What Love Tastes Like
By Zuri Day
DAFINA BOOKS
Copyright © 2010
Zuri Day
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-3872-6
Chapter One
Could anybody possibly be that fine? That's what
Tiffany Matthews asked herself as she fastened her
seat belt, took a deep breath, and clutched a teddy
bear that looked as frazzled as she felt. The bear had
an excuse-it was twenty-three years old. And so did
Tiffany-she was exhausted. Graduating from culinary
school and preparing for a month-long overseas
internship had taken its toll.
There was yet another draining aspect to consider:
Tiffany was terrified of flying. So much so that
even after taking the anxiety pill her best friend had
given her, she brazenly endured the curious stares
of fellow passengers as they watched the naturally
attractive, obviously adult woman sit in the airport,
enter the jetway, and then board a plane with a
raggedy stuffed animal clasped to her chest.
Tiffany didn't care. During a childhood where her
mother worked long hours and her grandmother
loved but didn't entertain, Tuffy, the teddy bear, had
been her constant and sometimes only friend. No
matter what happened, Tuffy was there to lend a
cushy ear, an eternal smile, and wide, button-eyed
support. This stuffed animal was also the first present
she remembered her father giving her, when she was
five years old. Unfortunately, his gift stayed around
longer than Daddy did, a fact that after years of not
seeing him still brought Tiffany pain. They were estranged,
and while Tiffany would never admit it,
having her father's first gift close by always felt like
having him near. Tuffy brought comfort-during her
childhood of loneliness, her teenaged years of puppy
love and superficial heartbreak, her college years of
first love and true pain, and now, while pursuing a
dream her parents felt was beneath her. As the plane
began its ascent into the magnificently blue May sky,
and Tiffany squeezed her eyes shut, praying the pill
would stave off an attack, she knew she'd take any
help she could get to make it through this flight,
even that of a furry friend.
It wasn't until the plane leveled off and her heartbeat
slowed that she thought of him again-the
stranger in first class. Their eyes had met when
she passed by him on the way to her seat in coach.
Tiffany had assessed him in an instant: fine, classy,
rich.
And probably married, she concluded, as she finally
loosened the death grip she had on Tuffy and
laid him on the middle seat next to her.
Clearly out of
my league.... Still, she couldn't help but remember
how her breath caught when she entered the plane
and saw him sitting there, looking like a GQ ad, in
the second row, aisle seat. His close-cropped black
hair looked soft and touchable, his cushiony lips
framed nicely by just the hint of a mustache. But
it was his eyes that had caused Tiffany's breath to
catch: the deepest brown she'd ever seen, especially
set against flawless skin that not only looked the
color of maple syrup, but she imagined tasted as
sweet. This information was absorbed and processed
in the seconds it took the man two people in front
of her to put his carry-on in the overhead bin and
step aside so the people behind him could continue.
The stranger had glanced up at her. Their eyes had
held for a moment. Had she imagined his giving her
a quick once-over before he resumed reading his
magazine?
Tiffany tilted back her seat and placed Tuffy on
her lap. Perhaps it was the medication or the lack of
sleep the prior night, but Tiffany welcomed what
she hoped would be a long slumber that would take
her over the Atlantic, all the way up to the landing in
Rome. If she was lucky, she thought, she'd wake up
with just enough time to pull her seat forward and
place her tray table back in its upright and locked
position. And if she was sleeping, she wouldn't be
thinking about how much she hated flying, and she
especially would not be thinking about Mr. First
Class. She knew she was kidding herself to think
she made any kind of impression as she passed by
the sexy stranger. How could she, dressed in jeans, a
Baby Phat T-shirt, and clutching a tattered teddy
bear?
No need to sit here fantasizing. If I'm going to
dream ... might as well do it in my sleep!
Dominique Rollins, or Nick as he was known to
friends, put down the magazine and picked up his
drink. After staring at the same page for over five
minutes, he realized he wasn't reading it anyway. For
some inexplicable reason, his mind kept wandering
to the woman back in coach, the sexy siren who'd
passed him clutching a teddy bear as if she were five
instead of the twentysomething she looked. His
guess was that she was afraid of flying and the toy was
some type of childhood relic, like a security blanket.
But to carry it openly, in public, holding it as if it
were a lifeline?
Too bad, because that chick is fine as
chilled wine in the summertime. Nick appreciated the
stranger's natural beauty, but he liked his women
successful and secure. Not that he was looking for
women on this trip, he reminded himself. He wanted
a carefree few days without any complications. Nick
knew all too well that when it came to the words
"woman" and "complication," one rarely appeared
without the other.
Her eyes ... Nick tilted his seat back and sipped his
Manhattan. That was what intrigued him about her.
In them was a curious blend of trepidation and intelligence,
of anxiety mixed with steely resolve. The
combination brought out his chivalrous side. A part
of him wanted to walk back to where she was, sit her
on his lap, and tell her that everything was going to
be all right. His rational side quickly shot down that
idea. One, she was a stranger; two, she'd hardly appreciate
being treated like a child, clutched teddy
bear notwithstanding; and three, Nick wasn't in the
market for a woman-friend or otherwise-he reminded
himself for the second time in as many minutes.
He was grateful for his work and the newest
acquisition that had helped to take his mind off Angelica,
the woman who'd dashed his dream of their
getting married and having a family together ...
and broken his heart.
Nick signaled the flight attendant for another
drink and reached for his iPod. He didn't want to
think about Angelica on this trip. He wanted to enjoy
this mini-vacation in Rome, one of his favorite cities,
and dine at AnticaPesa, one of his favorite restaurants
and the inspiration behind the upscale eatery
in his newly acquired boutique hotel.
Thinking about the quaint, thirty-four-room property
he and his partners had purchased in Malibu,
California, and were transforming into a twenty-first-century
masterpiece brought a smile to Nick's
face. Following the global economic collapse, the
men had outwitted their corporate competition and
had gotten an incredible deal on the 1930s Spanish-style
building. The group, four successful men with
diverse and various corporate and entrepreneurial
backgrounds, all agreed that it was the good looks
and sexy swagger of Nick and another partner,
Bastion Price, that sealed the deal with the sixty something,
hard-as-nails Realtor who'd handled
negotiations. This trip was the calm before the storm
of Le Sol's grand opening, less than one month away.
Nick pressed the button that reclined his seat to an
almost fully horizontal position. He tried to relax.
But every time his eyes closed, he saw the shorthaired,
chocolate brown, doe-eyed beauty who'd
passed him hours before, with those hip-hugging
jeans and bountiful breasts pressed up against a
tight, pale yellow T-shirt.
You're flying to Rome for pasta,
not pussy, he mentally chastised himself. Even so,
his appetite had been awakened, and the dish he
wanted to taste wasn't from anybody's kitchen.
Chapter Two
Tiffany took a deep breath and tried not to panic.
Her purse had been here just a minute ago, in the
basket of her luggage cart, right next to her laptop.
She mentally retraced her footsteps in her mind, remembering
specific moments when she knew she'd
had the Coach bag her mother had given her for
Christmas. She'd definitely had it as she exited the
plane, had fiddled with the strap as she and the
handsome stranger shared casual pleasantries when
finding themselves separated only by a rope as they
snaked through the customs line. She'd looked in
her purse, prepared to boldly give the man her
phone number, but his turn had come up before she
could find paper and pen. She remembered carefully
putting her passport back in her purse after
they'd stamped it, her mother's words echoing in
her head:
Treat that passport as if it's the key out of that
country, because it is.
"Yes, I had it then," she said to herself as she remembered
her purse being the last thing she placed
on the luggage cart, after loading on two heavy suitcases,
a carry-on, her laptop, and Tuffy. Then she'd
rolled out of the baggage claim area in search of
ground transportation. That's when a young woman
who looked American but spoke with an accent had
approached her and asked for the best way to get to
the tourist sites in the city center. When Tiffany said
she didn't know, the woman had excitedly gone on
about it being her first time in Rome and admitting
how nervous she was to be there by herself. Tiffany
could relate. She was nervous as well. She'd felt a kinship
with the foreigner, and at the time had thought
the woman's shifting eyes were due to nervousness.
Now she knew it was due to something else.
That bitch
was watching out for an accomplice.
"She took my purse!" Tiffany yelled, before even
realizing she was speaking out loud. Several pairs
of eyes turned to stare at her, but she was too panicked
to feel embarrassment. "Help, those people stole
my purse!"
Belatedly, Tiffany decided to give chase, her heavily
laden luggage cart careening wildly through Rome's
Fiumicino Airport. She steered the clumsy vehicle as
if she were back on the streets of LA, doing a drive-by.
"Excuse me," she said to a woman whom she accidentally
bumped in the butt, almost knocking her
over. "Coming through!" she yelled as an older gentleman
decided to stop and tie his shoe. She managed
to bring the cart to a halt just before she
broadsided him, stopping so quickly that her carryon
toppled off the cart and Tuffy flew forward and hit
the man in the head. "My bad," she said to the bewildered
man, who began berating her in rapid-fire Italian.
"No-a speakie, no-a speakie," she replied as she
gathered up her bag and her bear and began again
in the direction she thought the woman had gone.
Five minutes later, she gave up the chase. The
woman was nowhere in sight and now Tiffany doubted
she could even recognize her in a line-up. Was her
hair dark blond or brown? Was she wearing a blue
top ... or was it purple? The woman was Tiffany's
height, five foot three, but Tiffany didn't remember
whether she wore jeans or slacks, or a skirt, for that
matter. She'd had colosseums, not criminals, on her
mind as they'd talked.
"Damn." Tiffany plopped down on her luggage
and put her head in her hands. She could feel the beginnings
of an anxiety attack coming on and tried to
focus on breathing deeply. But the gravity of the situation
began to grow in her mind. She was in a foreign
country, alone, with no passport, no money, and
no idea how she'd gone from triumph to tragedy
so quickly. She'd been so proud of herself as she'd
stepped off the plane, having made it through her
first trans-Atlantic flight without throwing up or
peeing on herself-both unfortunate events that had
accompanied past panic attacks. Now she was precariously
close to achieving a trifecta, because in
addition to these two scene-stealers, she felt ready
to throw a two-year-old tantrum and assure herself
a place in one of Rome's asylums for the insane.
Tiffany began to shake with the effort it took to hold
herself together. Trying not to hyperventilate-on
top of not vomiting, peeing, or sobbing like a fool-was
taking its toll.
"Are you all right?"
Tiffany froze at the sound of the voice flowing
down to her ears, smooth and sweet ... like maple
syrup. Without opening her eyes or raising her head,
she knew who it was.
Just great. I probably look like a
blubbering idiot, and here comes Mr. First Class to see me in
all my crazed glory. Tiffany hadn't imagined the handsome
stranger as her knight in shining armor, but
she had imagined doing things to him at night-before
she'd forced herself to stop fantasizing and
fallen asleep.
He placed a firm hand on Tiffany's shoulder.
"What is the problem here? Can I help?"
Tiffany wiped her eyes, prayed there was no snot
coming out of her nose, and stood. She took another
deep breath and forced herself to look into the eyes
that had melted her meow-meow on the plane. "My
purse was stolen." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper.
But it was all she could do. The energy that
fueled her initial outburst was spent; now if she
opened her mouth much wider she'd break out into
an ugly cry.
He angrily clenched and unclenched his jaw.
"Come with me." His tone was decisive, as were his
movements. He placed his single carry-on bag on
top of her luggage, took Tiffany's much smaller
hand into his large one, and began navigating them
through the terminal. Tiffany walked beside him
silently, feeling as if the events taking place were
surreal. She'd been in Rome less than an hour and
already her life was upside down. When they reached
the elevator, he quietly reached for the teddy bear in
the luggage cart basket and handed it to Tiffany.
"Here, your friend will make you feel a little
better."
His gesture was almost her undoing, yet Tiffany
took Tuffy and clutched him to her chest. "Thank
you," she stuttered. She knew it must seem silly to
other people, but once she clasped her dear furry
friend, she began to calm down.
The elevator doors opened and the stranger
guided the cart and Tiffany inside it. Tiffany snuck a
glance at him, and then not being able to resist it,
took another, longer look. "Where are we going?"
"To the administrative offices," he replied. "I know
someone there who can get us to a higher-up in airport
security. We'll be able to get this straightened
out without all the hassle. You'll have to fill out a
report with the airport, and another with the police
if you want this crime reported, which I suggest that
you do. I won't ask you what happened. You'll have
to repeat the despicable details at least twice as it is."
He gave Tiffany's hand a reassuring squeeze. "By the
way, I'm Nick Rollins."
His personable manners in the midst of madness
brought a smile to Tiffany's heart, if not her face.
"Tiffany Matthews."
"Even though I truly wish the circumstances were
different, Tiffany Matthews, it is a pleasure to formally
meet you."
Just over an hour later, Nick was once again leading
Tiffany, this time out of the administrative offices
and down to ground transportation. As assuring as it
was to have this six-foot-tall mass of obvious authority
walking beside her, looking nice and smelling
good, something about his take-charge manner
made her uncomfortable. For the moment, she was
too grateful to complain. If Nick hadn't been there,
Tiffany felt she'd still be sitting on her luggage,
crying and waiting for God knew who to do Lord
knew what.
"Thanks for everything you did back there,"
Tiffany said as they once again neared the elevator.
"No worries," Nick said comfortably. "I'm just glad
I was here to help you. Trans-Atlantic flying can be
exhausting. To have your purse stolen after having
just landed is plain bad luck."
"I knew better than to turn my back on my cart,
even for a second. But that woman, excuse me, that
thief, distracted me on purpose, showing me a brochure
of some famous fountain ..."
"Trevi, it's the Trevi Fountain."
"It's the
trouble fountain in my book, because that's
what finding out about it cost me-nothing but
trouble."
"On the good side, nothing was taken that can't
be replaced, and what's more, your trip is bound to
get better from here!"
The next thing Tiffany knew she was in Nick's
chauffeured town car, getting whisked to the American
embassy for an emergency replacement passport.
On the way, Nick provided his satellite phone so that
she could make calls to replace her traveler's checks,
cancel her credit cards, and turn off her cell phone-all
the while thanking her mother for bugging her
until Tiffany had promised to write all of her credit
card, passport, and related telephone numbers on a
separate piece of paper and place it in her carry-on
luggage. While she placed all of these calls, Nick
was a calming presence beside her, handling his
own items of business on the car phone. When she
ended her call, he was still on his, a business call
of some sort, she deduced. She busied herself looking
out the window, taking in this place that looked
so different from the streets of LA. They passed
several stately-looking buildings adorned with statues
and accented with fountains.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from What Love Tastes Like
by Zuri Day
Copyright © 2010 by Zuri Day.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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