Okay, it’s official: I’m impressed.

I was a bit hesitant when he told me he was taking me to his place, but this beats whatever a five-star restaurant could offer us.

We’re standing in the rooftop garden of his penthouse, a gentle warm breeze whipping at my hair. There’s a cozy table set in the middle of the huge garden, a red tablecloth draped over it; the table’s already set, and everything from the plates to the silverware adds a certain classiness to the whole thing.

“Here we are,” he tells me, leading me toward the table and pulling one chair back for me. Thanking him with a nod, I sit at the table and wait for him to do the same. “Red or white?” He asks me, pointing at the selection of bottles resting on a side table.

“Red,” I reply, trying to sound confident and failing miserably. Look, I’m not exactly someone that’s easily stunned by riches, but Liam seems to be the kind of wealthy guy that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t help but be impressed. I mean, a rooftop garden in Tribeca, the most expensive neighborhood in Manhattan? And, really, his apartment is so luxurious that I’d be impressed even without this garden. Seriously, how much money does Liam even have?

I thought that he was just a boy in a grown man’s body, someone living it up on his parent’s dime, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. He’s so poised and commanding of his surroundings that there’s no doubt in my mind - wherever his money is coming from, he isn’t living at someone else’s expense. No, this is a man in charge of his own life.

“Oh, here he comes,” Liam suddenly says, looking over my shoulder and smiling. I turn around on my chair and see a man walking into the garden from a door that I presume leads to the kitchen - he’s wearing dress pants, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and a chef’s apron. And the weird thing is… I think I recognize him from somewhere.

“Ah, Liam, my good boy!” The man cries out in a thick French accent, gripping Liam’s right hand and shaking it heartily. Then he turns to me and, bowing exaggeratedly, takes one of my hands and kisses its back. “Enchanté!” He says merrily, a giant smile on his face. I look back at him, slightly surprised, and I notice the sleeve tattoos covering his forearms, an intricate black pattern that seems to continue under his shirt.

“Léo Moreau, I’ll take it you’ve already heard of him,” Liam tells me, and my brain suddenly lights up. Holy shit - Léo Moreau? The celebrity chef from “The Cook from Hell”? How the hell did Liam manage to convince a top notch chef like Léo to cook for him in his kitchen?! “I see you recognize him,” he laughs, seeing the stunned expression on my face. Yeah, this time there was no hiding my true emotions.

“It’s… It’s an honor!” I tell Léo, and he just bows down again, one hand over his chest. I’m stunned - on TV he’s such a hardass but, in real life, he seems to be a genuinely nice guy.

“The honor is all mine,” he tells me, standing up straight and placing one hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Liam’s a good friend of my family and, more importantly, he knows how to appreciate good food and good wine! I’m always happy to cook for someone like that!”

“Thank you, Léo,” Liam replies humbly, looking at the chef and smiling. By the way they’re treating each other, I think it’s a pretty safe bet to say they know each other pretty well. Jesus, I knew Liam moved in circles where celebrities were a dime a dozen, but this is almost too much.

“Well, let me bring the food!” Léo continues joyfully, turning around and snapping his heels together. He waltzes into the kitchen and, two seconds later, he appears again, this time pushing a food cart, the smell coming from it making my stomach rumble. “And here it is!” He continues, waving his hand at the variety of plates covering the huge cart.

“You really went all out, Léo,” Liam laughs, his eyes going over the food.

“The best food for the best man! And for the best lady, of course,” he adds, bowing again in my direction. “Brown bread with the best French olive oil,” he announces, setting one plate on the table, right between me and Liam. “And then tartare of lamb, kelp, oysters and -- ah, Liam knows all about what I’ve prepared! You’re in good hands, Miss Cara. Enjoy your dinner,” he finally concludes, taking his apron off and bowing one last time. How did he know my name? I don’t remember Liam introducing me, which means… He has been talking about me.

Is that a good or bad thing? I can’t really tell.

“Thank you!” I say with Liam in a single voice, and Léo just smiles and struts back to the kitchen. A few seconds later we hear the door of Liam’s apartment being slammed shut as Léo leaves.

“I had no idea you wanted to impress me this bad,” I tell Liam with a slight chuckle, my stomach roiling as I soak the brown bread with olive oil. Léo wasn’t kidding - this is the best olive oil I’ve ever tasted.

“Well, I actually thought of cooking for you… But Léo just offered his help when I told him I’d have someone over.”

“I never thought he’d be such a nice guy,” I confess, still trying to blend Léo’s true personality with whom I expected him to be.

“Yeah… What you see on TV is just for show. He’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever know.”

“Seems like it,” I muse, realizing that it really takes a genuine nice guy to come and cook for a friend, even though he’s a world renowned chef with restaurants all over the world.

We spend the next hour trying each of Léo’s delicacies, each one unleashing a world of pleasure inside my mouth. I’ve never been one of these bon vivants that enjoy gourmet food, but this is something else entirely. Of course, it also helps that the wine is as good as the food; and, more than that, the company is also enjoyable.

Our conversation is superficial and lighthearted, but it’s enough for me to realize that I had a completely wrong impression of Liam. Sure, he has that bad boy gravitas, but he’s so much more than that. He seems to be a real man, one that knows how to balance his aggressiveness with some unexpected chivalry.

And all of this has made me very confused. Why is he a constant in the tabloids when he seems to be the exact opposite of what the media tries to portray him as?

“I don’t understand, Liam. Why do you seek out the spotlight?” I finally ask him, pushing all small-talk aside and going straight for the chase. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy that chases after fame.”

“That’s because I’m not. I don’t want the spotlight, Cara… But everyone insists on making me the center of attention. It’s kinda tiresome, actually.”

“Oh, come on. You’d keep a low profile if you really wanted to shrug off all that attention. I mean, how hard can it be to lead a normal life? Just act like a boring man, and soon enough the paparazzi will go away.”

“Alright, I’ll admit it. I don’t really like the fame, but it has its uses.”

“Oh?”

“If I’m in the spotlight, that means the spotlight isn’t shining over my family.”

“Your family?” I ask him, having no idea where the conversation is heading. Is he being genuine? Or is he trying to play me with false niceness? Maybe that’s how all these women fall for him - they come in expecting an asshole, and then he unleashes his gallant charm upon them.

“Yeah, my family. My father used to be an infamous playboy back in the seventies, and the press was relentless. They made him look like a real bastard, you know?” He laughs, but then he looks to the side and falls silent; swirling the wine inside his glass, he lets his gaze roams over the New York brightly lit skyline. “I just think my parents deserve to rest now. They don’t need to deal with the media sniffing after a story or bullshit like that. So I keep the focus on me. At all times.”

Well, that’s surprising. Does New York’s most notorious playboy have a golden heart? Seems like it. The jury’s still out on Liam, though - I’m not going to buy into his knight in shining armor narrative just because he sounds convincing. Most sociopaths sound convincing as well, and they aren’t exactly what I’d call eligible bachelors.

But still… I wasn’t expecting any of this from Liam. For the first time in my life, a man has finally managed to surprise me.

“Come here,” he tells me suddenly, placing his glass on the table and standing up. He offers me his hand and I take it, allowing him to pull me up to my feet. We walk to the glass railing of the balcony and stare at the city underneath us, its bright lights like glowing stars on the firmament.

“I know I’m not exactly a role model,” he whispers, turning to me with a faint smile on his lips. “But I truly don’t care about being seen as this or as that. I am what I am, and that’s it.”

“That’s not a bad way to live,” I admit, seeing myself reflected in his words. More than understanding what he’s telling me, I feel it deep in my bones.

In a way, he’s just like me.

Before I know it, I’ve turned to him and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt; I go on tiptoes, lock my eyes on his and hold my breath.

And then I kiss him.