Smitten with Caviar - Smitten with Travel #6

It’s classical violin and caviar versus country music dreams in this sweet romantic comedy set in Monaco.

When Jasmine’s string quartet heads to the glittering playground of Monaco, she’s hoping to land a rich husband. Bonus points if he’s royal and good-looking.

Her plans take an unexpected turn when she runs into Asger, a Danish waiter who once attended her high school as an exchange student. Sure, he’s got those sexy Scandinavian vibes going on, but he’s broke and his dream of becoming a country music star is far-fetched, to say the least.

Jasmine fights her growing attraction to Asger, but when the two of them are forced to work together in a musical competition, her feelings for him quickly become complicated.

Can Jasmine let go of her dream for a lavish lifestyle to embrace a love that’s as unexpected as it is genuine?

If you like quirky characters, happily ever afters, thrilling heists, and comical car chases, you’ll love Jasmine and Asger’s story.

Chapter 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 are you in Monaco for?”

“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.