Chapter Seventeen
Ruby
I haven’t seen Garett since last weekend when he stood in just a pair of boxers in the kitchen and I ran for the door like a cross between a horny teenage lad needing a wank and a prim old lady who couldn’t stand the sight of nakedness.
I wince as I unhook my seatbelt, I see the Cloud Cookery School van. The memory of his hard chest flashes to the front of my mind again. I knew he was hot. He was number one on my list of sexy chefs for a reason, but that body was like something else.
“And yet you panicked and ran away,” I mumble, “when you should have climbed him like a fucking monkey scrabbling up a tree.”
I push the door of the cookery school with my shoulder, my pulse out of control, but it’s still locked. His van is in the car park. I fumble with my keys and after dropping them twice, I open the door, and walk into the cookery school. No one’s around when I enter the building and most of the lights are off. Maybe he’s doing something in the back office. I’m early to set up each station, as Kath is busy today.
I’ve hallucinated his god-like body all week. Whenever I attempted to plan my baking for Clive Macdonald’s competition, I’d linger on the dark hair covering Garett’s tanned chest. And I still can’t believe I talked about him riding me hard the other week. I totally blame the way I am around him on my joy and not on his warmth from that time I hugged him or the scent of cinnamon that I can always smell or those damn arms that are like a beacon of sexiness or his chuckle that’s the cutest sound in the whole damn world.
I retie my hair, holding my hairband in my teeth. I sound like one of his needy fangirls.
“Garett?” I call out, but there’s no response except for my voice echoing around me.
I recall his hips with that perfect V I want to trace with my tongue. And his thighs are pure muscle. How does a man who spends his days in a windowless kitchen get a body like that?
I’d love to straddle those thighs. My horniness was a ten all week, but I only got my little bullet vibrator out a couple of times because it’s nearly out of batteries and I haven’t found time to get to the shop. Why do bullets take such tiny rare batteries? I need my powerful vibrator, but it’s still at my old place. Although if I was using that one as much as I need to, Amber and her neighbours will be questioning why someone spends so long vacuuming a bedroom in a garden shed cabin or cleaning their teeth with an electric toothbrush.
So, instead, I’ve been needy with arousal and made a lot of dick-shaped strawberry and white chocolate cookies instead. They’re based on what I imagine is hidden under his boxers, but I’d need to see his dick in the flesh to recreate him perfectly. I chuckle to myself. I’d probably combust the second I saw it. Based on his boxers, his cock is the sort that women would run marathons for.
My mobile rings, pulling me out of my Garett dick fantasies, and I cancel the call immediately. I’ve only had two missed calls from Neil today, which is an improvement. I’ve not answered them or any of the others, but I occasionally listen to some of the voicemail messages to torture myself.
The phone makes a bing as it receives a voice message. I creep around the school, but there are no noises or signs of people.
Paper ripped from a lined notebook sits on the demonstration counter.
Went for a run, be back soon. G
Wicksy said he occasionally drops his stuff off and goes for a run as he prefers the countryside and the local small town to where he lives. Maybe we should invest in a cookery school shower so he can wash that wet dream of a body rather than making him do some sort of sink shower where he throws water at himself. According to Wicksy, the men’s bathroom is like Rihanna's Umbrella video after he’s been in there after a run. I retie my hair for the umpteenth time that day, swallow loudly, and put my phone on speaker. If anything can erase the arousal from my body, it’s Neil’s whiny voice.
“Babes.” I shudder at the sound of it. I’ve listened to a couple of messages on the off chance I might experience sadness, regret, or, God forbid, a longing to see him again. But there’s nothing. Less than nothing. There’s a hollowness in the pit of my stomach because, deep down, I know why I feel nothing. We were over way before six years. Maybe that’s why I haven’t blocked his number. I need to continue the self-flagellation. At some point, I’ll build up the courage to tell him I want the rest of my clothes, too. “I miss you, Babes. My days aren’t full without you. I wake up, and you’re not there. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. Like, really sorry.”
Each message follows the same formula. First, apologies and then—
“But it was your fault. You worked too hard on your business. You were never there for me. And don’t get me started on the lack of sex.”
I don’t know why I’m not ending the message from the guy who was lazy, selfish, and shit in bed. Maybe I need to hurt myself for pushing my family away for this mistake of a man.
His voice cuts through the air con, the only noise in the kitchen. “You’re not frigid. I remember the start of our relationship when you were a frisky madam.” Neil pauses.
“And I remember that, even then, I rarely came because you weren’t that bothered if I did,” I rant at the message.
The clang of a metal water bottle hitting the floor above me echoes loudly, and I glance up at the mezzanine floor as Neil’s message says, “But you changed. Like, you weren’t sexy anymore, and to be honest, Viv took time to make me happy. Like really—” I switch the phone off, but it’s too late. My number one chef, who’s wearing more clothes than the last time I saw him, heard everything.
“Sorry. I wasn’t listening.” His gaze travels around the room as if he can’t bear to look at me, but he suddenly meets my stare. My body flares with humiliation as sweat beads my forehead. “I returned from my run about ten minutes ago and needed somewhere to change. I didn’t really hear.”
“It doesn’t matter.” But it does. I pull my arms to my body in an attempt to hug myself and fist my hands, digging my nails into my palms.
“But–”
“Seriously, Garett,” I snap at him, my stare boring into his soft brown eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Just pretend you didn’t hear about the frigid bitch who worked too hard at her failing business and whose boyfriend preferred to screw her best friend. Okay?”
He presses his lips tightly, winces, and nods.
“Great. Kath isn’t in today, so I’m setting up. You’d best stay out of my way. In fact, everyone should stay out of my way today.” I storm off without waiting for a reply.
◆◆◆
The cookery class carries on in the same way, me in a foul mood and Garett avoiding me because that’s what I told him to do. It’s a successful pasta-making class despite my mood. To make it worse, my normal sunshine bug has bitten Garett. He’s laughed with the clients, bent over backwards to give them a great day, and gone above and beyond with every request. It’s paid off, too. We’ve had so much interest in Christmas cooking that we’ll need to add midweek classes in December and work until Christmas Eve. Amber will be ecstatic, and it’s all because of him.
“We don’t have to cook tonight if you don’t want to. I can help you with the competition another time,” he says, sidling up to me as I fill the dishwasher.
I’d forgotten about that. I can’t say no, even though I’m sweating at the idea of having to be kind to anyone when all I want to do is gorge myself on chocolate dick-shaped cookies and rewatch a true crime show where someone’s ex-boyfriend gets murdered.
But this incredible chef is giving up his time to help me even though, for whatever reason, he won’t tell me why he doesn’t want me to do the competition.
“No, it’s cool,” I reply. “I’ll finish tidying up, and then we’ll get on with it unless you don’t want to.”
I wouldn’t want to be around me when I’m grumpier than Gordon Ramsay mid-tantrum.
“No, I want to.” His smile is tentative as he sticks a strip of gum into his mouth and chews in that slow way that transfixes me. “I’ve worked on the techniques I’d like to show you. I’ll help you clean up, and we’ll be able to start sooner. I’ve got a cinnamon idea you’ll love.”
My lousy mood fades quickly. He’s willing to put all this effort into helping me.
Five minutes later, we meet at one of the counters.
“Are you okay?” he asks. He squeezes his lips together, his gaze attempting to penetrate my soul, before slipping another piece of gum into his mouth.
I shake my head. “No, but let’s get on. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nods but doesn’t push. I like that, but it also makes my shoulders sag a little. I don’t have anyone else to speak to. I still haven’t built the courage to visit my parents, and I’ve avoided Amber’s house when I know they’re visiting. The pregnancy and absent husband are continuing to take their toll on Amber. She was green and asleep when I left this morning. My parents are caring for her, though. But I’m not pouring my heart out to Garett, either. I have to work with him, and I’ve already had enough humiliation to last a lifetime over the last month.
“Okay, let’s begin. I want you to show me how you make cookies, and as you do this, I’ll give you feedback and ways to improve, such as ideas on finesse or making things quicker.”
“Quicker?”
“Speed means you have more time to add something to your creation at the end or perfect it. The key for these competitions isn’t just making something the judges like; it’s wowing them. You can do that with taste, decoration, finish, or something unique. What we want to do is to perfect all four. That’s how you impress them.”
I could listen to him talk in teacher mode all day. It’s like he’s doing one of his classes, and it’s only for me.
I smile despite the day I’ve had.
“Can I have music on?” He raises his eyebrow at my request. “I’m used to cooking with music in the background.”
“Something pop?” he says without inflexion, rolling up his sleeves and making my stomach flop.
“After the day I’ve had, I want nineties indie anthems. Do you know Jader?”
He throws his head back and laughs. He’s so different from the guy I met nearly a month earlier. “I partied hard with them as a teenager and then spent a summer working in the restaurant on the drummer’s cheese farm. They’re good lads. But can we start with Oasis? I’m feeling their Morning Glory album, then maybe Kenickie and a bit of Republica.”
His grin leaves me imagining what he was like in his partying days. The Garett I’ve met seems a bit broken, and every new side is a refreshing revelation that I want more insight into.
“Hard partier and restaurant worker on a cheese farm. Who are you?”
He shrugs, but his smile is wistful. As “She’s Electric” blasts from the stereo, he watches me work. He gives me pointers on changing the taste and different methods to combine ingredients while sharing stories from his partying days.
My skills are on show, but instead of feeling uncomfortable and defensive, his smooth instructions and gentle advice make my limbs looser and my heart flush. As I knead the dough, it’s like I’m kneading the kinks out of my shoulders or maybe the twists from my past.
“You know a lot about what the judges want. How come?” I press the dough with my hands, stretching it slightly before remembering I’m not meant to be making bread. His cinnamon scent is occasionally distracting.
“I worked under a famous television baker and judge for a while. People would stop and listen to her advice whenever she walked into the kitchen. She was the kindest woman unless you messed with her baking, and then she’d rip you a new one. I learnt a lot.”
“We’re talking about the baker who feigns innocence at every innuendo, and yet her necklaces resemble anal beads?”
He chuckled. “Maybe. Now stop distracting me and yourself and press that dough properly. Have you tried doing it slightly differently and moving your fingers like this?” He shoves his hands in the dough. His fingers brush mine, and electricity zips from my fingers to my scalp.
His eyelashes flutter as he side-eyes me.
I pull my lips into my mouth to prevent myself from beaming, but the excitement still needs somewhere to go, so I let out a tiny squeal before covering it with a cough.
“Anyway, you get the idea.” He pulls his fingers back and walks to the sink. Oh shit. He knows I squealed with excitement because he touched me. I poke at the dough and grimace.
“I also know what judges want because I kind of entered a competition myself a while back.” He’s staring at the running water as he washes his hands.
“Yeah?” I keep my head down, but I glance at him occasionally. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s scrubbing his hands repeatedly.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. It was with an old business partner.”
Does he mean Clive?
I work the dough more, adding flour. He walks back to me, slower this time.
“Add a bit more here,” he instructs, and I do.
“Did you win?” I ask, teasing information out of him.
He pauses. There’s a lot about Garett I don’t know, so that could mean any competition. There’s no mention of Garett in the articles about Clive’s Best Cotswold Restaurant win, but there’s a niggling sensation in my stomach nonetheless.
“No, something happened. The business partner wasn’t the person I thought or maybe wasn’t the person I hoped. I should have known, but sometimes you trust the wrong people.”
“I get that.”
“And sometimes you make decisions, like to work exceptionally hard because that’s important.”
He reties his apron before he helps prepare the baking trays for my biscuits. Is this in reference to my voicemail from Neil or about his life?
I reach for the rolling pin, but he pushes it away.
“Not yet. One more press.” It’s a gentle command that gives me weird, achy, yet pleasurable sensations in my limbs that I don’t want to name. “That was my life. Work was the only thing that mattered to me. If I was managing a kitchen or a business and things weren’t happening efficiently and people were wasting time on things that didn’t make the business successful, they were wasting my life.”
“And now?”
He adds a little flour to the counter. It’s the fluttering thing he does. I attempt to copy it, but he chuckles. His laughter is like fingertips dancing across my skin.
“More like this.” He holds my fingers and helps me make the fluttering shape. My belly does it, too.
“And now I see that there can be other things in life.” His brown eyes track me, and sweat beads my neck. I push up the sleeves of my jumper.
“You could be a professional chef with that pushing sleeves action,” he cheeks.
I shove him lightly, and he drops a flour dot onto my nose.
He stares at my lips, and I suck the lower one into my mouth. I’m so close to saying the wrong thing. He licks his lips slowly, and all the air leaves the room. He brushes the flour off my nose. I can’t breathe. “Ruby, I—”
My phone vibrates, and we stare at where it sits on the counter.
Neil the Wanker is emblazoned on my screen.
“Video call?” Garett asks.
I press my hands to my temples while checking the clock. “He’s probably drunk. He always video calls when he’s drunk. I’ve not answered any of his calls since I left him.”
Garett’s expression is grave. “How many times has he called?”
I nibble my lip. “This week, less than ten. The last weeks were more, and the first week was over fifty.”
“Can I help?”
My mouth goes dry as an idea blasts me. I couldn’t, and I really shouldn’t, but it takes hold, and I can’t stop my mouth from moving even as my conscience screams to stay quiet.
“Will you flirt with me?”
Garett doesn’t miss a beat. His voice drops to a level that only horny women can hear. “Rubes, I thought you’d never ask.”