Chapter Ten WES
Chapter Ten
W ES
The rest of the weekend passes by without incident.
I go on another run, get some laundry done, and meet a supplier at the restaurant for a delivery of pots and pans that were supposed to arrive a week ago.
Which is how I find myself in the kitchen cooking up a butternut squash ravioli at eight o’clock on a Sunday evening.
Or that’s the intention at least.
If I could only find the box of flour that I know for a fact is somewhere in this damn kitchen.
After twenty minutes of looking, I decide I have three options. Drive into town to get more flour. Quit making ravioli altogether. Or walk over to the Hawthorne house and snag the bag that I know is on the left side of the pantry.
Since I’ve had a few glasses of wine—the burden of being a chef forced to pair dishes with a wine list—driving into town is out.
So ... Hawthorne house it is.
I knock on the front door first, still wanting to be respectful even though both Sarah and Jack said I was welcome in the house at any time. But when nobody comes to answer after a few knocks, I turn the handle and push inside.
I can hear a quiet hum from somewhere, maybe some light music, but other than that it’s still. So I walk softly through the entry, down the hallway on the left, and into the kitchen.
I’m in the pantry in seconds, and when I spot the bag of flour exactly where I thought it was, I smile.
Plucking it off the shelf, I step back out into the kitchen and thunk it onto the counter. Taking just a little helping for myself seems like a better choice than making off with their entire supply.
I’m digging around in the cabinets looking for plastic bags when I hear a familiar voice from behind me.
“What are you doing here?”
I close the drawer and turn around, my mouth going dry when my eyes fall on Murphy, her hair wet and wrapped in a messy bun on her head. She’s wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a tank top that’s a little too see-through for my liking.
Or exactly see-through enough, depending on where you’re coming from.
I clear my throat and turn back to the cabinets, continuing my search.
“Borrowing some flour,” I tell her. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”
“You making something?”
I pause just briefly in my perusal of the contents of the top drawer next to the cutlery, considering the best way to respond.
“Ravioli,” I reply, figuring I can go with one-word answers.
Be curt, but not unkind. That’s my plan.
Though I can’t say it was my plan yesterday afternoon, when I narrated my own personal erotic romance into Murphy’s ear outside my cabin. My palms start sweating a little at the brief remembrance.
God, I’d had her on the verge of panting at just the idea of the two of us together, without so much as touching her ... until her brother showed up and ruined it.
I can’t even say she caught me at a weak moment. I hadn’t been drinking, hadn’t been feeling particularly emotional or in turmoil or any other certain way that might lead me to bad decision-making.
I’d just seen her there, looking fairly similar to how she looks right now—damp hair, tight shirt, fresh face—and couldn’t push her away anymore the way I have been, when all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met her was pull her close.
Part of me wonders if I crossed a line. Scratch that. I know I crossed a line. But I’m finding it difficult not to push the boundaries when Murphy is around.
I find the plastic bags in the next drawer and turn to where I placed the flour on the island, only to find Murphy resting her elbows on the marble, her tits squished together. And what’s worse, I can tell by her body language that she isn’t posing for me, so I can’t even be irritated at her.
“I used to work at an Italian place that made the best butternut squash ravioli,” she says, an easy smile on her face. “I swear I gained ten pounds working there because I kept ordering that dish to go after every shift.”
I try to keep my eyes on the task at hand as I dump a healthy serving of flour into the plastic bag. Only once I’m rolling up the top of the flour bag do her words register.
“That’s actually what I’m making,” I say before I can stop myself.
Of course her eyes light up.
“Really?”
I nod.
“Are you planning to make enough to share?”
Honestly, I was planning to make a shit ton. I love to cook when I’ve had a few drinks, and I have this empty, shiny new kitchen that’s still crazy clean and hasn’t even really been broken in yet.
But I shouldn’t be making Murphy ravioli, late in the evening, while she wears that and while my inhibitions are lower.
It reeks of all the trouble I told myself I wanted to avoid.
“No. I’m not.”
Curt, not unkind, I remind myself.
Murphy’s posture changes as she pulls back from the island so she’s standing now. I can see her disappointment clearly on her face and in her body language, and I feel a lance of regret.
“I guess I could ,” I say, changing my tune with enough quickness to give me whiplash, clearly having another moment of weakness. “If you want some, I mean.”
Murphy’s lips twist, and I can tell she’s not sure what to make of my response.
“It’ll only add on a few extra minutes,” I continue, suddenly wanting her to come with me to the kitchen so I can cook her a meal.
A favorite meal, at that.
She inclines her head in the direction of the hallway behind her. “I’m just gonna grab a sweater,” she finally says, all signs of her earlier disappointment gone. “I’ll meet you over there?”
I give her a small smile, a mixture of emotions brewing inside me. “Sounds good.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m kneading dough on the stainless steel worktable while Murphy sits on the counter next to the sink, watching.
“How long have you been a chef?”
I glance over at her, my gaze traveling over her bare legs dangling off the edge.
“My whole life.”
She lets out a small huff of laughter.
“You came from the womb sharpening your knives and kneading dough?”
I lift the dough in my hand and smack it down on the table, then begin pulling and stretching.
“Practically.”
She gives me a big smile, which I return, feeling no regret for inviting her over. I’m enjoying her company too much. It feels comfortable and easy, and I’m already regretting that she’ll have to leave after I feed us.
“I cooked a lot growing up,” I explain. “My mom was always ... She wasn’t home really to make sure we had dinner and stuff, so I cooked for my brother and me a lot. When I was old enough, I got a job at a restaurant and just kind of worked my way up.” I shrug. “It feels like my whole life.”
“No college or anything?”
I glance over in her direction. “No, college wasn’t for me.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
My shoulders ease, and I suddenly realize I was worried about if she’d judge me for that. Over the years, plenty of people have made the assumption that I’d never make anything of myself because I didn’t go to college or get a degree. But not everybody is book smart. Not everybody wants what college offers.
Having Murphy get that alleviates the need to explain myself, and for that, I’m grateful.
“No college for you, huh?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. I knew if I went, I’d be committing myself to some kind of normal-person job. A teacher. Someone who works in HR. And that’s not what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
I know she just moved home after living in LA for—what did she tell me—nine years? But whenever Memphis talks about it, he’s cagey. Not that I thought to pry much before I actually met Murphy. But now, I’m curious.
“I wanted to be a singer.”
My eyebrows lift, and the surprise must be evident on my face because Murphy gives me a bashful smile.
“I know, it’s like a one-in-a-million thing, right? But sometimes you get the bug and you just have to really go for it or you’ll always regret not knowing, you know?”
I nod my head, because I do know. I might not have gone after something as entertainment-esque as trying to make it in Hollywood, but I understand the idea that you have to pursue your dreams or you feel like you’re suffocating.
My dream took me to Chicago for seven years and then spat me out like a rotten apple, a firm dismissal and a clear indicator that my dreams would never come true.
It’s something I’m still coming to terms with, but hey, at least I tried.
“I’m assuming if you’re back, things didn’t work out so well?” I ask, wondering what happened in LA to send her back to her childhood home.
Especially when it seems like she so clearly doesn’t want to be here.
Her face pinches slightly, just briefly, but then smooths over, and she gives me a smile that looks forced as hell.
“No, it didn’t. But I figure there’s always room in life to create a new dream, right? Just because one thing doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you can’t try to find something else, something new that can still give your life meaning.”
I watch Murphy as she stares at her legs, tugging on a loose string in the hem of her shorts, and realize that her pain is a lot more fresh than mine.
It’s been almost a year since I left Chicago trying to figure out what to do in the wake of my downfall. I worked as a dishwasher at a Chinese restaurant and made sandwiches at a small deli during that time to pay the bills, but I also healed a little bit and let go of most of my bitterness and resentment about what happened.
It sounds like whatever crushed Murphy’s dream is recent enough that the wound is still wide open and raw.
“There’s always room for that,” I finally say, and when she looks up at me, uncertainty on her face, I give her an encouraging smile. “And until you figure out what that is, there’s always delicious butternut squash ravioli to make you feel better.”
She breaks into laughter, and I enjoy the sweet sound of it far more than I should.
We talk of our mutual love of Italian food as I continue with the dough, rolling it out much flatter than I could do by hand. Eventually I slice it into long strips and funnel each piece through the pasta roller, leaving me with the ravioli casing.
I pull out the concoction I created before going in search of flour earlier. The butternut squash mixed in with ricotta, pecorino romano, and nutmeg is already giving off a delicious aroma that makes my mouth water in anticipation.
Explaining my steps to Murphy as I go, I slice the pasta into squares and dab the edges with an egg wash. Then I scoop out the filling and add a small amount to each square, finishing with adding the second piece of pasta on top, then pressing firmly to seal.
“Here’s where the magic happens.” I slide a pan onto the stove and turn on the burner. “The sage butter.”
I hear Murphy hum to herself in eagerness, and I suddenly know I need to deliver the most epically delicious ravioli I’ve ever created.
I finish up the final steps—creating the compound butter, cooking the pasta, and mixing the two together—before plating and searching out forks and knives so we don’t have to eat my masterpiece like cavemen.
For whatever reason, this feels like a dish to share, so I leave everything on one plate and set it next to Murphy.
“God, it smells so good,” she says, her eyes glued to the pasta dish that I must admit looks pretty damn amazing.
“Let’s see if the taste lives up to the aroma.” I slice a piece in half, stab it with a fork, and pop it into my mouth.
I close my eyes for just a second, simultaneously evaluating and enjoying the fruits of my labor. But when I open them, I see Murphy watching me with a look in her eyes that I know well.
And that’s when I realize how close we are, with her up on the counter and me standing next to her mostly bare legs.
I swallow the pasta, then before I can think better of it, I spear the other half of the piece I just cut with the fork and lift it up to Murphy’s mouth.
She blinks, but opens for me, her tongue peeking out just slightly before she closes her lips around the tines.
Then her eyes mimic mine, closing briefly as she begins to chew.
I watch her, enraptured. Because never has someone else eating my food given me so much pleasure before.
She nods her head as she delights in my culinary creation, and when her lids flutter open again, that same look is there. Needy and desirous. My eyes drop to her lips where the sage butter left behind a sheen reflecting in the light of the kitchen.
I resist the urge to lean forward and take her mouth with mine. Instead, I shove that thought aside and cut another piece, take a bite, then lift the other half for her again.
I repeat this several times until we’ve finished the dish, nothing but a layer of butter and seeds left on the plate.
“That was incredible,” she tells me. “You sure do know what you’re doing.”
“Yes, I do,” I say, the thickness in my voice betraying the alternate meaning. I may know my way around the kitchen, but I know my way around a woman’s body just as well. Maybe better.
I let my mind wander, imagining her legs wrapped around me, her hands lifting my shirt, my fingers slipping under the little sweater that she put on and cupping her breast.
My eyes drop down when I feel something against where I’m braced on the counter, then widen in surprise to discover Murphy’s little finger is tucked against the side of my hand.
Without thinking, I shift my hand slightly, my fingers tracing gently around her wrist. I hear her breath catch in her throat, and when I look up into her eyes, that needy look is still there.
“This okay?” I trail a path up her calf and past her knee, my hand coming to a rest on her bare thigh.
Her head bobs, but she doesn’t say anything.
And I get it.
There’s something delicate here, something fragile that could snap and break at any moment.
I feel just boozy enough on the wine and far too drunk on her to pay my own internal warning system any further notice. I can smell the subtle notes of her perfume over the diminishing scent of dinner, and it’s intoxicating.
I slide my hand upward, rubbing in gentle circles, my eyes never leaving hers. Her pupils begin to dilate and her breathing picks up pace the farther up my hand travels.
I move so my body is directly in front of her, her legs hanging off the edge of the counter on either side of me.
I’m playing with fire. I can feel it in my skin, in my bones, in the tiny cells pumping their way through my veins.
But I can’t stop.
Part of me wants to believe that if we’re barely touching, it doesn’t count. That just this tiny little movement isn’t anything to be truly worried about.
I have both hands on her now, one on each thigh, my thumbs stroking and massaging, then slipping just barely under the hem of her shorts. The skin there is just slightly warmer, and it’s suddenly driving me crazy that I can’t feel the rest of her. All of her.
“This okay?” I ask again.
She nods this time with her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in labored breaths that pick up pace as I reach the crease of her thigh.
“How about ... this?” I whisper, one thumb stroking gently down the seam pressed against her core.
She gasps audibly, her eyes growing hooded. Her tongue pressing against the ridge of her front two teeth.
Her hips shift minutely under my hands, so I stroke her again, my dick growing firmer with each second of contact between us.
When she whimpers, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to come just from that little noise alone.
“Wes,” she whispers.
I shake my head, not wanting her to say anything else.
There’s too much risk of either of us realizing the mistake we’re making, and I feel too far gone to let my conscience get any louder than it is.
Murphy raises her hands and rests them gently on my shoulders. I take that as encouragement to continue and move my fingers again.
I stroke against the material of her shorts, reveling in the dampness I can feel beginning to soak through the fabric.
“Are you wet for me?” The question comes out practically a growl.
“Yes, Chef,” she says, her words a breathy moan that hit me square in the chest.
Fuck.
Murphy closes her eyes, digging her fingers into my shoulders as her hips begin to shift and search for what she wants.
But I grip her firmly, slowing her movement until her eyes fly open and connect with mine.
“Don’t move.”
Murphy stills, but desperation lingers in her eyes.
I continue stroking her, lightly at first, a gentle pressure that’s meant to tease her, before pressing more firmly to get a deeper reaction, then lightly again.
Minutes go by, and I can only imagine the torture building up inside of her, because it’s certainly growing inside of me. A deep, pulsing throb that reverberates through my entire body.
She digs her fingers into my shoulders, her head falling back. Her eyes close and her mouth opens with a thready cry. She tremors under my hands as a climax works its way through her body. As she comes down from the high, I watch her in awe. The sight of her falling apart is the most erotic thing I’ve seen in my entire life.
She pants, attempting to catch her breath, as her gaze returns to mine, a lazy smile on her face.
I smile back at her, but it slips away as she reaches for my belt.
Her body freezes as I grip her hands, halting her movements.
And in that moment, I know any of the endorphins that were racing through Murphy’s body have very suddenly and dramatically disappeared.
“Wha—” she starts but abruptly cuts off whatever she was about to say.
Then she’s pushing me out of the way and hopping down off the counter.
“Are you kidding me?” She rounds the counter in the center of the kitchen and stands on the other side.
Something slices through my chest when I realize she’s actively seeking physical distance from me.
“Look, Murphy—”
“Don’t fucking look, Murphy me. You just made me come.”
I wince, feeling the fire I allowed myself to play with burn and singe.
“And I’m glad I could do that for you,” I say, the sound of my own words making me sick to my stomach. “But that’s really as far as this can go.”
She watches me, an incredulous look on her face.
“You’re glad you could do that for me ?” she echoes, her voice coming out high-pitched and awkward. “What the fuck was this?”
She looks ... mortified. Regret slams into me, but not fast enough to right the wrong.
Murphy huffs out a laugh and then she’s gone, out of the kitchen, her little Keds stomping against the smoothed concrete in the dining room before I hear the front door of the restaurant open and then close.
All the different things I should have said come to mind in that moment.
It’s not a good idea.
I made a mistake.
I’m your boss.
But the truth is, all those are excuses.
And not a single one feels like a good enough reason to have ended things the way I did.