Nowhere but Here by Renee Carlino Page A

visiting my room and cleaning up, I decided to go back to a blazer and flats instead of heels. Heels somehow seemed out of place here. I headed toward the restaurant and caught Jamie standing in the doorway of his truck. Hearing me come toward him¸ he turned. “I have to meter really quick before we eat.” He was wearing a clean white T-shirt and black jeans with Converse. His hair was damp and slicked back. The growth on his face was thicker than the day before, and I wondered what it would feel like to brush my cheek against his.
    I stood next to him and watched as he popped open a small container with test strips and then inserted one into the meter. He took a smaller device, a lancet, I assumed, and pricked his finger then smoothed the drop of blood over the strip extending from the meter.
    “One hundred exactly. I’m good to go.”
    “What do you do when it’s too high or too low?”
    “Well, my ever-curious little kitten, I’ll tell you all about that tonight when we go sailing. You’ll need to know.” He winked.
    That little tidbit made me nervous. “Why will I need to know?”
    He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the restaurant, ignoring my question. “Come on, I’m starving.”
    The restaurant had a bar stretching around the open kitchen. Jamie explained that it was designed so guests could get an up-close experience with the chefs, who prepared their signature dishes and offered the guests wine pairings. The restaurant, called Beijar, was finely decorated and lit, with dark, rich booths and muted lighting against the stark light from the kitchen. The effect highlighted the clean, stainless-steel counters and drew my eyes to where the magic happened. I had no doubt Beijar was an experience as much as it was a meal.
    We took our seats on the stools at the kitchen bar. Before Chef Mark came in, I swiveled toward Jamie. “Where did they get the name from?”
    “It means ‘kiss’ in Portuguese.” When I was with Jamie I forgot about everything else. Just the word “kiss” coming out of his mouth could freeze time.
    “Oh.”
    “Food is like love, you know?”
    “Yes,” I said breathlessly.
    “We need it to stay alive.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And wine is like poetry.”
    His words, his warmth, were like a stun gun to my brain. I was conscious of nothing but his words. “Oh?”
    “If it’s good wine.” He revealed his dimple. “If not, then it’s a tragedy.”
    I realized that he had dimples on both cheeks, but his smile was always just a little crooked so it only showed up one side. Adorable.
    “Is it Portuguese food?”
    “Not really. There’s a little inspiration, but it’s traditional American, farm to table.”
    Chef Mark entered. “Hi, Kate.” He reached over and shook my hand.
    “Nice to meet you, Chef.” He wore the standard white chef’s shirt and a black bandana across his hair, tied at the back of his neck. He was an average-looking guy of forty, at least, but his presence was strong. I imagined that he could command a busy kitchen of chefs and servers.
    Jamie reached over, shook his hand as well, and said, “Chef.”
    “Hey, buddy.” Clapping once, he suggested, “Why don’t we start with a salad trio?”
    “That sounds fabulous.” Jamie got us glasses of water and opened a bottle of the Pinot while Chef Mark got to work. He poured me a glass but only poured himself a quarter of the amount.
    “Why so little for you? Are you sick of the wine?”
    “No, I love the wine, but I can’t have too much because of the diabetes. I can taste it, though. I’d like to have some with you later, so I’m saving up.” My heart did a somersault.
    Chef Mark set a plate in front of me, describing each of the four salads as he pointed them out. “Heirloom tomatoes. Avocado and corn in a light vinaigrette. Quinoa with mango and red peppers. And, finally, beet and kale with goat cheese. Enjoy.”
    I took a bite of the avocado coated in dressing. Jamie watched my mouth as I