Smitten with caviar, p.1
Smitten with Caviar, page 1
Ellen Jacobson
Smitten with Caviar
A Sweet Romantic Comedy Set in Monaco
First published by Ellen Jacobson Books 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Ellen Jacobson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
ellenjacobsonauthor.com
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-951495-50-3
Editing by Lisa Lee
Cover art by Melody Jeffries
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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For everyone who’s geeked out over a famous musician
Contents
1. Champagne and Caviar
2. Whiskey and Bragi
3. Date Dress
4. Zoom Zoom
5. Prince Charming
6. The One About the Wishbone
7. The Tater Tot Playlist
8. Viking Cowboys
9. The Musical Detectives
10. Turd Face
11. Confusing Metric Talk
12. Fake Mustaches and Really Bad Wigs
13. A Cat Burglar to the Rescue
14. Why Is It Always Lasers?
15. No Matter What the Cost
16. Epilogue – Asger (Four Years Later)
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Ellen Jacobson
1
Champagne and Caviar
“Be cool, Jasmine,” I say to myself as the taxi pulls up in front of the Monte Carlo Casino. The palm trees lined in front of the casino sway in the light summer breeze, their movement mirroring the churning feeling in my stomach. Steeling my nerves, I tell myself, “Act like you belong.”
After paying the fare, I adjust the straps of my cocktail dress. The silky material feels luxurious against my fingertips. I only hope it looks as high-end as it feels. Bargain basement steals are great when it comes to keeping your credit card debt at a reasonable level. Not so much when you’re about to enter one of the most exclusive casinos in Europe.
One thing I do know about this dress is that the red color is striking against my dark hair and eyes. I’m so used to wearing only black when I perform with the Fjura Quartet that this dress feels bold in comparison. Like it wants me to be the center of attention for once, not my violin.
Actually, maybe that’s what feels strange. Instead of carrying my violin case, I have an evening bag in my hands. Instead of trying to quiet my nerves before a performance, I’m trying to work up the courage to meet my blind date at a swanky bar. But if you’re going to go on a blind date, this is the way to do it. A handsome rich guy and champagne and caviar await.
As I approach the entrance to the casino, three retirement-age women push past me. They’re obviously American from their accents–one is from the Deep South, one from New York City, and the other one from somewhere in the Midwest.
A bouncer stops them. “I’m sorry, ladies, but tourists can only visit the casino between ten and one.”
The woman from the Big Apple cocks her head to one side. “What makes you think we’re tourists?” she asks, her voice thick with disdain.
I want to point out the obvious—one of them is snapping pictures with her camera, the other has a travel wallet hanging from her neck, and the third is wearing a t-shirt which says “Silver Fox on the Loose”.
I stifle a laugh as I make eye contact with the bouncer. He gives me an appreciative look before turning back to the older ladies. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
The southern lady tries to sweet talk him. “Now, hon, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but we’ve got money and we’re here to gamble.”
While the bouncer explains the dress code, I inch forward. Speaking in French, I tell the bouncer that I’m meeting my date at the Bar Salle Blanche. He nods, then holds open the door for me to enter.
I hear the women whispering to themselves about how snooty Parisian women are. If only they knew I was born and raised in a small American town. Sure, I had learned some French while studying at a conservatory in Strasbourg during a semester abroad in college, but I was far from fluent.
My jaw drops as I walk inside the atrium of the casino. Knowing the building had been designed in an opulent Belle Époque style is one thing. Seeing the marble columns, gilded stucco, colorful frescoes, and ornate sculptures in person is another. It’s clear why this is one of the most luxurious destinations in Europe. The magnificence of the architecture is matched only by the glamorous dresses the ladies are wearing and the cool sophistication of the men accompanying them.
As I’m reminding myself yet again to play it cool, my phone buzzes. I frown as I read my blind date’s text.
Business meeting running late. Be there soon. Meet you at the bar.
I feel a wave of anxiety wash over me. Even though I’m outgoing and extroverted by nature, I hate going to places alone. Sitting at a bar by myself feels awkward, to say the least.
Steeling my nerves, I make my way to the bar. When I mention my date’s name to the hostess, I’m immediately whisked to a table near the stunning hand-crafted mosaic bar. As I take my seat, my phone buzzes again.
Closed the deal. Order a bottle of Cristal so we can celebrate.
Order a bottle of expensive champagne? Yep, I can get on board with this. I haven’t even met my date yet and I can already tell we’re going to hit it off.
As I’m rereading the text, I see a waiter approach out of the corner of my eye. He addresses me with a polite, “Bon soir, Madame.”
I order the champagne as I’m tucking my phone back into my purse, then look up at the waiter. He’s handsome, with striking Nordic features that remind me of the male lead in a Scandinavian political thriller I binge watched last month.
As I’m studying him, the waiter’s eyes widen a fraction, then a smile plays across his lips. “Is that you, Jasmine Cho?” he asks.
The man’s English is flawless, yet there’s a faint accent I can’t quite place. Something about the vowels . . . wait a minute, how does this guy know my name?
I look at him more closely, then furrow my brow. “Asger Christensen?” I ask tentatively.
No, it can’t be. The Asger I knew was a scrawny foreign exchange student who sat next to me in homeroom during the tenth grade. This guy is whatever the opposite of scrawny is. That waiter’s jacket can’t hide his broad shoulders, and I bet there are some serious muscles going on underneath that crisp white shirt.
I shake my head. Nope, this isn’t that shy teenage boy I befriended on his first day at school in the States. Well, those blue eyes do look familiar . . .
He grins. “You look like a stunned mullet. It really is me, I swear.”
I grin back. “How many times do I have to tell you that we don’t use that expression in America? Besides, nobody likes to be compared to a fish.”
“We’re not in America,” Asger points out. “This is Monaco.”
“Yeah, I know.” I chew on my bottom lip while I think about the odds of this chance encounter. “This is so weird running into you here. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I could ask the same thing of you,” he says before pulling me to my feet and embracing me.
I have a million questions I want to ask, but someone behind us clears their throat. As I step out of Asger’s arms, I see the head waiter scowling at Asger before giving me one of those practiced smiles that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
Asger gives his boss an apologetic look before quickly explaining that we’re old friends. The man purses his lips, then takes his leave, no doubt to make some other poor waiter’s life miserable.
“I’ll get you that champagne,” Asger says to me.
“Hope I didn’t get you in trouble,” I say.
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a bit like old Mr. D.”
As Asger heads over to the bar, I chuckle at the reminder of our old math teacher. If it hadn’t been for Asger’s help, I would have never passed that class.
A few minutes later, Asger returns with a bottle of Cristal in a champagne bucket and two glasses. As he places the glasses on the table, he says, “I assume you’re meeting someone.”
“Yes, my date,” I say. “He should be here soon. We’re celebrating a business deal he closed.”
Asger holds up the champagne. “Do you want to wait until he arrives?”
I look at the bar’s gilded clock, wondering how long my date will be. Surely, he wouldn’t want me to sit here thirsty? “No, go ahead and pour me a glass. I have something to celebrate as well.”
“Oh? What’s that?” Asger asks as he uncorks the champagne.
“Running into you after all these years,” I say with a smile. “What is it? Ten, twelve years?”
“Thirteen.” Asger sets the glass in front of me. “It’s an unlucky number in America, isn’t it?”
“Ah, but we’re in Europe,” I remind him.
Asger sets the champagne bottle in the bucket. “How long
“A couple of months,” I say.
His eyes light up. “Good. We’ll have time to catch up.”
A man at a neighboring table motions Asger over, so we quickly exchange cell phone numbers. As I watch Asger take the gentleman’s order, I wonder what in the world he’s doing waiting tables at a casino in Monaco. When I knew Asger in high school, he had a clear path laid out for him–return to Denmark after his exchange year, finish his studies, then go to work for his family’s flat-pack furniture company.
There was definitely a story here that I wanted to know. But the problem with asking people about their stories was that they inevitably wanted to know yours in return. And I wasn’t sure I was ready to tell Asger what had happened to me after he went back to Denmark.
* * *
As I sip my glass of Cristal, I think back to my high school days. The champagne bubbles tickle my nose, reminding me of the old-fashioned root beer floats my friends and I used to get after football games.
When I first introduced Asger to the concept of an ice cream float, he had been horrified. According to him, ice cream and soda were two separate items–one belonged in a bowl and the other in a glass. But after I cajoled him into trying a sip of my root beer float, he was sold.
“See, sometimes when you take two things you don’t think go together and combine them, you end up with something amazing,” I had said to him. “It’s all about finding the perfect chemistry.”
My phone buzzes, jolting me back to the present day. But instead of a text from my date saying he’s on his way, it’s a message from Asger with a cowboy emoji and a link to a country western music video. I’m curious what it’s about, but I’ll have to check it out later. Can you imagine the look on everyone’s faces if I started playing a random country tune on my phone? Not exactly the type of music that goes with these elegant surroundings.
I’m starting to get irritated that my date still hasn’t shown. I feel like people are staring at me and whispering things like, “Why’s that girl sitting there on her own?” and “Is she going to drink that entire bottle herself?”
Spying a terrace off of the bar, I decide to slip outside and call my best friend. Olivia is usually so busy traveling around the world for work that I’m surprised when she answers the phone.
“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” I say. “Do you remember that foreign exchange student in tenth grade? The guy from Denmark?”
“Asger?” Olivia asks.
“That’s the one,” I say. “He’s here in Monaco. I ran into him at the Monte Carlo Casino. I barely recognized him. Remember how scrawny he was? Well, not anymore. Muscles everywhere.”
I smile inwardly, recalling the feel of Asger’s strong arms as he hugged me, then add, “Remember how the kids in school used to tease Asger about his name? He explained that it comes from Old Norse and means ‘the spear of God,’ but that made it worse. I still cringe when I think about the nicknames some of the guys on the football team gave him.”
“Uh-huh,” Olivia says.
“Anyway, if they saw him now, they’d be in for a shock. Seriously, Asger has turned into a sexy Scandinavian god. If he had looked like that in high school, maybe I would have wanted to be more than friends.”
“Hang on a sec. Did you say you’re in Monaco?” Olivia asks. “Is your band on tour there?”
“How many times do I have to tell you that it’s a string quartet, not a band.” I chuckle, knowing Olivia is just trying to wind me up. “We’re doing a private concert at some prince’s birthday party. Hopefully, he’s single.”
“A second ago, you had your heart set on Asger,” Olivia says.
I shake my head. “He’s gorgeous to look at, but the man is a waiter. Anyway, enough about me. I’d ask you about your love life, but I’m sure it will be the same old story. ‘I’m too busy with work to date, blah, blah, blah.’”
“Actually, I’m on vacation and I met a guy,” Olivia says.
“No way. Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m on a beautiful Greek island with my aunt Celeste.”
“Okay, we’ll get back to the island in a minute. First, tell me about this guy.” I lean over the railing and admire the lush gardens while Olivia tells me about how she’s fallen for Xander, a Greek guy with a unibrow.
“Can you believe my aunt thinks love at first sight is a real thing?” she asks.
“She’s right,” I say. “You can fall for a guy in less than twenty minutes. Twenty-four hours later, you tell him you love him. Two days after that, you end up getting married.”
Olivia is silent for a moment, then she says, “Why do I feel like you’re not describing the plot of a Hallmark movie? Did you get married?”
“Kind of yes. But also no. It was annulled, so it’s like it never happened.” I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Olivia is my best friend, but this isn’t really something I want to think about, let alone explain. I wave a waiter over and ask him to bring my glass of champagne from the table. “I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay. Tell me more about your guy. You’re obviously smitten with him.”
“Smitten?” Olivia chuckles. “Listen to you. You sound like a character from one of those old movies that my aunt is always watching.”
“Smitten is a great word. Don’t mock it. Listen, your aunt is right. You definitely have feelings for this Xander. And from what you’ve said, he sounds pretty special. You know how I can tell?” I pause to grab the champagne glass from the waiter, then say, “All you could talk about was how he makes you laugh. Being able to have fun with someone is the secret to a long-lasting relationship. Of course, they have to have money as well.”
“Not only are you a romantic, you’re also a cynic,” Olivia says.
“I’m realistic. Totally different thing. You said Xander owns lots of property on the island, and he used to be some high-powered corporate type. Sounds like he’s loaded.” I take a sip of my champagne, then say in a teasing tone, “I think you should quit your job and marry him.”
After Olivia tells me how awful her boss is, I wonder if she might end up handing in her resignation after all. We chat for a few more minutes, then I end the call, telling her I need to freshen up before my date shows up. If he shows up. It’s been nearly forty-five minutes already. I’m beginning to think I’ve been stood up.
Now more high school memories flood back, this time less pleasant ones of my high school boyfriend Corey. We met during our freshman year and dated on and off until graduation. Whenever we had plans, Corey was either late or he didn’t show up. He’d be super apologetic afterward, giving me a variety of excuses. Some were legitimate–football practice ran late or his car broke down. But the others were so flimsy that even Corey looked embarrassed telling them to me.
Did he really need to perform an emergency tracheotomy on his guinea pig? Was his little brother really abducted by aliens? I don’t think so.
Although, come to think of it, I guess there was a reason why Corey got an ‘A’ in creative writing class. Last I heard, he was working as a spin doctor for a sleazy political candidate. Making up outlandish stories to excuse a politician’s bad behavior? Sounds like Corey had found his calling.
After freshening up my makeup in the ladies’ room, I head back into the bar and try to shake off the memories of how Corey had sweet-talked his way back into my good books time and time again. I remember Asger pointing out that a girl like me deserved better, but I had shrugged off his advice.
It feels like history is repeating itself. Here I am sitting at a table alone waiting for my date to show up while Asger shoots me sympathetic looks. Fortunately, my date sends a text assuring me he’s on his way. When he tells me to order some caviar to go along with the Cristal, I smile. Is there anything better with champagne than caviar? I don’t think so.
I wave Asger over. When I ask him to bring some caviar, he grins. “Fancy. I remember when your favorite snack was Pringles.”
“I’ve grown up since then,” I say.
My face grows warm when Asger locks his eyes with me and says softly, “I know.”
It’s a weird moment, full of a tension I can’t quite put my finger on. I grab my phone and pull up my date’s text so I can tell Asger what type of caviar he wanted me to order.
