Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(83)
Number one: I said he was your boyfriend first, so I get bragging rights.
Wait, did someone else say it?
Your boyfriend said it, too.
There was a long pause . . .
Hello? Are you still there?
I’m lying on the bed, kicking up my heels and squealing into my pillow!
Why the hell isn’t there a pom-pom emoji? Here you go—closest I could come up with.
That’s a football
Well, they shake pom-poms at football games. And he is Mr. Football . . .
I love you.
I know you do. Gotta go. I wonder what kinds of snacks you buy for a cow sleepover?
I set the phone down, still feeling giddy that I had a boyfriend. And then, not too long after, felt the first pangs of Holy shit . . . do I have a boyfriend?
I was indeed able to convince Oscar to drive into the city a day early, and I didn’t even have to try that hard.
“What good is it having employees if you can’t trust them to do their job on their own once in a while?” he’d said, then told me that one of his interns from the culinary school had already stepped up and was in charge of bringing in everything they’d need at the market on Saturday. He was well and truly off the clock, for the first time in a long time.
And I was ready to show him another side of my Manhattan. The glitz, the glamour, the secret nighttime hot spots, and the members-only clubs that I belonged to. It was the side of Manhattan you see on television and reality shows. I’d run in those circles since I was a kid, and I couldn’t wait to show Oscar. And to show him off a little—let’s be honest.
My absence from the social scene over the past month had been noticed. And I was aching to get out and about, eat some gorgeous food, drink some fabulous wine, go dancing at the hottest clubs in town, and shake my ass all over my city.
My plans were 100 percent derailed when Oscar showed up at my apartment Friday night, took one look at me in my replacement thigh-high Chanel leather boots with the four-inch heels, growled “Fucking hell, Natalie,” dropped his duffel bag, threw me over his shoulder, and took me straight back to the bedroom.
Did I forget to mention I was wearing only the boots, a brand-new apron I’d had designed with Bailey Falls Creamery emblazoned across the front, and a long string of pearls?
Yeah, it really wasn’t fair of me.
He f*cked me for three solid hours, and then we ate Moroccan takeout at 11 p.m.
I kept the boots and the pearls on the entire time. The apron went by the wayside.
We didn’t see the outside world again until Saturday morning, when we headed to the market. I’m sure New York missed me, but I wouldn’t trade that night for the world.
“So, about tonight.”
“Tonight? I thought we’d have another night like last night, but if you want to go out, I could be talked into those dumplings again,” he replied, dropping a kiss between my neck and shoulder, to the dismay of the woman at the front of his line. The dismay was shared by the next woman, the woman after that, and the man after that. I understood; I’d been in that line only a few weeks before.
But back to tonight. “No, no dumplings. And yes, obviously last night was incredible,” I said when he moved my apron strap over and dropped one more kiss just below my ear, making me go all shivery. “But tonight, we’re going out.”
“I still can’t believe you had these made for everyone.” He gestured at the rest of his team, now proudly wearing the new aprons. He wasn’t sure about them at first, wondering why in the world he needed to wear an apron that said Bailey Falls Creamery when he was standing under a sign that said the same thing, but eventually he acquiesced and slipped it over his head with a sheepish look. “So, where are we going tonight?” He handed an order of cheddar to the next customer with his usual “strictly business” expression.
“How would you feel about going to the opening of a new art exhibit?”
He looked back at me while handing over a wheel of Brie. “What, like paintings?”
“No, it’s an abstract exhibition—a photographic study of New York City trash cans juxtaposed with large-scale plastic installations, designed to represent man’s overarching reach toward industrialization, and its impact on the environment with its waste.”
The entire line had fallen silent, as had Oscar’s team, listening to what I was saying with confused looks on their faces.
“It’s garbage art?” he asked, looking beyond skeptical, then noticing that the line had stopped. “Here’s your cheese,” he grumbled, handing over a package and putting the line back in motion again.
“I can’t describe the work as well as the artist; you’ll have to ask her for her explanation.” I sighed, rolling back and forth on my ankle.
He instantly spotted it. “Why are you nervous about going to see garbage art?”
“Because the artist is my mother,” I squeaked.
“You want me to meet your mom?”
“And my dad? Is that too weird?” I said, pulling at my apron.
It was weird, it was totally weird. Why was I doing this? This was too much too soon, and it was suddenly very warm in this stall.
Oscar studied me carefully, and I wondered what he was thinking. Would he say yes? Would he say no? Would he order me out of the stall? Would he run screaming in terror at the idea of meeting my parents? What the hell was I thinking? I never did this!