Louboutins & Aprons

Chapter 8:Valentina

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Three different cities.

Twenty-one business meetings.

Six private dinners.

Four board conferences.

More contracts than I wanted to count.

And not one day had passed without me thinking about Mark.

I missed him.

The realization was irritating.

I was Valentina De Luca.

I did not sit around missing people.

I had an international company to manage. My schedule was always full. There was always another meeting, another investment, another company waiting for my approval.

I was busy.

I was successful.

I was surrounded by people.

And yet, for the last two weeks, all I could think about was a quiet chef who barely spoke to me.

Mark.

I stared at the city through the large windows of my hotel suite.

It was almost midnight.

The lights below reflected against the glass.

Cars moved through the streets.

People walked along the sidewalks.

Somewhere beneath me, the city was still alive.

But I was tired.

Not ordinary tired.

Exhausted.

The kind of exhausted that settled inside my bones.

I had spent the entire day attending meetings.

The morning began with a conference call.

Then a meeting with investors.

Then a private lunch.

Then another meeting.

Then a presentation.

Then dinner with executives who spent two hours discussing a contract that could have been explained in twenty minutes.

I had not stopped working.

Not once.

And tomorrow?

I had another meeting.

Of course I did.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed and removed one of my heels.

Then the other.

My feet hurt.

I looked at the red soles of my Louboutins.

Usually, wearing them made me feel powerful.

The sharp sound of my heels announced my arrival.

Click.

Click.

Click.

People heard me before they saw me.

But tonight, I was too tired to care.

I placed the heels beside the bed.

Then I picked up my phone.

No new messages.

No missed calls.

No notifications.

And no message from Mark.

Of course there wasn’t.

Mark didn’t have my number.

And I didn’t have his.

That was the worst part.

After more than a month of visiting his restaurant every day, I still did not have his number.

I had asked him countless questions.

I knew his name.

I knew he was a chef.

I knew he preferred working in the kitchen to standing in the dining area.

I knew he spoke softly.

I knew he was kind to his employees.

I knew he made the best pasta I had ever eaten.

I knew he had blue eyes.

Or green.

I still could not decide.

But I didn’t know his phone number.

I stared at my phone.

How had I forgotten something so simple?

I had walked into his restaurant and told him that I wanted him.

I had visited almost every day.

I had brought my work to the restaurant just so I would not miss seeing him.

And somehow, I had never asked for his number.

I had assumed I would see him the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

I had never considered that I would suddenly have to leave the city.

The trip had been unexpected.

Two weeks earlier, I had returned home after a long day at the office.

I had barely stepped inside when Claire called.

“Ms. De Luca?”

“What?”

“There’s a problem.”

“There is always a problem.”

“This one requires you.”

“Where?”

“Madrid.”

I stopped.

“Why?”

“One of the international companies is facing a financial crisis.”

“Send the regional executives.”

“They asked for you.”

“Send my father.”

“Your father is already traveling.”

“Then send the board.”

“The board cannot agree.”

“Of course they can’t.”

“Ms. De Luca, the company needs an immediate decision.”

I looked around my home.

I had plans.

I was supposed to go to the restaurant the next day.

I had planned to arrive early.

I had even decided that I would finally ask Mark for his number.

Not because I wanted to call him.

I simply wanted to have it.

There was a difference.

At least, that was what I told myself.

“When is the flight?” I asked.

“Tonight.”

“What time?”

“Two hours.”

I closed my eyes.

“Prepare the plane.”

“Yes, Ms. De Luca.”

“Tell the restaurant—”

I stopped.

Why would I tell the restaurant?

Mark didn’t care if I came.

He probably enjoyed the silence.

I had spent more than a month following him around.

Maybe my absence would make his life easier.

“Ms. De Luca?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Your schedule?”

“Cancel everything.”

“Yes.”

I ended the call.

Two hours later, I was on a plane.

And I had not seen Mark since.

⸻

I looked at my phone again.

I considered calling my assistant.

Claire probably had his number.

Claire could find anyone.

She had access to company databases, private contacts, and people who could locate information within minutes.

If I asked, she would find Mark’s number.

But I didn’t want that.

I wanted Mark to give it to me.

I wanted to ask him myself.

Maybe I would walk into the restaurant and say—

Mark, give me your number.

No.

That sounded too demanding.

I could say—

I would like your number.

That sounded like a business request.

Or—

Can I have your number?

Simple.

Normal.

I could do that.

I was Valentina De Luca.

I negotiated billion-dollar agreements.

Asking a chef for his phone number should not be difficult.

Yet I had never done it.

I sighed.

“Unbelievable.”

I placed the phone beside me.

Then I stood and walked toward the window.

I missed him.

Not just because I wanted him.

I missed him.

I missed seeing him move around the restaurant.

I missed the way he walked between the kitchen and the tables.

I missed the way his sleeves were always rolled to his elbows.

I missed the dark apron he wore.

I missed the way his hair became messy after several hours in the kitchen.

I missed hearing his voice.

I missed watching him speak to his employees.

I missed the way he smiled at customers.

I even missed the way he ignored me.

That was the most embarrassing part.

I missed being ignored.

I missed sitting at my table while Mark walked past as though I was not there.

I missed calling his name and watching him turn around.

I missed the confused expression that appeared whenever I reminded him that I wanted him.

I missed everything.

And I had only known him for a little more than a month.

That did not make sense.

I knew nothing about his life.

I didn’t know where he lived.

I didn’t know what he did after work.

I didn’t know who his friends were.

I didn’t know his favorite movie.

I didn’t know his birthday.

I didn’t even know his phone number.

But I missed him.

I missed Mark.

I wanted to see him.

I wanted to sit at the same table near the window.

I wanted to watch him work.

I wanted him to walk toward me and ask why I was there.

Then I would tell him—

Because I wanted to see you.

Maybe he would smile.

Maybe he would tell me I was strange.

Maybe he would ignore me.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted to see him.

My phone began ringing.

Claire.

I answered.

“What?”

“Good evening, Ms. De Luca.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“I wanted to confirm tomorrow’s schedule.”

I looked at the documents waiting on the desk.

“Tell me.”

“You have breakfast with the investors at eight.”

“Cancel it.”

Claire became quiet.

“Cancel it?”

“Yes.”

“You requested the meeting.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You have a conference at ten.”

“Move it.”

“You have a presentation at noon.”

“Send the regional team.”

“Ms. De Luca—”

“Claire.”

“Yes?”

“When is the earliest flight home?”

She paused.

“Home?”

“Yes.”

“You were scheduled to return in four days.”

“I know.”

“You want to leave early?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

I looked toward the hotel window.

The city lights blurred against the glass.

“I miss home.”

Claire was quiet.

Then she said, “You miss the restaurant.”

I turned.

“What?”

“The restaurant.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve mentioned it every day.”

“I like the food.”

“You asked whether the chef was working.”

“I was curious.”

“You asked me to check the restaurant’s social media.”

“I wanted to see if they had changed the menu.”

“You asked if Chef Mark had posted anything.”

“I was interested in the restaurant.”

Claire sighed.

“You miss him.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I miss the food.”

“You have eaten at five-star restaurants for two weeks.”

“I don’t like the food here.”

“You had dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Madrid.”

“It was disappointing.”

“You ate at a private club in Paris.”

“The food was too complicated.”

“You attended a dinner prepared by a famous chef.”

“He used too much salt.”

Claire laughed.

“You miss Mark.”

I stared at the phone.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I want to go home.”

“To see Mark.”

“I want to return to work.”

“You’re canceling meetings.”

“I’m tired.”

“You want to see Mark.”

I sighed.

“Fine.”

Claire became quiet.

“I miss him.”

“I knew it.”

“I don’t know why.”

“You like him.”

“I want him.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“But now you miss him.”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do when you return?”

“Go to the restaurant.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes.”

“You have meetings.”

“Move them.”

“You’re going to clear your schedule again?”

“Yes.”

Claire laughed.

“You’re different.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am tired.”

“You miss a man.”

“I know.”

“That has never happened before.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even have his number.”

“I know.”

“You should ask for it.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“When I see him.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“You sound nervous.”

“I don’t get nervous.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m ending this call.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“There is a flight available in two days.”

I stopped.

“Two days?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Six in the morning.”

“Book it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll arrive home by noon.”

“Perfect.”

“Do you want me to schedule anything?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“I’m going to the restaurant.”

Claire laughed again.

“Of course you are.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Ms. De Luca.”

I ended the call.

Two days.

Only two more days.

Forty-eight hours.

I could survive that.

I looked at the time.

Almost one in the morning.

I should sleep.

I had another meeting tomorrow.

But my mind remained inside the restaurant.

I imagined walking through the entrance.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Everyone would look up.

Mark would probably look toward the door.

Would he be surprised?

Would he ask where I had been?

Would he notice that I was gone?

Had he missed me?

The thought made me smile.

Probably not.

Mark had spent an entire month ignoring me.

He was probably relieved that I had disappeared.

Maybe he enjoyed the quiet.

Maybe he no longer had to avoid my table.

Maybe he had forgotten about me.

No.

I didn’t want to think about that.

I wanted to believe he noticed.

Even a little.

I wanted to believe that when he walked past my usual table, he wondered why it was empty.

I wanted to believe that he looked toward the entrance.

I wanted to believe he missed me.

But I knew Mark.

Or at least, I knew enough.

He would never admit it.

He would probably tell me—

“You were gone.”

And I would say—

“I missed you.”

Then he would call me strange.

I smiled.

“That sounds perfect.”

I walked toward the bed.

I removed my jewelry and placed it on the nightstand.

Then I lay beneath the blankets.

The hotel room was quiet.

Too quiet.

I closed my eyes.

And immediately, I saw Mark.

His dark hair.

His beautiful eyes.

His soft voice.

The way he looked when he was working.

The way he carried plates through the restaurant.

The way he smiled when he forgot that I was watching.

I missed everything.

I missed him.

Two more days.

Then I would be home.

Two more days.

Then I would walk into the restaurant.

Two more days.

Then I would see Mark again.

I pulled the blankets closer.

“I just want to see you,” I whispered.

The room did not answer.

But the thought remained.

I didn’t want money.

I didn’t want another company.

I didn’t want another successful business deal.

I didn’t want another magazine cover.

I wanted Mark.

I wanted to see him.

I wanted to hear his voice.

I wanted to sit at my usual table and watch him work.

For the first time in my life, I had something money could not give me.

And I was beginning to understand that wanting someone was different from missing them.

Wanting was simple.

Wanting was what I had felt the first time I saw him.

But missing him?

Missing him felt deeper.

Softer.

More dangerous.

Because I didn’t just want Mark anymore.

I wanted him to be part of my life.

And that terrified me more than any business deal ever had.

I closed my eyes.

Two more days.

Then I would be home.

Then I would see him.

Then I would finally ask for his number.

Because I had spent two weeks without Mark.

And I had no intention of leaving without a way to find him again.