the whirlwind David seemed so effortlessly to create. I just let myself be carried away. Now that I think of it, “whirlwind” isn’t the right word—being able to choose the perfect word or image to fit a given situation is essential for a writer in training like me. “Tornado” is better, considering its dizzying power. I was being sucked up into his magical world.
    David called the waiter with an almost imperceptible hand gesture and leaned to whisper something into his ear.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re ordering another bottle of wine . . . I’m already feeling blotto.”
    â€œ ‘ Blotto’ ?!” he repeated, bursting into laughter. “If you keep using your mother’s expressions, beware: next time, I might just invite her to dinner instead of you.”
    The waiter, who had left during our brief exchange, suddenly reappeared holding a folded note. To my surprise, he handed it to me, gesturing with his head that I should indeed take it:
    â€œMademoiselle . . . Compliments of the chef.”
    â€œThank you . . . ,” I stammered.
    A murmur swept through the restaurant: famous chefs never revealed their secrets. Especially not in gastronomic sanctuaries like this. But David had only to express a wish, and management would grant it, even if it went against all the rules. All to satisfy my little whim. I blushed, feeling both pleased and confused.
    â€œNow you don’t have any excuses: tomorrow I’ll have Armand make the kitchen available to you,” said my enchanting king.
    Armand was his jack of all trades. He was also his personal chef. Thanks to him, Monsieur Barlet’s everyday life went off without a hitch. Armand attended to everything, at any time of day. I twisted my mouth into a pout I knew would make him melt.
    â€œI might disappoint you.”
    â€œHardly. Shall we go?”
    That was David. He was already standing, the moment he’d just created over. He was the genie in the lamp and the gust of wind capable of blowing all the magic away.
    Our fellow restaurant patrons were staring more intently than ever when the staff discreetly whisked us out a back door. I imagine my date had left a more-than-generous tip as we were leaving. Outside, the valet was tapping his well-shod foot against the asphalt. He did not rush to greet us, as one might have expected. He held no ticket or key, but instead handed David a light blue-and-white-striped sweater, which he unfolded and firmly placed around my shoulders.
    â€œWe’re not taking your car?” I asked, surprised.
    No sign of his black Jaguar.
    â€œNo. Let’s walk a little, shall we?”
    The sun had set during our lobster orgy, and though there was a slight breeze, the evening was inviting. David put his arm around my waist,