Chapter 26 Yes, Chef
Chapter twenty-six
Yes, Chef
Jasmine Chamberlain
I stare at my phone, waiting for a response to a message I’m not sure I should have sent in the first place.
Jasmine: Are you busy right now?
Shepherd didn’t make it to chess club this week.
He texted that he had too much going on with a big home game this weekend, but according to the schedule he gave me, he should be free right now.
It feels presumptuous to ask him to spend that free time with me, but at the same time, he gave me the schedule for that exact reason.
My phone buzzes next to where I’m studying on the couch.
Shepherd: Just finished some homework. Why? What's up?
I bite my lip. Over the past few days, I had time to think about everything to do with Shepherd. I came to the conclusion that it was worth seeing how it felt to be around him more. While it’s scary, I don’t want to hide from feelings forever. My parents wouldn’t have wanted that.
Jasmine: I was thinking we could have a cooking/chess lesson. My roommates aren’t home, if you want to come over?
Shepherd: Beat you in chess AND get you to cook for me? I’m in.
I shake my head, but inside, I feel as soft and bubbly as focaccia dough.
Jasmine: You’re losing, and I’m not cooking for you. I’m teaching you how to cook.
Shepherd: So, should I call you chef or professor?
Jasmine: Neither, because I haven’t earned those titles.
Shepherd: Yet.
He sends another text before I can reply.
Shepherd: I’ll be there in ten minutes.
My eyes widen. I should have realized that his time was limited and he’d want to come over soon, but it didn’t hit me until I saw it in writing.
I jump up from the spot where I was studying and rush to my room to change and fix my hair.
I pull off my sweats and slide on a navy tennis skirt and pair it with a white camisole with lace accents.
“Is this too much?” I murmur as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, then decide I don’t have enough time to question my instincts.
I pull my hair out of the bun it’s in and groan when it explodes into a frizzy poof.
Why was I cursed with curly hair? Dahlia never has to deal with this.
I grab a spray bottle that has conditioning product mixed with water and start to spritz my curls to try and tame them.
I’m going to pull it up in a ponytail, so it doesn’t have to be perfect, but I’d prefer it not be troll-adjacent.
Ponytail managed and outfit changed, I coat my lips in a glossy balm and head into the kitchen to set out what we’ll need for a lesson.
I thought making pasta sounded like a fun idea, and the ingredients are simple.
It shouldn’t be hard to teach him that and then show him how to make pasta sauce from canned tomatoes.
I clean off the kitchen island, then set out flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt. I’m pulling out ingredients for the sauce when I hear a knock at the door.
“Coming!” I shout as I set the can of crushed tomatoes down next to the stove.
When I open the door, Shepherd is standing with his hands in the pockets of his black sweats.
“Hi.” I greet him awkwardly.
He smiles down at me. “Hi.”
“Do you want to come in?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Would be kinda weird if I came all this way and didn’t.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, before I change my mind and lock you out.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” he says as he walks inside.
“Try me.”
He slides off his sneakers. It makes me smile that he remembered what I said about Saylor’s house rule.
“What are we making? Or are we playing chess first?” he asks as we walk toward the kitchen.
“I figured we could cook first, then enjoy the fruit of our labor while I beat you at chess.”
He laughs. “Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“We’re going to make pasta and marinara sauce from scratch,” I tell him as we step into the kitchen.
He eyes the ingredients with a degree of uncertainty. “I feel like this is too advanced. I’m like one step above making cereal.”
I laugh. “It’s easier than you think.”
“Says the chef.”
“You have got to stop calling me that,” I say, but I’m smiling.
I head to the drawer where I keep my aprons as well as pot holders and oven mitts. I pull out the two aprons I own. I have more in storage at Levi and Dahlia’s house, but I forced myself to only bring two because I knew space would be minimal.
“You should put this on,” I say, throwing him one apron while I put on the other.
Mine is a pale blue with jasmine flowers embroidered on the bottom and my name across the chest. It was a graduation gift from Levi’s brother Adrian and his wife, Juliette.
The one I gave Shepherd is black with white polka dots, something I bought on a whim last year because I thought it was cute.
“I am not wearing this,” he says with a laugh. “It has polka dots.”
I smirk. “Is your manhood threatened by a few little dots?”
“Goad me all you want. I’m not wearing it.” He drops it onto the countertop.
“Come on, it’s only you and me here.”
He gives me a pointed look. “You are the last person I’d want to see me in this.”
I laugh. “If you get the flour and egg mixture on your clothes, you’re going to regret it. Not to mention tomato sauce on your nice white shirt.”
I pick the apron up and get on my tiptoes to loop it over his head. He lets me, though the look he’s wearing shows he doesn’t like it.
“Don’t pout.” I giggle and wrap my arms around his middle to tie it in the back.
When I finish, I realize how close we are, and I freeze.
Our eyes meet. My breath catches in my throat.
His gaze traces my face, and I feel it as though it were a brush of his fingertips.
The heat from his body so close to mine clouds my senses.
That must be why I think I see his deep blue eyes linger on my lips for a second too long before dragging back up to meet my gaze.
“All set,” I whisper, and step back, keeping my eyes down.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
After a long pause, I finally dare to lift my gaze. The sight before me makes me cackle. The apron barely covers Shepherd’s broad chest and torso. All the polka dots and ruffles juxtapose his muscular arms and unamused scowl.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” I breathe out, wheezing in between bursts of laughter.
“I regret coming over here,” he grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“No, you don’t.” I grin big.
He sighs. “You’re right, I don’t. Now, can we get started on this lesson? The faster we’re done, the sooner I can take this off.”
I giggle again. “I think you should wear it during our match. Wouldn’t want to get pasta sauce on your shirt while eating.”
“I’d rather go shirtless,” he grumbles as he stalks over to the kitchen island.
The image of him playing chess shirtless while eating my food makes my knees weak.
“I think we should keep all of our clothes on,” I say, my voice a pitch too high.
He smirks. “Are you sure about that?”
“Very,” I squeak.
His low chuckle sends warmth pooling in my already tingling abdomen.
“Let’s get started on the lesson, hmm?” I breathe.
“Ready when you are, Chef.”
I heave a sigh, not bothering to correct him again. “First, we need two cups of flour, spooned and leveled.”
He looks at me like he has no idea what I mean. “In English,” he says, and I laugh.
“It’s a method of ensuring proper measurement of the ingredient. I’ll demonstrate, then you can try it.”
I open the acrylic container I store my flour in, then grab the measuring cup and a large spoon. I scoop the flour into the cup with the spoon, then use the handle to level off the top. Once done, I gently pour it onto the countertop to make a small pile.
“Oh, okay, I can do that,” he says, and I slide the materials over to him so he can give it a go. He carefully spoons the flour in, then levels it off.
“Perfect, now just pour it on top of mine—”
He dumps it a few feet above the counter. Flour puffs into the air and onto both of our faces.
“Gently.” I finish my sentence.
“My bad,” he says, sounding like he’s suppressing laughter.
I press my lips together to keep from doing the same. “Next time, be more careful.”
“Yes—” Without thinking, I place my fingertips on his flour-speckled lips before he can say “chef.”
“Not a chef.”
He grins beneath my fingertips, making my stomach do a somersault. “Yet.”