The Way to a Billionaire's Heart - Part 2

“Oh, it is. I’m a chef, so Sunday and Monday are my only free nights. Lucky I caught you.”

Something in his tone or his eyes suggested that maybe he meant that I was the lucky one. But maybe I was being too quick to judge. And really, who cares? It’s vacation!

“Hey, I’m a chef, too! But back in Washington, D.C.”

“How’s the kitchen going to get on without you?” he asked with that really, really cute smile.

“Well, I’m a personal chef, so it’s a bunch of kitchens that will have to get on without me. For my regular clients, I cooked extra last week, they’ll just have frozen dinners. Really good ones.”

“Cooking for the rich and famous, huh? How’s that work out? A lot of assholes?”

I stirred my drink and took a sip. “Not like in the kitchens. I went into business for myself so that I didn’t have to take orders from a bunch of arrogant jerks.”

“But you’re still working for others, the clients.” Ah, he was a devil’s advocate sort, those people that just like to argue for sport. They’re a dime a dozen in D.C. I know how to deal with those.

“Huh. Fair point.” BAM. Argument over.

But he wasn’t done. “I used to work in Bonaire, but it had more rich tourists. These guys come in to dive and just want everything their way. I couldn’t take that shit. I punched one old dude right in the nose when he came into my kitchen to complain about butter on the fish.” He’d gotten very excited as he told this, but then smiled sheepishly. “So, uh, I left the island and came here. More families, fewer millionaires.”

I wasn’t in the mood to discuss class warfare. Frankly it was hitting too close to where my thoughts wanted to go, anyway. “So,” I asked, “what do you like to cook?”

His face lit up, the way we do when we talk about food. “Fish. I have a couple of fisherman who’ll sell directly to me. Vegetables are hard here, desert-y climate, you know, not much grows but coconuts and aloe.”

“Yeah, I was expecting fresh mangoes at every meal and being able to just pluck bananas from the trees…” I trailed off. Dylan was running his fingers up my arm.

“No, go on,” he murmured. But I’d lost my train of thought. It was time for Andrea to shut her mouth and let Drea take over.

“Do you want to dance some more?” I asked. The band was still on break, but there was music playing.

“Yeah. It’s hot in here, though, let’s go out on the beach.”

“Hang on, let me tell my friend where I’m going.”

I found Kiera snuggled in a corner with that lanky guy she’d been dancing with. When I got closer, I could hear that he was speaking Papiamento, the local patois. I motioned for her to come away.

“Can you understand a word he’s saying?” I asked when she wove over to me.

“No, isn’t it perfect? He speaks English, Dutch, and French, too, but I’m insisting on Papiamento. It sounds so nice and I don’t have to care what he’s saying.”

I just shook my head. “Girl, I don’t even know what to say. I’m going outside with Dylan, just wanted to let you know.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me. “You go git some, Dre. Have fun. Don’t worry about me, I’ll see you in the morning.” She threaded back through the crowd to her man, bumping her hips like a stripper as she went.

Okay, let’s do this. I took a deep breath and headed outside. Dylan was leaning against a palm tree, smoking. Yuck. He tossed the butt into the sand when he saw me coming. I’ll just let Drea handle this.

“Hey,” I said, digging in my purse, “You’re going to need a mint before you kiss me.” I opened my Altoid tin at him. “Take two.”

“Oh,” he said with that devilish grin, “I have to kiss you?”

"You don’t have to, but you’re going to want to and I’m not going to let you if you taste like an ashtray. You’re killing your tastebuds, you know."

“I only smoke when I drink.”

"I’ve worked in enough kitchens to know what that means. Come on, let’s dance." No Woman, No Cry was on again–first the band had played it, now it was on a recording. Marley was doing it better, for sure.

Dylan put his hands on my hips and swayed with the rhythm I set. I tried to feel electricity in his touch, but it just wasn’t there. I leaned into him, felt the warmth of his chest on my mostly exposed breasts. My body was responding–my nipples contracted, I felt the stir of interest between my legs–but my mind wasn’t in it. I tried to let Drea take over my brain, too.

I looked up into Dylan’s grey eyes and he leaned in to kiss me. His minty, cigarettey, rummy taste was all wrong. It was not the kiss I wanted. I pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said, “still taste the cigarette?”

“No, it’s not that. I just…I think I should go back to my room.”

He pulled back and held me at arm’s’ length. “You okay? Was it something I did?”

“No, no, you’re great. I’m just…I feel kind of sick, I think. I should go.”

“Meet me tomorrow night for dinner? Kitchen is closed Mondays.”

Maybe I’d get my head together by then. He seemed nice. Certainly nice enough for an island fling. Hell, if Stella could get her groove back, so could I. “Sure. Where should we meet?”

“I’ll pick you up outside your hotel. How’s that?”

I gave him the name and we decided to meet at 8. I kissed his cheek and started walking back toward the hotel, grateful that he didn’t try to come with me. Back at Lambada Joe’s I could hear Marley singing “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love…” Yeah. The breeze coming off the water helped blow away some of the cobwebs in my head. I needed sleep. That was all. I was tired and not thinking clearly.

Tomorrow, I’d wake up sober and I’d swim in the Caribbean Sea and I’d spend the whole day not thinking about Walker Alexander and then I’d go to dinner with a good looking chef and go home with him afterwards. And I wouldn’t think of Walker Alexander at all. Not even once.

Walker

Goddamned job and responsibilities. I had all these meetings lined up this week, hoping I’d have Andrea on board by now. I’m an optimist by nature. And I’m used to getting my way. But right now, without Andrea, I don’t feel the fire for these meetings. I just want to go tell Andrea the truth, face to face.

Only, I have no idea where she is.

Okay, I know Aruba, but that doesn’t narrow it down all that much. It’s an island with a lot of hotels, many of them very big. Luckily, money can make things happen.

“Steph,” I said to my assistant, “I need you to do whatever is necessary to find a girl for me.”

“Have you tried Tinder, Mr. Alexander?”

“You’re hilarious. No, a specific girl. Remember the chef I was telling you about, Andrea Wilson, the one I want to bring on board for the new snack line? She’s somewhere in Aruba, with a friend named Kiera. But that’s all I know. I need to find her, quickly.”

Steph was tapping it into her iPad. I had no doubt she’d find Andrea by the end of the day. I hoped it would be sooner.

Meanwhile, I needed to postpone meetings. I called in Zach, my appointment secretary.

“Yes sir?” Zach was young, just out of college, but he was almost disconcertingly eager to serve.

“Zach, next week is full of meetings I can’t actually have. At least not at the beginning of the week. I’m going to need you to reschedule anything that happens before Wednesday, including tonight’s dinner meeting with the ad guys.” Better to give myself a buffer. I couldn’t stand the thought that Andrea might not be willing to believe me, might not be willing to help with this line. But it was clear I shouldn’t just assume anymore.

“Will do, sir. Shall I take that out?” He pointed at the saute pan sitting on my desk.

“No, I’ll take it home with me this evening. Thank you, Zach.”

He left the room briskly and would, no doubt, have my schedule rearranged before day’s end. I can afford the best, so there’s no reason to settle.

Having dispatched my minions to solve my obvious problems, I was left with the more complicated one. How to win Andrea back.