FROM CHAPTER EIGHT: Real or Surreal Nicolas grabbed a glass of sparkling wine off one of the servers’ trays, the movement bringing me back to the present. At over six feet tall, he towered over me, intimidating. His perfectly disheveled chestnut hair blew in the breeze, as if he’d just rolled out of the sack with the blond. His eyes bored into mine, dark blue with a devilish twinkle. His trimmed beard highlighted a chiseled jawline. By the way his chin lifted, he knew he was good-looking and he appreciated being looked at. But I didn’t like the way he was looking at me—like a meal he wanted to devour. He raised his glass and said, “I’m thoroughly enchanted to meet the world’s most beautiful cooking face.” Wrong thing to say. My spine went rigid. “Believe me, I can carry my own pots and pans. Merci beaucoup.” “But you look so sweet and delicate,” he said, eyeing me up and down. I don’t know if it was my imagination working in overdrive, but his eyes seemed to hold a certain lascivious quality. Whether it was rude or not, I turned on my heel to walk away. “It was lovely to…