Not that it seems to matter. When I glance back up at Calder, he looks every bit the self-assured billionaire he always was. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips.
“I hope you trust me,” he says.
“Since when was that a good idea?”
He leans forward and closes his hand around mine. “I’ve already arranged the menu for tonight. On Martin’s recommendations, of course.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Making decisions for me already?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Believe me, I know better. But I want you to feel taken care of tonight.”
The idea pleases me more than I want to admit. God, what is he doing to me? By the end of the night I’m going to be a pathetic, simpering mess.
Fortunately, I’m saved from having to respond—and certainly making a fool of myself—by the arrival of the executive chef himself.
“Martin!” I exclaim. My acquaintance with the man was brief, but I always liked him, and I’m thrilled that he found this opportunity.
“Ms. Frazer,” he says, reaching out and clasping my hand. “A pleasure, as always.”
Calder’s standing, and he reaches out and claps Martin on the shoulder.
“Congratulations, old man,” he says. “Thank you for the table.”
Martin’s grin widens. “Actually, I should be thanking you, Mr. Cunningham. I’m sorry I can’t linger and chat, but I wanted to come by and say hello before the main rush. And assure you, of course, that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you have the perfect evening.”
“I have every confidence it will be,” Calder says.
“I hope you two brought your appetites,” Martin says. “Everything’s on the house tonight, of course.”
Martin retreats back to the kitchen, but no sooner has he gone than a waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne—some crazy-ass expensive champagne by the look of it.
“A gift from the chef,” he says.
I look over at Calder. ZL" aid="“I guess this means he approves of me?”
The waiter pops the cork, and I watch him pour the golden liquid into a pair of glass flutes.
Calder, however, is watching me.
“The very first night Martin met you,” Calder says, “he told me he expected to be seeing a lot more of you.”
“You’re just teasing me.”
“Not at all. Sometimes I think Martin knows what I need better than I do.”
Again, he seems to know just how to throw me off balance. Flustered, I quickly grab my glass of champagne.
“Look at that,” he says. “Five minutes in and I’ve already got you speechless.”
In spite of myself, I feel my flush deepen. “Try not to get a big head.”
He reaches over and slides his hand along my arm. “I like that I make you nervous.”
Nervous? My stomach is doing freaking somersaults. If I don’t change the subject, I’m going to end up a puddle of mush on the floor.
“What did Martin mean when he said he should be thanking you?” I ask.
Calder leans back in his seat. “It was nothing. I have a few connections in the restaurant industry, so I put him in contact with the owners of this place. It was the least I could do, all things considered.”
“He seemed excited.”
“He’s thrilled. I talked to him earlier this week, when he was making a few last-minute tweaks to the menu. You should have heard him. Like some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed upstart fresh out of culinary school.” Calder looks down at the table. “He worked in restaurants before, you know. The last place had two Michelin stars. My father must have paid him handsomely to convince him to leave that and come work for us.” His smile fades, he shifts in his seat.
I frown. “You don’t believe your father forced him to work for you?”
“Not forced, certainly. But hearing Martin talk about how excited he is to run a full kitchen again—it makes me wonder. If he hadn’t come to us, he might have had an entire restaurant empire by now. He would have had plenty of accolades, of course. Cookbooks, probably. Maybe even his own TV program.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you really see Martin as some celebrity chef running around and screaming at people on a reality show?”
That earns me a small smile. “Of course not. I just wonder if he regrets it all, sometimes.”
“I don’t believe for a minute that Martin regrets anything.” I reach over and take his hand. “He could have walked away at any time and had a dozen job offers, but he didn’t. He stayed because he loved working for you guys. You might not be related by blood, but you can’t tell me that man isn’t part of your family.” These last few months, he’s been the only family Calder has had. Calder’s own sister, Louisa, skipped away back to Southeast Asia as soon as their father’s funeral was over. I know she’s heavily involved in some philanthropic projects over there, but it still infuriates me that she’d run off to the other side of the world instead of helping her brother sort through the mess they inherited.
His thumb skims across the back of my hand. I look for some hopeful reaction to my words—a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, maybe, or a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, but I get nothing.
“Calder,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.
He looks up at me then, and the look on his face nearly breaks my heart. We haven’t talked in depth about all of the changes he’s dealt with these past few months. His father’s death, his financial ruin, the loss of his childhood home—any or all of those things would have broken a weaker man. We walked through the house together, he and I, a few weeks ago. I held his hand and listened to his stories, helped him say goodbye. But it’s one thing to lend a hand or an ear, and quite another to know what to say to a person who’s just lost everything, whose entire life has been upended before your eyes. I can’t even begin to understand what he’s feeling, and anything I might say sounds so trite in my head.
My only solace is that the press hasn’t picked up on it yet. There was a flurry of interest in Wentworth Cunningham’s death, but it died down pretty quickly. The Cunninghams’ people must have worked overtime to keep the rest of it out of the news, but now that he can no longer employ any PR geniuses to hide his family’s dirty laundry, I know it’s only a matter of time. The tabloids will eat this up.