“Try this.” Again, I take a bite from his hand and taste a burst of lemon along with olive oil and salt combined with the toasted bread.

“Oh my God.” I reach and take the bread from his hand. “I can eat ten pieces of this.”

“That’s what I like to hear. How are you doing, Mr. Powers?” A tall, dark-haired man dressed in all black sets a dish down. “I know how you love the roasted sweet potatoes.”

“Chef Chris.” Jett looks up and fist-bumps the man. “This is Raven.”

The chef smiles at me. “Nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy the food.”

“It’s so good,” I gush, because it really is. Jett’s eyes caress my face, making me grow warm.

“Chris is a fucking incredible chef,” he informs me.

“Well, thank you, man.” The chef laughs, motioning for the waitress to put down the chicken and steak. The smell instantly makes my mouth water.

“You two enjoy. Let me know if you want anything else.” He flashes us a cocky grin, then moves to the back area where I can see the wood-fire oven built into the wall.

“Best chef in Los Angeles. Fuck, maybe the States. I’ve known him for years. He caters my parties.” He grabs a knife and fork and cuts a small piece of perfectly cooked steak, holding it out for me.

“So good.” I groan again. “I love all this.” Picking up my own fork, I motion at the table full of food, trying not to completely stuff my face in front of him.

Jett leisurely cuts bites for us, telling me stories about all the places he’s traveled to. It’s like he’s the perfect man, beautiful and surprisingly funny. I never want this to end.

Sighing, I sit back. “I’m full, but I can’t stop eating. And now, I miss Spain. I guess if I get sick of everything in the States, I’ll just take off and move to Costa del Sol, live on the beach.” I grin.

“No, you’re going to Stanford, then maybe Harvard for law.” He takes a bite, and I laugh.

“Um, I would never get in, and I’m fine at NYU.” I look at him, eyebrows raised. He can’t be serious. Shit, he looks serious. I can’t go to Stanford. I need my bestie. Look what happens when Cher leaves me alone.

“I’ve already spoken to the dean and three of my professors. They can’t wait to meet you.”

I blink at him, and my voice goes up a notch. “What?” My pulse races.

“NYU is not right for you.” He says this as if we’re talking about the menu, not my life.

“Jett. I’m not going to Stanford,” I state firmly, then pick up my fork to inhale the last of the sweet potatoes. Surprisingly he doesn’t say anything, which makes me stop.