Olivia

“Ah, shit,” I screech, stumbling, almost snapping my ankle in two.

Old Montreal’s beautiful cobblestoned streets feel like you’re in a quaint European town, but no matter how pretty and romantic, the uneven stones are murder for women in high heels.

We tiptoe gingerly down the well-lit street, very aware of the danger should one of our heels lodge between the stones. It’s as real and as dire as taking my next breath.

“Are you okay?” Sin stops, waiting for me to catch up, and I gratefully latch onto her arm with a shaky breath.

“Yes, barely.” My light laugh belies my unsettled nerves and she joins me. After all, what else are we supposed to do? “How much longer ‘til we reach asphalt or a cab?”

“Soon,” Erin calls from ahead, closer to the upcoming intersection and what looks like smooth road. Not too much longer now, just a few more steps.

“Olivia,” a deep, urgent voice calls from behind.

When I halt abruptly, my heel snags on a stone. Sin and I sway, unsteady, and gasp before turning, the magnificent beauty of Sam Beaulieu’s lightly jogging toward us. His formidable form is backlit by the moon, each stride smooth and confident.

“Eek,” Erin squeals, her voice sounding closer as she gently bumps into my back.

We sway back and forth before we’re able to stabilize our trio. Huddling under a vintage streetlight, we’re mesmerized by the tall, lean man approaching us with a sexy smirk brightening his already handsome face.

“I seriously don’t believe this,” Erin mutters. She’s starting to piss me off. It’s not like I’m pursuing him.

“Ladies, you left without saying goodbye,” he playfully admonishes, holding his hand over his heart like he’s wounded by our callous departure.

“We’re so sorry,” Erin purrs, stepping out from behind me to plant her palm on his forearm.

Sam briefly flicks his eyes to her before shifting to pin them on me, their sea green depths shimmering with something akin to hunger.

“Olivia, can we talk for a moment?”

Fits of giggles erupt from both Sin and Erin. Yes, these are my best friends, although I’m seriously reconsidering that at this moment as the two grown-ass women act like a bunch of star-struck teenagers.

Hanging my head in sheer embarrassment, I mutter, “Would you please leave us alone?”

Sam confidently inches closer to me, then it hits me—my friends’ lame outburst has diverted my attention from the real concern. Sam. I’m wildly turned on by this hot young man standing before me.

Stepping back, out of the circle of light, I’m plunged into darkness. Moving into the same spot I just vacated, his striking frame is illuminated by the fluorescent glow from above, like a spotlight beaming down on the main attraction. If I didn’t know he was a chef, I’d swear he was a model.

“I don’t usually do this,” he says.

“Do what?” I’m confused, my mind reeling and heart battering.

“Chase women.”

I snort. Real attractive, Olivia.

“Is that what you’re doing?” I quirk an eyebrow in question. He nods once, his smile still in place. “Well actually, come to think of it, of course you don’t. They usually fall at your feet,” I sarcastically add at the memory of the evening’s revolving door of women surrounding the kitchen. I bet tonight was an average turnout for him.

“Fall at my feet?” He chuckles, one side of his lips tipping up in amusement. “I must’ve missed that because I don’t remember any women at my feet. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

“I guess we see things differently,” I quip. “What do you want, Sam?”

“I want you to go out with me.”

Didn’t he get the hint? I shot him down in the restaurant.

Damn, he’s beautiful. He could have anyone—so why me? I’m not chopped liver, but I’m past my prime—although they say forty is the new thirty, whoever the hell ‘they’ are. I’ve got two children, stretch marks, and less than perky breasts.

“I live in Toronto,” I say, stupidly blurting out the first inane rebuttal that springs to mind.

“I know, you already said that, but you’re still here tomorrow, right? Have dinner with me then.” His voice is a rumble, low and sexy, stirring sensations deep in my core.

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” I sound like an echo chamber.

“Because I like you, and something tells me I’m going to like you even more once I get to know you.” His smile is blinding, especially those panty-wetting dimples.

“I’m forty-two,” I boldly announce, trying to thwart his lunacy. I fully expect him to nod and walk away. He doesn’t; instead his iridescent eyes remain fixed on me, darkening and growing hungrier by the second.

I’m wildly flattered by his attention and I’ll definitely pull this moment out when I need an ego boost or some inspiration for my spank bank, but he’s way too young. I’m too old. I’m not a cougar. Never will be.

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word, and I wait. Silence ensues. He’s still smiling, clearly entertained. I remain silent, waiting for him to tell me his age…or maybe he needs a bit more time, then it will hit him. He’ll realize this is crazy and walk away. We continue to stare at each other in awkward silence, or at least I think it’s awkward. His sexy grin widens. He’s mouth-watering.

“And you are…?” I ask, refocusing on my mission, losing patience with his persistence.

He cocks an eyebrow as if he has no clue what I’m getting at and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’m what?”

“How old are you?”

“Does it matter?” he challenges.

“Yes,” I state, my tone emphatic.

“I don’t think so,” he volleys. Instinctually, I give him the stink eye and grumble as his suggestive grin grows in contrast to my concern.

“I tell you what, go out with me, and on our date, I’ll tell you how old I am.”

“Seriously?” I’m now a mixture of incredibly tickled and irritated by his determination. “You know I could Google you, right? I’m pretty sure I could find out your age with a few clicks, Mr. Hot-Shot Chef.”

“I’m sure you could, but where’s the fun in that? Go to dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asks sweetly, his irresistible dimples teasing me. Clenching my thighs, I attempt to ease my achy core.

“Coffee,” I counter, and my stomach flip-flops, surprised I didn’t say no.

Now I’m bargaining? What the? It’s not supposed to go like this. There’s only one answer for me to deliver: no. Plain and simple. No. Clearly the fool in me has taken over.

“Lunch.”

Our negotiations are now in full swing. In the glow of the streetlight, the dusting of scruff on his prominent jaw and assertive stature make him dark and even more alluring.

“Coffee,” I repeat with less conviction.

What am I doing? I need to walk away. I can’t go on a date with this man—or should I say boy, given our likely sizeable age difference? Damn. No, he’s definitely all man. Confusion and the giddy exhilaration of riding a roller coaster attack my mind and body. Why can’t I just say no?

“Dinner,” he starts again.

“Fine, lunch,” I relent, folding like a house of cards.

So much for my conviction—though I did change the meal on him. Ha! Like that’s some big win. While I certainly did fold, I do feel some victory in making it lunch instead of dinner. That evening meal comes with too much pressure and expectation. I don’t want him to think I’m easy, because I’m not, although he is awfully tempting.

“Excellent. Give me your phone and I’ll text myself so I can contact you with the details.”

As I rummage in my purse, girly squeals sound from behind me. Ignoring their childish behaviour (to be fair, I’m biting back a silly grin myself), I hand him my phone.

After a few taps, he hands the phone back, not letting go of my hand. The warmth and strength in his hold calms my nerves and excites me. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say with a shaky voice.

“This is for you,” he says, pulling the pink flower from his jacket lapel.

I hadn’t even noticed the camellia, the same flower used as centerpieces in his restaurant. Tucking the delicate bloom into the buttonhole of my jacket, his fingers lightly graze my collarbone, sending sparks shooting to the tips of my toes.

“Thank you.” My reply is breathy, my heart racing.

“It’s a camellia,” he states, his stare warm and penetrating.

“I know, it’s beautiful.” I must be in the Twilight Zone; this is all so surreal. It’s exciting and naughty, yet also a bad idea all around. “Thank you,” I say with a small smile, truly moved by his sweet and romantic gesture.

“Do you know what a pink camellia means?” he asks coyly.

I shake my head. Captivated. Hanging on his every word.

“It means longing and desire,” he rumbles. A startling quiver ripples through my low belly as if there’s a direct connection between his deeply sexy voice and my insides. His smoldering eyes drill into mine. “Goodnight Olivia, I look forward to our lunch date.”

Leaning in, he softly kisses my cheek, his warm lips lingering on my skin longer than necessary. Relishing every second of contact, I deeply inhale the intoxicating aroma of spice, freshness, and something undeniably masculine emanating from him. His mouth trails from my cheek to my ear, his lips tickling my flesh along the way. “I’ll be longing for you,” he whispers huskily.