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)
I snickered. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Okay, that sounded weird and flirtatious. Not my intention at all. Before I could sputter and reassure him I was perfectly sane, he sighed theatrically and slumped in his chair.
“Merci. I feel much safer now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my grin in check. I liked this guy. Jean-Claude was charming and funny. His goofy sense of humor softened his edges and made him seem so laid-back. I got the impression he thickened his accent for comedic purposes. All it did was spark my curiosity.
“Good. So how long did you live in Montreal? I love that city. Toronto’s better,” I taunted playfully. “But I might be biased.”
“Hmm. Four years in Quebec City, two in Montreal, and five years here…or six, I think.” He tapped the side of his glass and leaned forward. “Now I have a question for you. What time are you planning to eat? The reason I ask is I am hungry and luckily, I made enough to share.”
I snorted. “Is that so?”
“Yes, so you can invite me to stay for dinner…if you want.”
“I was planning to wait till seven.”
He checked his watch. “An hour and ten minutes from now. I can’t wait that long. I will die.”
“Now who’s dramatic?” I barked a laugh and stood, rescuing the tuna container and a jar of Dijon from the refrigerator. “Okay, let’s eat.”
Jean-Claude washed his hands and dried them. “I will need access to your toaster, two plates, a knife, and a dash of salt and pepper.”
“You got it.”
I supplied him with the tools he required and leaned on the counter to watch the master at work. And though you wouldn’t think basic sandwich-making would be entertaining, it was with Jean-Claude.
“As with most things in life, balance is key. There is much to consider here: the thickness of the bread—approximately fourteen millimeters per slice—and the fact that it has been at a room temperature of approximately twenty degrees Celsius must be accounted for as we set the timer on the toaster. I don’t personally know this appliance, but if it’s an average toaster—and it looks average enough—it will take two and a half minutes to achieve a light, crispy surface. No burning.”
I grabbed two water bottles, slid one toward him, and uncapped my own. “Do you really think about all those things when you make toast? ’Cause that’s a little batty.”
“Of course not. I’m imparting great knowledge to you here.” He pointed at the toaster. “Any ordinary cook can throw bread into a toaster, hope it doesn’t burn, then slop tuna fish on top and call it a day. A chef will make it correctly. Voilà! See, the bread is not burned.”
“It’s rye bread. How can you tell?”
Jean-Claude’s over-the-top reaction was priceless. He threw his hands in the air and burst into a mini chef tirade…all in French. I wasn’t fluent by any means, but I’d taken enough French in high school to understand the gist.
“What is wrong with people? Burn the bread. Who cares? It goes to the same place. No problem at all.”
He switched to English again, moving on to the importance of a light spread of Dijon and precisely measuring your ingredients. He added a touch of salt and pepper, cut the sandwich diagonally, and pushed the plate to me.
“Thank you. It looks amazing as usual. But, uh…do you always add salt and pepper? I’m asking for future solo assembly purposes.”
“Not always, but I didn’t add much to the tuna salad, so a little is fine,” he replied as he prepared a second sandwich.
Side note: Rain battered the kitchen window and the light above the table flickered a few times as lightning and thunder raged outdoors, but Jean-Claude didn’t seem to notice. His razor-sharp focus was flawlessly professional. If I hadn’t known he was a chef, I would have figured it out. No one I knew moved the way he did in a kitchen.
For instance, my mom was a great cook, but she wasn’t concise. She was casually good at it, while he was casually excellent. Kind of amazing for someone who, if I added the time he’d spent in Quebec City, Montreal, and Elmwood correctly, had only been a chef for eleven years. And he was forty now, so…what had he been doing in his twenties?
There had to be a story there. Men like him didn’t languish in the far reaches of northern Quebec to become busboys before making their way to a big city. Maybe he’d had a whole other life in his twenties. Hell, maybe he—
“Were you ever married?” I blurted, my mouth full of an insanely delicious tuna-salad sandwich.
Jean-Claude did that arched-brow thing again, set his half-eaten sandwich on his plate, and reached for his wineglass. “No. Were you?”
“No.”
“Good to know. I’m going to guess you aren’t dating anyone or we would have seen her…or him in town for a visit.”