Olivia

“Wow, this is beautiful.” I scan the large open space, visualizing it as a restaurant.

Sam’s ahead of me, his broad shoulders and well-defined back taking up a significant amount of my view—but I’m not complaining. Taking a moment, I give in to my desire to admire him. He’s not only gorgeous on the outside, he’s also a wonderful person. I still can’t believe he came to Toronto to see me. I wanted to talk to him last night about us, about whatever it is we are doing, but Drew was there when we got back, then later, I lost my nerve.

The remainder of the evening was one big blur after our kiss. I couldn’t think straight, let alone recall what we talked about. I had to put some distance between us or else we would have been going at it in the middle of the Bow. I can still feel Sam’s strong arms, his hot lips devouring me, owning me. My knees buckled the moment his soft, firm lips covered my mouth—thank goodness I was seated or I would have ended up on the floor.

“Olivia?” Sam quizzically studies me. “What do you think?”

“Sorry?”

“Patti was saying the electrical and the floors need work, so we could most likely knock the price down, get a better deal. What do you think?”

“Yeah, you could. I’d want to get someone to look at the electrical, make sure it’s not worse than they say before making a bid, if you want to. It’s a great location and you’d get both weeknight and weekend traffic,” I add.

We are a stone’s throw away from my house in the Annex. This is the final location we’re seeing today and it’s in the best neighborhood. The Annex is in the heart of Toronto, an affluent, vibrant, and diverse community—a great spot for a restaurant.

Patti Darvin, Sam’s real estate agent, leads us to the kitchen, which needs a lot of work. In fact, all the locations we’ve seen today need work, some more so than others. I, for one, get excited about projects like this. As an interior designer, these locations are like a blank canvas to a painter, so many possibilities. I love taking a space and making it functional and reflective of the people and its purpose, creating an energy and ambience that capture the essence of the inhabitants.

“Bonjour,” a woman’s voice calls from the front. With clicking heels, Yasmine Thibault steps into the doorway. My heart sinks and I bite my lip to prevent the sneer from forming. What the hell is she doing here? Did Sam ask her to come?

“Yasmine,” Patti and Sam say at the same time, both going to do their French thing of three kisses on alternating cheeks.

Yasmine’s eyes lock with mine, the diabolical glint in her eye unmistakable. With her hand on Sam’s forearm, she plasters on a phony smile. “Olive, lovely to see you.” She gives me a weak wave.

I return the gesture, pursing my lips into a thin line. I don’t think I’m capable of hiding my disdain, nor do I care to. Sam corrects her, politely saying, “It’s Olivia.” He steps away from her, coming to my side, and places his hand at the small of my back. His presence is reassuring, though I’m still not certain if she was invited or not.

As if he’s reading my mind, Sam clears up the ambiguity. “Yasmine, what are you doing here? How did you know we’d be here?” His tone is neutral although it’s lined with a slight suspicion.

“Oh, she called…” Patti starts, but Yasmine rushes to cut her off. “Patti called me and mentioned what she was doing and since I was in the city, I thought I’d stop by. Papa will be thrilled to hear you’re looking, although I know he’s partial to Montreal.”

It’s clear she’s lying. She likely called Patti and grilled her on Sam’s whereabouts or something like that. I’m pretty sure Sam sees through it too, if the crease in his brow and tight lips are any indication.

With Yasmine’s arrival, Sam cuts the visit short. Out of the blue, he thanks Patti and barely says goodbye to Yasmine, making it my turn to do the sad wave toward the plastic blonde. I can’t resist donning my satisfied smirk as Sam ushers us out rather abruptly.

I’m not sure what it is about Yasmine that irks me the most. I’m not particularly threatened by her, although maybe I should be because Sam is definitely her target. I’m used to her kind of woman—just look at my BFF, Erin. As I give it more thought, it’s her damn age. She’s younger than Sam—I’d guess mid-twenties, at most—and I simply can’t compete with that.

Back at my place, we’re sitting around the kitchen table when I ask Sam, “So, which one was your favorite?”

“I think the last one. You?”

“Me too. I think it has a lot of potential. For the front space, you could shorten the foyer and extend the area just before the dining room into a funky waiting space with tables for drinks. It could have a vintage French vibe. You could also knock down the wall behind the serving area and make it an open kitchen like Beaulieu’s, or you could just cut out a space at the bar to make it like a sneak peek into the kitchen so all your adoring fans could get their Samson Beaulieu fix.”

Sam grabs me around the waist and pulls me into his lap. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he taunts.

His lips skim my collarbone with small pecks as he moves up the column of my neck. A tingling sensation shoots from where his mouth is worshipping throughout my body.

“I told you there’s only one woman I want adoring me. And.” A kiss just under my jaw. “That’s.” A kiss behind my ear. “You.” A kiss on the corner of my mouth.

With his hands secure around my waist, he twirls me so I’m forced to straddle him. My fingers sink into the soft strands of hair behind his neck as his hand latches onto the back of my head, guiding me toward his mouth.

I should stop this. We’re moving too fast. I need to keep this casual, no strings, but what he’s doing to my body is making it hard for me to think. Cupping my neck, he kisses me full on the mouth. Our lips glide, skim, and mold together, each of us willingly exploring the other like this is our first, last, and only kiss.

His lips are warm, firm, and alluring. As his hands travel down my lower back and cup my bottom, butterflies take flight, low in my stomach. God, this feels so good.

Still feeding on my lips, he stands and I circle my arms tighter around his neck and my legs around his waist. He effortlessly carries me, heading for the stairs.

“Bedroom?” he mumbles against my lips, making sure I’m okay with this.

Am I? I’m not sure about us long-term, but I’m sure about this right now. I haven’t felt this sexy, this wanted in eons. I’m alive, on fire. As much as my mind is warning me, telling me to slow down, my body’s taken over. My body wants this—now.

“Yes,” I pant into his mouth.

For a fleeting moment, Drew and Paige flash in my mind. Drew’s not home from work yet, and Paige is supposed to come over later. With Sam’s first step up the stairs, his hard abdomen pleasingly rubbing against my core, I groan into his mouth and all reservations evaporate like smoke.

His lips wander my neck, peppering my tender flesh with wet, hot kisses that curl my toes. I tilt my head to the side to give him better access.

“Mom,” Paige hollers from what sounds like the front door. We freeze at the top of the stairs. There are two voices speaking, and one sounds like Pete.

Carefully putting me down, Sam rests his forehead on mine. With his eyes closed, he raggedly inhales. Without missing a beat, he gives me an understanding smile and gently kisses my forehead.

“Paige?” he whispers. I nod, taking a deep breath of my own.

“Coming,” I call out and quickly descend, hastily straightening my hair and double-checking that my clothes aren’t askew.

I round the corner, and both Paige and Pete stand close to the doorway, talking. They stop and look to me, then at Sam as he comes down behind me. Great, this doesn’t look fishy at all.

Taking a step toward them and deliberately away from Sam, I rack my brain for a plausible reason for why we would have been upstairs that doesn’t involve what we were actually doing. A transient and stupid thought runs through my mind—I could introduce him as a client. My office is upstairs, it would make sense, but just as quickly I dismiss the absurdity of the lie because they both know I don’t have clients to my home. That’s why I rent office space on Bloor Street, so my clients can meet me there.

“Hey,” I say, hoping I sound natural and relaxed, rather than as freaked out as I feel.

With a quick smile, I prepare to introduce Sam, but Paige beats me to the punch. “You’re that chef,” she claims excitedly.

Pete and I glance at Sam, confused. How does my teenage daughter know who Sam is? Sam nods, smiling sheepishly.

“What?” I ask, hands on my hips, looking expectantly at Sam, then Paige, impatient for someone to tell me what the hell they’re talking about.

“He’s on the Chef’s Network, the show about the restaurant he owns, something to do with cabbage—what’s it called again?” Paige asks. Before Sam can speak, she answers her own question. “Mon Petit Chou, that’s it. My little cabbage, right?”

“Yup, that’s it,” Sam offers no further explanation.

Cabbage? I should know what that means, but I’m too focused on not knowing something so big about him. “You have a TV show?”

“Had. I decided not to renew for a fourth season.”

“You had a TV show? Why didn’t I know that?”

Pete’s eyes on us are hot and uncomfortable as he watches our odd and enlightening exchange.

“I thought you knew.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You mentioned Googling me so I figured you knew about the show.”

“Well, I didn’t. I was joking about your flock of women. I figured there’d be a page or three thousand dedicated to Chef Beaulieu.”

Sam emits a hearty laugh and Paige snickers like she knows what’s going on when she has no clue. Pete still stares, his face impassive but interested.

“My flock of women?”

“Have you looked in the mirror?” I lob at him, my tone clipped, now feeling irritated more than anything else.

I’m not sure if it’s the knowledge that he is a celebrity that bothers me or the fact that my daughter knew and I didn’t—or maybe it’s none of that and it’s because I’m not only old and out of it, but also stupid, and now I have my ex-husband and temperamental daughter watching us like we’re the hottest show on HBO.

Sam’s grin disappears, his face still mellow and now tender as he stands taller. With two short strides, he’s at my side. His arm slips around my waist, drawing me into his side.

Leaning down, he whispers so low that I’m the only one able to hear, “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re alone. You’re the only woman I want flocking to me.” His lips kiss behind my ear, feather light, fleeting.

Cabbage.

His tattoo.

I so want to know what it all means.

“Ewww,” Paige squawks, stomping past us into the house. Pete growls.

Sam instantly steps back, muttering an apology as both Pete and I call to Paige, but she’s gone, thumping up the stairs. Damn teenage daughters—everything is drama.

“Liv.” Pete’s tone is stern. “May I have a word with you?” He flicks his hand over his shoulder toward the front yard. It’s not a question, even though he phrases it as one.

Shit, I am so not in the mood for this, for Pete and his lecture—not now. Nodding, I briefly peer at Sam, who looks gravely contrite as he mouths sorry.

Outside on my walkway, Pete unexpectedly pivots to face me. His hands clamp down on my shoulders, halting my potential crash into him.

“Liv, what the hell?”

“Excuse me?” I rear back, shaking off his embrace.

“Who is that kid?” he spits out, obviously having already come to his own conclusion.

“Pete, it’s none of your business. I don’t owe you an explanation, but Sam is a friend.”

“A friend? Since when do your friends make inappropriate PDA in front of your husband and daughter?” His anger is evident in his furious eyes, clenched hands, and impenetrable posture.

“Ex-husband. You keep forgetting that part. Pete, I need you to leave. Now.”

With one step toward me, his eyes narrow and drop to my lips. Familiar lust clouds his gaze and his breath quickens. So help me, if he tries to kiss me, he’ll lose his balls. What the hell is it with men feeling the need to go all Neanderthal and stake a claim on a woman even if she is no longer theirs? Fisting my hands, I widen my stance.

“Liv, don’t do this. Forget this nonsense, I don’t fucking care what a piece of paper says, you’ll always be my wife. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care what’s happened or who’ve you’ve been with, I want you back.” His tone is heavy and exacting.

“Pete, stop. We’ve been through this before. We’re over,” I declare harshly.

“I’m not giving up. I will get you back,” he vows.

Twirling on my heels, I hurry to the front door, wanting to get as far away as possible. We’ve done this dance way too many times for my liking. No movement of retreat sounds from behind me, but I’m not scared of Pete. He won’t hurt me—at least not physically. I only wish he’d leave.

If I weren’t focused on getting back to Paige, I’d laugh at Pete being ticked about Sam, like he has a right to give a damn. He never gave a rat’s ass when we were married. He never spent time with me, just us. When the kids were young, during the rare moments when we had time to ourselves, he’d be elsewhere. I never felt considered or important then, so it’s hilarious the way he’s going on now.

“Liv,” he calls. I halt in my tracks, but refuse to turn around. “What about Paige?” At the mention of her name, I do twist to face him. Pete is a caring and loving parent, his concern for his children genuine.

“I’ll talk to her.” It’s all I have, all I can do, but it’s not much. Pete knows what Paige and I have been going through and he’s been nothing but supportive. Other men may have used this rough patch with Paige to drive a bigger wedge between us or to tear me down, but he’s been my biggest advocate.

With a jagged exhale, he nods in understanding. His lips stretch into a weak, strained smile and he thrusts his hands into his pockets. With defeat clearly defined on his face, he turns his back to me and leaves.