set,” I said brightly as I stepped into the living room.
His head was resting against the back of the small couch and his eyes were closed. At the sound of my voice, he snapped to attention.
“Wow. You’re quick. Usually ‘just a minute’ means a solid hour—to a recording diva, at least,” he said apologetically as he stood.
I nodded empathetically. “I get it. That’s what it means to Amber, too.” Then I caught myself. “I mean, that’s what it used to mean.”
He cocked his head. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re the chef.”
“Guilty as charged.” Then I realized how close I’d come to being charged with murder and my cheeks burned at the poor choice of words. “Um, I mean, one and the same. Have we met?”
“No, I’ve just heard Felix and his father talking about you. You have an unusual name. It stuck.”
“Oh.” I decided it would be completely inappropriate to ask what the Patrick men had said about me, so I bit down on my lip to prevent the question from bursting out and probably chewed off my lipstick in the process. I headed for the door wondering what kind of date Felix had in mind.
11
F elix’s idea of a proper date turned out to be a picnic spread, complete with a red-and-white checkered blanket and a bottle of chilled wine, at a Hollywood Bowl concert.
When we arrived at the Hollywood Bowl, Felix was waiting with a wicker picnic basket over his arm and a goofy smile pasted on his face. As I drew closer, I realized I recognized his expression—he was nervous, too. My stomach did a little flip.
As I exited the car in a ball of excitement, I awkwardly invited Marvin to join us because it felt weird to think that he’d be sitting in the car just waiting for me, but he declined.
“No, thanks. I don’t care for jazz. Or soft cheese. I’ll be happier in the car listening to my old school punk. You kids have fun,” he said with a wink as he held the car door.
I smiled at Felix as I joined him at the curb. “Hi. Thanks for the flowers,” I said.
He leaned in and kissed me right at my hairline above my ear. “You look great.”
I flushed.
Marvin coughed discreetly. “I’ll wait at the usual spot, Felix.”
“Nah, go ahead and take off. I’ll take Rosemary home,” Felix said.
Oh. The little flip-flop morphed into a full-blown stomach roller coaster.
Marvin grinned and flashed him a thumbs up sign before getting back into the car. I pretended not to see it and tried to will myself not to blush. Turns out, that’s not how physiological reactions work, and I could feel the heat rising on my face. Felix just laughed and grabbed my hand.
As we walked and talked, my awkwardness and discomfort sort of melted away. I know we ate and drank and was vaguely aware that music of some sort (jazz, if Marvin was to be trusted) was being played. But all that really registered was our conversation. He told me how he loved music—not just the popular hits that his dad’s studio churned out—but all music, stretching back to baroque, classical, you name it. He’d been accepted at both Juilliard and Berklee College of Music as a piano student. But when he told his father his plans, Pat had exploded.
“He wouldn’t even discuss it,” Felix recounted. “He told me if I went to music school that was it. He’d disown me and cut me off. He told me I was going to UCLA to study business administration. So that’s what I did.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a wistful smile.
I thought my heart would crack right there in the middle of the crowd of people as his sadness washed over me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. My pale freckled skin contrasted with his tanned, strong fingers.
“Don’t be. One day, I’ll take over the company, and, when I do, I’ll change the direction completely. Instead of hip-hop crap, I’ll produce serious music.” He said it with all the
His head was resting against the back of the small couch and his eyes were closed. At the sound of my voice, he snapped to attention.
“Wow. You’re quick. Usually ‘just a minute’ means a solid hour—to a recording diva, at least,” he said apologetically as he stood.
I nodded empathetically. “I get it. That’s what it means to Amber, too.” Then I caught myself. “I mean, that’s what it used to mean.”
He cocked his head. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re the chef.”
“Guilty as charged.” Then I realized how close I’d come to being charged with murder and my cheeks burned at the poor choice of words. “Um, I mean, one and the same. Have we met?”
“No, I’ve just heard Felix and his father talking about you. You have an unusual name. It stuck.”
“Oh.” I decided it would be completely inappropriate to ask what the Patrick men had said about me, so I bit down on my lip to prevent the question from bursting out and probably chewed off my lipstick in the process. I headed for the door wondering what kind of date Felix had in mind.
11
F elix’s idea of a proper date turned out to be a picnic spread, complete with a red-and-white checkered blanket and a bottle of chilled wine, at a Hollywood Bowl concert.
When we arrived at the Hollywood Bowl, Felix was waiting with a wicker picnic basket over his arm and a goofy smile pasted on his face. As I drew closer, I realized I recognized his expression—he was nervous, too. My stomach did a little flip.
As I exited the car in a ball of excitement, I awkwardly invited Marvin to join us because it felt weird to think that he’d be sitting in the car just waiting for me, but he declined.
“No, thanks. I don’t care for jazz. Or soft cheese. I’ll be happier in the car listening to my old school punk. You kids have fun,” he said with a wink as he held the car door.
I smiled at Felix as I joined him at the curb. “Hi. Thanks for the flowers,” I said.
He leaned in and kissed me right at my hairline above my ear. “You look great.”
I flushed.
Marvin coughed discreetly. “I’ll wait at the usual spot, Felix.”
“Nah, go ahead and take off. I’ll take Rosemary home,” Felix said.
Oh. The little flip-flop morphed into a full-blown stomach roller coaster.
Marvin grinned and flashed him a thumbs up sign before getting back into the car. I pretended not to see it and tried to will myself not to blush. Turns out, that’s not how physiological reactions work, and I could feel the heat rising on my face. Felix just laughed and grabbed my hand.
As we walked and talked, my awkwardness and discomfort sort of melted away. I know we ate and drank and was vaguely aware that music of some sort (jazz, if Marvin was to be trusted) was being played. But all that really registered was our conversation. He told me how he loved music—not just the popular hits that his dad’s studio churned out—but all music, stretching back to baroque, classical, you name it. He’d been accepted at both Juilliard and Berklee College of Music as a piano student. But when he told his father his plans, Pat had exploded.
“He wouldn’t even discuss it,” Felix recounted. “He told me if I went to music school that was it. He’d disown me and cut me off. He told me I was going to UCLA to study business administration. So that’s what I did.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a wistful smile.
I thought my heart would crack right there in the middle of the crowd of people as his sadness washed over me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. My pale freckled skin contrasted with his tanned, strong fingers.
“Don’t be. One day, I’ll take over the company, and, when I do, I’ll change the direction completely. Instead of hip-hop crap, I’ll produce serious music.” He said it with all the
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