“Well, that’s my cue to move along,” Jean said with another friendly laugh. “The sexual tension is too much for me. Kiss already. Enjoy the rest of this bottle of wine, and I’ll send over more with dinner.”
This confused Evan. He tore his gaze away—a bit of a challenge because Staci was her own mesmeric force. “Apparently, we’re lacking a reservation.”
“Stace doesn’t need a reservation,” Jean informed him. “I always keep a few tables free for when special friends pop by.”
Evan instantly wondered just how special a friend Staci was. And he felt a flash of possessiveness he’d never before experienced. He placed a hand along the back of her bar stool to mark his territory.
She must have read the question in his eyes because she immediately said, “Jean and I have known each other for ages. Since about birth, really. Our parents go way back. My sister and I would travel to France with my parents when we were younger and we’d all spend a month every summer touring the countryside and cities. Then Jean and his family would come to our home for New Year’s.”
“No one rings in the New Year like the Kays,” Jean told him. “But my time for reminiscing is over. I must relegate myself to the kitchen to prepare something extraordinary for the two of you.”
Jean shook hands with Evan again, then gave Staci double air-kisses to the cheeks. They had a quick exchange in French before the chef left them. The bartender cleared away Jean’s wineglass, brought a fresh one for Evan, and poured for him.
Evan slid into the stool Jean had just vacated and clinked rims with Staci.
“How convenient that you’re chummy with the most popular chef in Manhattan.”
“You took offense to him calling me a special friend.”
“Thanks for setting the record straight.”
“You have nothing to worry about with Jean Marquis.” She lowered her voice and said, “He’s gay.”
“Ah. Doesn’t that make me the rude American for staking my claim?”
“I think it’s hot.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Anyway, it comes in handy to know the right people. Unfortunately, I didn’t know anyone whose name I could drop to get in to see you.”
“You could have made an appointment for your heel ailment.”
She took a sip of the wine and said, “First, I suspect your calendar is booked for the next two years. I don’t have that much time to wait this out.”
His gaze narrowed, concern no doubt etching his face.
“No, no,” she immediately said with a vehement shake of her head. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not dying or anything. No one’s dying. No death. That’s not why I so urgently wanted to see you.”
“Good to know. Very good to know.”
“Second,” she said, “I don’t have a heel ailment.”
“Actually, you do. Plantar fasciitis. Heel spurs, essentially. I felt the slight inflammation when I examined you.”
She gave a slight pout. “Don’t you need more concrete evidence to determine a medical condition such as that?”
“Do you experience sharp, shooting pains in your heel first thing in the morning?”
“Sometimes.”
“And when you’re either standing or sitting for a lengthy period of time—as you likely were when you were waiting for me today?”
“Okay. Yeah.”
“Plus, you feel an ache or some pain or discomfort in your arch. You admitted as much in my office.”
“Doesn’t everyone at the end of the day?”
“No. But heel spurs will do that to you.”
She frowned.