Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Fine.” And it was. Not even a twinge of the usual ache at my temple I felt around this time of night.
“I’m glad. I thought there were rules about alcohol and concussions.”
I held up my glass to show my minuscule pour. “I’m hardly in any danger here. And now that I have the tuna, I’m set.”
He narrowed his gaze. “If my tuna is a concussion cure, I’ll want a mention in the medical books.”
“I’ll make sure of it.” I chuckled.
Jean-Claude sipped his Pinot, jolting at the next crack of thunder. “At this rate, power will be out soon too. What a night.”
“You don’t like thunderstorms?”
“Not particularly.”
“I love them,” I gushed. “I have a generator at my house in Seattle, which is handy, but also kills the spook-factor fun.”
He fixed me with an unreadable look. “You are weird.”
I snort-laughed at his dry delivery and almost choked on my stingy sip of wine. “A little. You’re from Montreal, right? You must have grown up with the occasional wicked rainstorm too.”
“I’m not from Montreal, but yes, I know this weather well. I prefer sunshine or even snow to rain. And I know plenty about snow.”
“Same. So…where are you from?”
He took another sip, his gaze glued to mine. “Nord-du-Québec, in a village so tiny you can’t find it on a map. It makes Elmwood look like New York City.”
“Really?”
“Oui. It’s a five-and-a-half-hour drive to Quebec City if the weather cooperates. Seven and a half to Montreal. Very remote.”
“How do people make a living there?” I asked conversationally. “Agriculture?”
He scoffed. “No, city boy. Logging and mining.”
“Do you miss it?”
He went still for a long moment. So long I was afraid I’d inadvertently hit a touchy subject. “Yes and no. I miss my family sometimes, but there’s nothing for me there.”
“Not cheffing jobs?”
Jean-Claude chuckled. “Certainly not. I am what you would call an accidental chef. I started clearing tables and sweeping floors at a French bistro that tried to be an Italian restaurant in Saguenay. One day, they needed extra hands in the kitchen, preparing plates for a large party. My job was to cut sprigs of parsley, chop radishes, and help stir the marinara. Silly things, but I loved the energy…fast-paced and furious. Made the adrenaline zip through my veins. When I had enough money to move again, I headed for Quebec City, enrolled in a culinary academy, and soon after, I was an apprentice at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and eventually, I became chef de cuisine.”
“Head chef,” I guessed, nursing another small sip. “I could have sworn Vinnie said you were from Montreal.”
His eyes lit with mischief. “You have been talking about me? Interesting.”
I was grateful for the dim lighting as heat flooded my cheeks. “Well, yes but not really.”
“Yes and no? Which is it?” he teased.
“He mentioned that you and Nolan…um…and I thought you’d met in Montreal. But we weren’t talking about you.”
Jean-Claude arched a brow, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “If you say so,” he singsonged.
“Okay, we were talking about you, but not in a bad way. I was curious about you.”
“Or suspicious? You wanted to make sure I didn’t spike your tuna, eh?”
“Something like that.” I laughed. “So…what’s the story?”
“I hate to be popping bubbles, but there is no exciting story. I moved to Montreal for a better job and met a cute man at a gay bar. That’s Nolan, by the way. We got along so well, he extended his vacation. A month later, I accepted his invitation to come and see his diner in the mystical town of Elmwood and I never left.” He waggled his brows and drained his glass. “What is your story?”
“I don’t have one. I play hockey. That’s all I’ve ever done.” I retrieved the wine bottle from the counter and topped off his glass, setting a calming hand on his shoulder as thunder boomed loud enough to wake the dead. “Relax. As my mom used to say, the angels are bowling and one of them just hit a strike.”
Jean-Claude cleared his throat. “You misunderstand. I’m not afraid. I am only…mildly anxious. It’s October.”
“What does that mean?” I asked with a laugh.
“October storms give me jitters. I’ll tell you the story…it won’t seem terrible to you, but it was scary to me.” He opened his hands and leaned forward in what I could only call storyteller mode. “When I was a teenager, my brother and I went camping near Lac Chibougamau with a couple of friends. It was unseasonably warm for October, so we thought it was a good idea. Not so much. It was a total disaster.”
I smiled at his self-deprecating tone. “What happened?”
“What didn’t happen? The tent had a hole, so we slept with bugs and were bitten everywhere. We lost a fishing pole, caught one tiny perch, and just as we were about to pack it in, the heavens opened up. Lightning struck one of the metal stakes my friend had pulled from the ground and it sizzled his tent. No joking. The rain put out the sparks…Dieu merci, but it scared the shit out of us. We huddled under the good tent—four big teenagers in a small tent for hours until the storm passed and my father finally came to pick us up. To this day, October storms make me nervous. Any other month, no problem. But October…”