Erin did as she was told. The truffles melted on her tongue like a musky butter. ‘Wow – they’re fantastic! I could get used to those.’
‘Easy, Tiger,’ smiled Chris. ‘They cost a fortune. You’ll have to marry your rich boss if you want truffles as your teatime snack.’ She felt a warm rush at the mention of marriage to Adam. Stop it, she scolded herself.
‘So why are they so pricy?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe the trouble it takes to get that to your plate,’ said Chris. ‘About ten years and a lot of paranoia. Truffle hunting is shrouded in so much secrecy. In some areas of Italy, only the father of the family knows where the truffles can be found, and the secrets are passed down from generation to generation.’
‘Gosh, sounds like the basis for a thriller,’ said Erin.
‘Hmm, maybe that’s the answer to my literary impasse,’ said Chris.
‘How do you mean?’
Chris looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, I am writing a book. Actually I’ve written two, although neither of them have ever been near a bookshop.’
‘Really?’ asked Erin. ‘What sort of thing? Cookbooks?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Horror.’
Erin nearly choked on her risotto. ‘Horror? How … odd,’ she said lamely. ‘You are a dark horse.’
‘Hey, don’t knock horror, young lady. It’s one of the biggest commercial genres in the industry. Look at Stephen King.’
‘Well, yes. Precisely,’ she teased.
‘Anyway, I’ve just been binned by my agent but –’ he drained his wine glass with a flourish ‘– I will continue. Stephen King only got his break when his wife rescued his notes for Carrie out of the dustbin, and the rest is history.’
Erin was shaking her head and laughing. ‘Actually I’m writing a book too,’ she said, greedily scraping the last of her risotto from the bowl.
‘Look who else is full of surprises,’ smiled Chris. ‘I didn’t think you would have time to put pen to paper with all the international jet-setting.’
‘Stop being cheeky. I am a lowly PA with a dream,’ she said smiling. ‘But you’re right. I’ve got an agent but no time,’ she added, realizing she hadn’t even opened her laptop for at least three weeks.
‘I tell you what, Prickles,’ said Chris, putting his feet up on the coffee table. ‘Let’s have a competition. By the end of the year, let’s see if one of us can get a publishing deal.’
‘Okay!’ said Erin, suddenly enthused about her book once more. ‘And every competition must have a prize.’
Chris flicked the rim of his glass. ‘I’ve got it – whoever gets the first book deal has to take the other out for a meal of their choice in any restaurant in the world.’
‘That’s not fair!’ complained Erin, ‘you can go anywhere for free!’
‘Hey, don’t assume that I’m going to win.’
She blushed. He was cute. ‘Okay, you’re on. But out of interest, where would you like to go?’
‘I’ve never been to the French Laundry in the Napa Valley,’ replied Chris seriously. ‘Thomas Keller is one of the world’s best chefs.’
‘Napa Valley,’ spluttered Erin. ‘I was thinking more like that gastro-pub at the end of the road,’ she smiled.
‘Well you’d better get on with winning, then!’
They clinked glasses and, as she let the wine slither down her throat, a light giddy feeling washed over her.
She extended a hand to Chris and he shook it. ‘It’s a deal. But there’s one more thing.’
‘Name it.’
‘Don’t call me Prickles.’