But, hell, if I came to a wedding and was stuck with a couple of tiny quiches, a mini spring roll, and a few vegetables, I’d be sad. “Could we do a little more for our guests who don’t eat meat?” I ask. “Perhaps a pasta or a risotto?”
His bulbous nose wrinkles. “Pasta. So bourgeois. The vegetables will be beautiful. The most beautiful vegetables in Miami.”
I hesitate since I suspect the vegetarians want more than pretty beans, and I want to argue, but he’s the chef. “Okay.”
“Hold on,” Mark says. “A vegetarian option is in our contract. And we have approval power over all the dishes. Page four, item six,” he says, flipping through what must be contract pages on his phone. “Asher wants something more for the veggie crew. How can you help us?”
“Euh . . .” The older man rocks back on his heels. “We could do a couscous. Very Moroccan. Chickpeas, bell peppers. Very edgy. With aubergine. You Americans call it eggplant.”
“Ah, I’m a fan of eggplants.” Mark pokes me in the ass cheek when he says this, just in case I don’t get the joke. “But no butter, right? This dish should be vegan.”
“Pas de beurre?” The chef looks scandalized. “Non?”
“No,” Mark says firmly. “Page four, line . . .”
“Pas de beurre,” the chef repeats heavily. “Quel dommage.”
Triumphant, Mark turns to me. “Will that do, Asher?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Thank you. We really appreciate this.”
“It will be a beautiful wedding,” the chef says. “You two will make a handsome couple. I will see you on Saturday at eleven.”
“Thank you,” I say brightly, smiling at him. I don’t risk a glance at Mark. “We will see you there.”
“And now I must go and prepare my restaurant kitchen,” he says. “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, et merci pour tout ce que vous avez fait.”
This burst of French gets the attention of the two men. The chef smiles at me, which means I’ve won him over. So I can check that off my list.
But Mark’s eyes also widen. I put a hand on his back and guide him toward the door.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mark says as soon as we’re outside.
I stop short and turn to him. “You mean . . .” I swallow hard. “Speaking French? Or touching you in public? I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
Mark squints at me. “Nah, I liked the French, and you can touch me all you want. But Chef Garnier has to fulfill his contractual obligations. That’s his issue to correct, and you don’t have to apologize. I get that it’s your style?you like making people happy. But all we owe that guy is a timely check and basic civility. Flip is paying him a small fortune for taking this job on short notice, right?”
“A large fortune,” I admit.
“Right,” Mark says. “So you can hold him to his obligation without apologizing. It’s quicker if you don’t bother turning everyone into a new friend. Just saying.” He shrugs, and walks toward the car. “Oh, and I’m driving now.”
But winning people over is important. When I played football, I didn’t gain the acceptance of teammates and fans by being an asshole. I pulled that off by giving a good word to everyone, and as one of the few out guys in the sport, I needed that tool at my disposal. But I tuck Mark’s comments away in a drawer, since his bossy style back there is winning over other tools?mine.
I follow him in slow steps, climbing into the passenger seat as docile as a well-trained Labrador Retriever. “That’s so hot,” I say, closing the car door with a sigh.
“What is?” He adjusts the mirrors.
“The way you handled that guy. With the contract right there on your phone.”
“Oh, it wasn’t.” He starts the engine. “I didn’t think he’d have it memorized. So I just winged it.”
He just winged it. Oh, baby. I chuckle. “It’s even hotter now, handsome. Do you have, like, a trainee I could steal to run my life? I need a keeper.”
“You’re fine, St. James. We all have different talents. Mine is negotiation. Yours is charm. Now tell me how to get to the cake place.”
Fine? I’m fine? “You mean big charm, right?”
“You and your need for compliments,” he says.
“You and your need to leave quickly. Turn right from here. Coco's Cakes is two miles down this road.” The wind rustles through my hair, and it calms me. “Seriously, though, did it freak you out when he thought we were a couple?”
“No. Why?”
“Well . . .” This is a tricky topic. He was so adamant that we not tell Flip and Hannah that we’re fooling around. And, sure, that’s probably the right move. But it made me wonder how Mark would handle it if they knew. “Let me ask you this?are you out to anyone?”