“Ooh, look at that huge fish!” Sofia crowed, immediately scampering a few feet away to examine a tuna approximately her size.
Xavier surveyed the market, looking more like one of the men working the stalls than a rich businessman they should be courting. The boy from South London was back in jeans, a black hoodie, an insulated vest that pulled across his chest, and a backward cap with Arsenal printed across the front. Lord, he looked good in denim. It made his long legs look even longer, and the material encased his taut backside to perfection.
Yeah, I definitely needed a man. And definitely not this one, no matter how good he looked in jeans.
He turned, catching me mid-perusal. I reddened as one side of his mouth lifted.
“I like that tracksuit,” he told me, openly looking me up and down as I’d just been doing to him.
I followed his gaze. “It’s just sweats.”
I was totally lying. Most Saturdays saw me in old T-shirts and yoga pants while I cleaned the house, not my favorite matching red Adidas pants and jacket that Kate had found for me on consignment. Nor did I usually wear the big silver hoops dangling from my ears. Or put on eyeliner and mascara. Or curl my hair and pile it into a high ponytail that bounced around my shoulders.
Okay, so maybe I had gotten up even earlier than Sofia. So maybe I’d barely slept last night remembering the sudden pressure of those lips on mine last night. Or the way his blue eyes darted hungrily over my body before letting me go.
“Well, whatever it is, it makes your arse look great,” Xavier rumbled into my ear, causing goose bumps to rise where his warm breath touched my skin.
His fresh scent briefly overpowered the smell of brine and fish that filled the room. I shivered. When he stood straight again, he was so clearly pleased with himself that I offered my best scowl, which admittedly wasn’t particularly good at the moment.
“You should not be saying things like that to me,” I told him, quietly enough that Sofia wouldn’t hear.
I know, I know. I couldn’t even convince myself.
“Probably not,” he agreed. “But I never do what I’m told.”
He offered half a cheeky grin, and again, I found it hard not to smile back. Gradually, his grin disappeared. Then neither of us seemed to be able to look away.
“Mama!” Sofia shouted, breaking the trance. “Look at this fishy!” She turned to the seller. “How much?”
“Wow!” I called back to her, then looked back at Xavier. “Do we have an agenda here? Or are the fishmongers good with Sofia interrogating all of them?”
Xavier cleared his throat. “Ah, yeah. Elsie sent me a list, and there are a few more,” he replied, pulling out his phone.
“Elsie?” I wondered as we started walking.
He smirked but didn’t look down at me. Almost like he was avoiding me now. “My assistant. Keep your knickers on.”
I smarted. “I wasn’t the one throwing another fit last night, Xavi.”
All humor vanished from his face. But instead of answering, he scanned the fishmonger stalls, then offered his hand to Sofia when she returned.
“There’s one. Come on, girlie. Let’s go meet some swimmers.”
* * *
For the nexthour or so, I followed Xavier and Sofia from stall to stall while he interviewed vendors for his new restaurant, and she interviewed them for her new restaurant. Her menu apparently included “fish, but only the mean ones” and “yummy things.” To his credit, Xavier maintained a completely straight face while he and the vendors entertained her questions (“Did this fish ever hit anyone?” and “Do you like princesses?”). The vendors themselves just answered in that jovial, direct way that only men in New York really have.
The jokes, however, ended when Xavier handed them his card with a stern expression. It was obvious that every seller in the market wanted the Parker Group’s business. Word got around quickly as we walked through. Some of the stalls that had been closed when we entered were miraculously open again. Samples appeared of sushi-grade fish along with other creatures I couldn’t identify. Massive smiles appeared on the faces of previously wearied men.
“Yum,” Sofia purred around a mouthful of something yellow that looked like brains.
I gaped. My picky daughter was eating something raw, mysterious, and vaguely gelatinous…and liking it?
“Mama, you have to try that,” she said. “It tastes like butter.”
I frowned at the questionable pile of goo nestled in some sort of spiky shell.
“It’s uni,” Xavier told me, spooning out a piece of it and holding it up to my mouth. “Sea urchin. It’s a delicacy.”