"Avalanche comin' down slow "

~ Live is Worth Living (Purpose)

no, you don't have to pay," he intruded quickly, grabbing my arm gently as a way to stop me from reaching for my wallet.

My lips parted in surprise. "Um. I ate their food. I have to pay. That's sort of how this works, Harold."

He snickered at my comment and shook his head, leaning back into his chair. "Okay, first of all, you didn't eat anything. You pushed around the food like it was poisonous."

I squinted my eyes at him. "And secondly?"

He shrugged. "I know the owner, he'll be fine with you not paying, especially for a meal you barely enjoyed."

"That's not," I began but stopped short when I realized that I had nothing relevant to say. "Who owns this place anyway?"

"You're looking at him."

"You?" I gasped.

He nodded, studying me intently and looking for something I couldn't put my finger on.

"How?"

He chuckled. "You sound flabbergasted. Can't a man own a restaurant?"

An automatic scoff left my lips and I couldn't pull it back. So I decided to own it. "You know I wasn't going there."

He nodded, amusement playing clearly in his eyes. "I know. I was just teasing you, love," he took a break then, gesturing at the restaurant, "I bought it a few months ago and I'm letting them run it the way they've always done until I can buy some time to change it all up."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Change it all up? What do you mean?"

"Change it up to my sense of style," he smiled at me, understanding the questioning look that had taken over my face. "I own restaurants, love. I'm a professional Chef."

I choked. On nothing. The coughs were horrendous, causing my throat to dry quicker than I could reach for the glass of water that wasn't there. I could feel Harold patting me on my back, trying to calm me down. Swallowing hard, I took in a deep breath and allowed the coughs to die down slowly. At last, I looked up at him, finding his humorous eyes that gazed at me with worry. "You alright?" he asked, his hand tracing light circles on my back.

"You're a chef?" I blurted out too fast, causing the coughs to restart. I better not die today.

Not funny.

Harold drew his hand from my back and called at the waiter. "Get us a glass of water, please."

Even though my eyes were teared up and my throat completely dry, I couldn't help but take in how quickly the waiter had gotten here with the glass of water. He actually bowed and said, "There you go, sir."

Holy shit. He's not kidding.

But there was no time for me to debate that as he immediately handed me the glass and ordered me to drink it. I couldn't decline; my throat actually hurt and it felt as though I was gradually dying.

I drank slowly, allowing my mind to clear as the coughs retreated back into oblivion and my throat doused. Putting the glass back down, my eyes wandered over to Harold, catching him watching me cautiously, as if he was afraid to say something. "Is there something wrong?"

He blinked, rising out of his thoughts and my question seemed to finally dawn on him. "Of course not. As long as you're okay."

"I am," I smiled, then went for the kill again. "You're a chef?"

At that, he laughed really loud and I almost wanted to say something else just to draw that laugh out of him once more. "You know, that's the second time you've said that. You're not gonna choke again, are you?" He studied me wearily, that humor still present in his eyes.

I refrained from rolling my eyes; it was childish. Though for some reason, I've been feeling more like a child with all these intoxicating emotions that have reemerged from a place that had been dormant for so long. "Funny. But no I'm not. I'm just really curious."

He let out a soft chuckle once more before answering me seriously. "I am a chef."

"And this is your first restaurant?"

He shook his head. "My thirty-first."

My mouth dropped. "Holy shit. You're messing with me."

He opened his mouth and shut it before shrugging like there wasn't anything he could really say to respond.

I blinked, unable to comprehend what he'd just said. "Thirty one restaurants under your name?"

He nodded. "Well, technically not under my name, but yeah, they're mine."

"What are they called?"

He took a moment to respond, taking me by surprise when he started leaning in closer and closer until my breath hitched in my throat and I could no longer breathe properly. I could feel his lips on my ear, their softness so real and so definite as they grazed my skin. My eyes closed without order and my head began to feel light. Then he whispered so lowly and slowly, "Ethereal."

I shuddered. His breath hit every inch of my skin from my ear to my neck and it felt like a jolt of light traveling through me. The name was so beautiful on his lips, so detrimental yet so achingly meaningful. The word meant a lot to him; that much I could tell. But there was a wall that blocked me from understanding anything beyond that. And hell if it didn't frustrate me. I wanted to know why that single word meant so much to him that he decided to use it to serve as the name of all of his restaurants.

But he'd let me in as far as he could and I understood that. Thus, I pushed away the need I had surging though me to ask him further in depth questions. He didn't deserve that; he deserved patience and forbearance.

So, I smiled once more and opened my eyes. I found him with his eyes closed, his hand wrapped around my arm tightly, as if he were dreaming. My fingers reached to stroke his cheek and my lips parted, softly letting out,"Open your eyes, handsome."

He complied, fluttering those gorgeous eyes of his open seconds later. It must be tiring to hear me go on and on about this man's eyes, but I wasn't lying nor was I exaggerating. There was something about them. They held so much truth, maybe even too much of it. They were so honest, giving away his true emotions and thoughts like cheap coupons. Except what they gave away wasn't cheap; it was precious. I wanted to know it. I wanted to treasure it. They were a special part of him and that thought made my heart flutter. Or I just have heart murmur, which would be unpleasant at this age.

"Ethereal is beautiful," I said and then laughed at how ironic my statement was, "literally."

His eyes lightened, pulling my lips into a larger smile. "Hmm, like you."

I shook my head fast. "You sir have a lot of explaining to do after we leave," I gave him a cautious look before continuing, "and after I pay."

His eyebrows furrowed once more, giving me a look of dispute. "I said no, Elle. It's on the house."

"You're ridiculous if you think I'm going to eat at a restaurant and not pay, because the owner said so," I countered, refraining from scoffing.

He sighed sharply. "Then I guess I'm ridiculous. I just think it's stupid for you to pay for something you didn't even put to use."

I gasped. "I did eat, look at it."

"What'd you eat, the air?"

"Wha-" I stumbled on my words, "that's not fair."

"No," he shook his head, looking at me with a lighthearted smile, "what's unfair is you paying for supposedly eating air."

I pushed him away in defeat and laughed at him and me and the whole situation. "Okay fine. But I'm leaving a tip and it's not for you."

He snickered. "By all means, go ahead. Do anything as you like quickly, except pay for this," he pointed at my plate," I just want to leave with you, honestly."

At his last words, my breath caught in my throat as I fumbled to get a twenty dollar bill out and place it next to my plate. My heart almost raced out of my chest as I grabbed Harold's hand and sharply whisked him through the tables and out of the unnoticeably busy restaurant.