Hungry for More (2012) (11 page)

The answer, apparently, was “no
.
” Paul and Tad were both completely engrossed in cooking their purchases from the market. For once, Bridget’s failure to join in their meal didn’t stem from her own self-consciousness. She didn’t think they had prepared a single thing that she would eat even if she were alone.

“Nanny! I ate a
snail!
” Tad cried,
delighted
by the experience. “Now it’s
D
addy’s turn. You eat one! Eat it
D
addy!”

“I’ll have two.”

“Ewwww!” Tad clapped his approval as Paul slurped the escargot down in a single gulp.

“Now
you
have to try the eel.”

Bridget was certain that she was going to spend the afternoon cleaning up seafood vomit. That was her punishment, perhaps. For the time being father and son appeared to be having the time of their lives. She couldn’t help but smile. Phoebe was a monster to keep them apart! They went together like strawberries and cream. From an outsider’s perspective, Bridget could tell that curiosity was a trait they shared. Paul seemed almost as excited as Tad did to experiment with their haul.

They had come so far in such a short time. It seemed impossible to imagine that she and Tad had been here for only a week. Paul still didn’t trust his instincts for dealing with his son. Even now, in the kitchen, he kept glancing at Bridget seeking approval for the things that he said and did, but she knew that wouldn’t last long. That was a bittersweet realization. Pretty soon, Tad wouldn’t need her anymore.

Paul didn’t go into the restaurant until after lunchtime- a fact Bridget couldn’t help but remark upon.

“I’m not complaining!” she assured him, “I’m just surprised. It was such a nice treat for you to stay home with Tad today.”

“I liked staying home with you guys.”

Guys
, plural, Bridget thought giddily. She was definitely included- although she wouldn’t dare to guess what that might mean. She didn’t have long to contemplate it anyway. Paul paused on his way out the door. “Be a good boy!” he told Tad, then gave him a tight squeeze that lifted him off the ground. “You too,” he said to Bridget, teasing her with a wink. Then, just before he turned to go, he dabbed a little kiss on her cheek.

Good plan, or bad plan?
He really should have stuck around to see
.

Paul stared at the white restaurant kitchen wall, trying to remember the expression on Bridget’s face when he had dared to kiss her again. The action had been intentionally understated. It was easy to explain away. He was just being “nice
.
”
If she had objected, he could have simply laughed. If she had kissed him back…

Well, she didn’t
, Paul reminded himself with a mental slap. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to drag his thoughts away.

She was so beautiful…
Paul didn’t know how long he was going to be able to survive without another taste now that he knew how delectable she was. It was a painful cliché, but she felt like heaven in his arms: soft, and sweet and inviting. She was the perfect height- just right to tuck her head underneath his chin- and when his arms clasped around her body, she was snug and warm against his chest. She probably looked
amazing
naked- like a woman
ought
to look- at least, if the way she filled out a nightgown was any way to judge.

“…
medium-rare
, Chef. They’ve sent it back.”

“What? Huh?” Paul blinked. He had forgotten where he was. The
maitre’d
was standing in front of him, holding out a plate of meat. His face was crinkled with a look of disdain- as if the imperfect meal offended his sensibilities.

“The filet,” George repeated haughtily. “Madame requested rare…but look.”

Paul inspected the cut and discovered that the head waiter was right. It was a disgrace and ought never have made it out onto the floor. Someone wasn’t paying attention- and Paul suspected that someone was him. He might have been famous for hurling abuse, but he knew when the fault was his own.

“We need another filet,” he told the grill chef, and noticed that everyone had flinched when he first turned around. Now they were staring in disbelief. Paul ignored them, “Please send them my apologies,” he told the
maitre’d
, “And also a bottle of champagne. The Veuve…”

“Sir.” George answered, his tone somewhere between an acknowledgment and a question. Paul knew the reason. The Veuve Cliquot was expensive- far too much compensation for a relatively minor gaffe. Giveaways like that were going to cut into the profits- when he realized that, Paul laughed. It wasn’t like he cared. Let the investors worry about that.

Of course, no one else in the kitchen had the first clue what he found so funny, and they stared at him as if he’d just gone mad. Perhaps he had. For the first time since he’d gone to culinary school, Paul wanted to be somewhere else. He was tired of the kitchen- or this kitchen, at least.

“I’m going home,” he announced,
earning a collective gasp.

“Chef?” The
sous-chef
, sniveling little maggot that he was, looked green. It was no wonder. Paul had barely been in the restaurant at all that day- at least by his personal standards. He had not arrived until noon. “The service isn’t over yet!” Paul smiled darkly. He knew that the other chef had been running around frantically busy all day, overseeing the prep. Now he was going to have to stay for cleanup and pre-prep too.

Paul couldn’t muster any pity. If the
sous-chef
was after his job, he could have a taste of the responsibilities as well as the perks!

“I have to go and see my kid,” Paul lied. It was after nine o’clock. Tad had been in bed for over an hour- but Bridget probably wasn’t. She was awake. Maybe she was curled up reading. Maybe she was in her nightgown. Maybe she was waiting for him…

Paul didn’t invest too much hope in the final possibility, but neither did he dismiss it completely. The way that she had kissed him last night convinced him that she wanted him too. Alcohol lowered inhibitions. It didn’t create impulses that weren’t there. Paul was firmly of the opinion that being drunk could never cause a person to do something they weren’t already
predisposed
to do.

Paul didn’t say another word before leaving the kitchen and making his way back home. He usually took a taxi. He had to cut through Central Park to his apartment, and that was rarely safe at night, but it was still early by Manhattan standards. Tourists were everywhere and the paths of the park were bright. He hurried home on foot, marveling at how different and magical everything seemed at night when people were still awake!

The doorman at the apartment building was nearly as astonished as the
sous-chef
to see Paul out of work so soon.

“Chef!” he said as the tenant entered. He was so surprised that he forgot to tip his hat.

On an ordinary night, Paul might have been annoyed by everyone’s amazement. Sure, he had only worked a half day. He had only gone in at noon, but was that
really
so unusual? He thought not! Tonight, however, he didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. He only cared about getting home. He was growing more anxious and excited with every step.

Paul hesitated for a moment just outside his apartment door, wondering what he should say. “Honey, I’m home” would fit the moment, but that was too comical for his mood. Maybe he should act surprised to see
her
still awake? Maybe he should pretend that he was coming home to pick something up? He considered, and then discarded all of these ideas as too complex. It was so long since he’d been this excited about a woman. He worried that he was overcomplicating things. The best strategy was none at all. Wordlessly, he stepped inside the apartment. He was upset to find the living room empty. His disappointment lasted only a moment, though. He heard movement in the kitchen.

It pleased him to learn that Bridget was in his favorite part of the house. He wondered if she was trying to cook. He couldn’t wait another moment to find out. He put his hand on the door and pushed it open.

“Bridget?”

Chapter 9

She screamed.

It was an automatic reaction, but one that Bridget felt like repeating when she realized what was going on.

Paul was standing in the doorway…

…and she was just finishing off another disgusting binge.

Bridget had intended to be good, she
really
had. She was
uckish
after she put Tad to bed. She made a little bowl of popcorn to eat while she watched TV, and when she finished, she had some chocolate candy that had been shipped from home. Then she finished off Tad’s share of the Chinese that they had ordered for dinner, along with a frozen
pizza that she kept hidden in the back of the fridge. Now she was wolfing down ice
cream, directly out of the carton- a carton which had been full the day before, but was almost empty. There was no way to deny what was going on. She had been in too much of a frenzy to stop and throw anything away. She was surrounded by wrappers and plates and cartons and crumbs.

Bridget wanted to die.

“Someone’s feeling hungry?” Paul joked uncertainly. Bridget was not in the mood for humor.  Her bottom lip started to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.  “
Bridget?”

Paul’s voice sounded truly terrified when a few stray tears trickled down her cheeks.  She smeared them away and wondered if she could make a run for her room.  

“Why aren’t you at work?” Bridget demanded.  It was the second night
in a row
that Paul had come home to find her humiliating herself.

Paul opened his mouth to answer, but then he shut it again.

“It doesn’t matter.  I’m here now, so you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Bridget snapped.  She wanted to sweep all of the horrifying evidence of her binge into the trash, but worried that doing so would draw even more attention to the revolting amount that she had eaten.

“Bridge, people don’t normally cry when I walk into a room,” Paul said gently.  “What has upset you?”

Wasn’t it obvious?
  Bridget felt like shouting at him.  How could he be so dense?  How could he expect her to
say
it out loud
?

“I feel horrible,” she sniffed.

“I’m not surprised! Do you have any idea what kind of crap they put into this stuff?” Paul asked, reading the back of a discarded wrapper.  “You might as well just poison yourself and be done with it.  Seriously, Bridge
t
.  I know I’m a jerk about the fridge rules, but I’d rather you use up my Alba truffle than eat this garbage.”

“You don’t understand,” Bridget said in a small voice.  “I can’t
help
it!”

“You can’t help what?” Paul asked, sounding like he honestly
didn’t
understand.

“I can’t stop myself!” Bridget croaked.  “I can’t stop myself from eating.” She hated that, of all the people that she could have told her dirty little secret, it was Paul that she was confessing to.

“You stop yourself just fine when it’s
my
food,” he pointed out. There was an unmistakable hint of bitterness in his tone.

Bridget looked up.  He probably already thought that she was a drunk, and now he saw that she was a junk food addict too.  He couldn’t possibly think any worse of her if she confessed her real issue, could he?

“That’s only because I can’t eat in front of people,” she sniffed. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“You can’t-
what?” 
Paul pulled up a stool and sat down beside Bridget.  “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Please don’t make me say it again,” she begged. Then she began crying in earnest.

Paul panicked.  He didn’t have any experience with crying women.  The other women who had passed through his life were too tough or too emotionally sterile to ever break down into tears.  What was he supposed to
do
?

He had a vague recollection of his mother rubbing his back when his older brother had knocked him off his bike.  Paul seized on the idea. He reached out gingerly and began to rub his knuckles up and down Bridget’s spine.  He didn’t have a clue what to
say
, but Bridget didn’t appear to object to his silence.

She settled slowly. Eventually, she was just sniffling softly into her handkerchief.  Paul found a box of Kleenex on the counter and handed it to her.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered.  “I’ve never told anyone about my problem before.”

Paul wanted to tell her that she didn’t have a problem, but he could see that she
thought
she did.

“Do you want to tell me a little more about it?” he asked.  He wasn’t the sort of person that anyone normally went to with their problems, but maybe he could help Bridget?  After all, food was his specialty.