Just…come to the party. He needs to know you’re on his team, okay?”
She nodded profusely. “We’ll be there.”
“Cool. I gotta run. He’s going to wonder where I am.” I started for the door, then turned. “Um…can we not tell him I came by?”
She raised her fingers to her mouth and made a lock-and-key motion. “As you wish.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you next week,” I said, stepping outside.
“Gabe?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. Derek is a lucky man.”
I grinned. “I’m the lucky one. See ya, Mrs. V.”
Chapter Five
Derek
Could this actually be real? I folded my arms and pinched myself as I surveyed Bonne Terre, the soon-to-be coolest bistro on 2nd Street. It was everything I’d hoped it would be and more. Chic, hip, and sophisticated. The paneled white walls were adorned with photos of vineyards, castles, and cobblestone streets Gabe and I took on our trip to France last year with the national team. Natural hardwood flooring replaced the old, chipped tile; antique lanterns hung above the quartz countertops along the bakery and register area, and the small farmhouse tables were offset by sleek red and blue bistro chairs in the dining area. The mix of old and new was charming and homey. It looked especially inviting tonight…and very holiday-ish with fairy lights and garlands strung throughout the space, and Bing Crosby crooning “Happy Holidays” over the speakers as our guests mingled.
The sound of clinking glasses, laughter, and friendly conversation made me smile. I had a few anxious moments earlier, worrying about the menu. This was a tasting party as well as an opening celebration. Let’s face it, if the food sucked, it wouldn’t matter how awesome the place looked.
But everything from the Provençal vegetable tartlets to the rosemary pommes frittes were amazing…if I did say so myself.
Evan swiped a small sandwich from a passing tray, nodding his thanks to the server before holding them for me to inspect. “Dude, what’s this one? It’s insane. I’ve had ten. At least.”
“It’s a mini smoked-salmon croque-monsieur.”
“Amazing.”
“Thanks.”
Evan chomped into the hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t mention it. I’m—”
“Hey, babe. The food blogger can’t stop raving. She’s doing a write-up about you tomorrow.” Gabe put his hand on my hip and inclined his head toward a pretty blonde near the door. “She said something about a podcast.”
“I told her I might be interested.” I straightened Gabe’s collar and traced the stitching on his holiday sweater. Damn, he looked sexy in red.
“If you’re gonna make gooey eyes, I’m outta here,” Evan groused. He was halfway across the room and at Mitch’s side before I could think of a snappy comeback.
Gabe chuckled, then glanced toward the door again. I followed his gaze and froze.
“My parents are here.”
“You invited them, remember?”
“They didn’t RSVP. I didn’t think they’d come,” I said softly.
“Go talk to them.”
“Um…”
“Go.” He squeezed my shoulder and gave me a gentle push in their direction.
I sucked in a deep breath, pasted a smile on my face, and tried not to seem shocked that they’d shown up. My mother was a stickler for rules, so I was sure the fact that she hadn’t RSVP’d was a passive-aggressive show of disapproval. Or maybe she was still pissed about my mashed potato commentary at Thanksgiving. I’d rehearsed this conversation in the mirror earlier today on the off chance they’d stop by tonight. The key was to remain cordial and calm.
“Mom, Dad, welcome.”
My dad pulled me in for a traditional half hug, back slap before shaking his head in wonder. “This is marvelous, Der. Just look at this place.”
“Thanks. There’s a list of the hors d’oeuvres we’re featuring tonight on the blackboard by the bakery counter. I took a few dishes from each menu. Two quiches from breakfast, a bisque-and-sandwich combo from lunch, and a ton of dinner selections. I have a few sample menus to give you an idea about the cuisine. My idea is to do a French fusion with a farm-to-table twist.” Stop talking. They didn’t ask to see your report card. “Anyway, um…I’m glad you’re here. Enjoy.”
“We will, son,” Dad said.
Phew. Crisis averted. I smiled at my mother, motioning for her to go ahead of me. She set her hand on my arm and pulled me to a less crowded area near the window.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mom…”
She shook her head again. “I’m sorry I gave you reason to doubt me. Or worse…doubt yourself. You’ve done a wonderful job, Derek.”
I gave a self-deprecating shrug, unsure what to do with the unexpected compliment. “Well, thanks, but you haven’t tried anything yet.”