Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
NAOMI
“ Y ou know this is insane, right?” Elliot leans against his pristine stainless steel counter, keys dangling from his fingers. “Breaking into my restaurant after hours?”
“It’s not breaking in if you give us the keys.” I hold out my hand. Brandon needs this.
Elliot’s lips twitch. “And what makes you think I’d do that?”
“Because you want him back in a kitchen as much as I do.” I meet his gaze. “Consider this a test run.”
“For what?”
“His own place.”
Elliot straightens, suddenly alert. “Not interested in my sous chef position anymore?”
“We both know he was never going to take it.”
“Worth a shot.” He tosses me the keys. “Security code’s 4891 if something’s coming up. And… please don’t fuck up my kitchen.”
“We won’t.”
“Naomi?” His voice softens. “Make sure he actually cooks something. None of that staring-at-ingredients bullshit he’s been doing.”
I catch the worry beneath his snark. “That’s the plan.”
“Good.” He grabs his coat. “Because if I have to watch him mope around my restaurant one more time, critiquing everything without actually cooking…” He shakes his head. “Just fix him.”
I freeze.
Not because he’s walking away, but because of the way he said it.
Like Brandon is something broken. Like it’s my job to put him back together.
Like Elliot’s been waiting for someone to do what he couldn’t.
I squeeze the keys.
Brandon doesn’t need fixing.
He needs to remember who the hell he is.
My phone buzzes.
Brandon: Outside. You sure about this?
I head for the back door.
My boyfriend, still feels a bit odd to call him that, stands in the alley, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight. He looks… smaller somehow. Less sure.
“Hey.” I hold up the keys. “Ready?”
His eyes fix on the metal glinting in my hand. “This is stupid.”
“Probably.” I step closer. “Want to do it anyway?”
“What if—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “What if I can’t do it? If I’m still the drunk mess, you had to drag home. The corporate drone who has no clue how to hold a knife. The disappointing son who?—”
I step into his space, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. “You’re not any of those things.”
“Aren’t I?” His laugh is hollow. “You saw me yesterday. I couldn’t even?—”
“I saw someone trying.” My fingers itch to reach for him, but I keep my hands at my sides. “That’s more than you’ve done in months.”
“What if trying isn’t enough?”
“Then we try again.” The words come easily, surprising me. “That’s what you taught me, remember? With the pancakes?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because you were learning something new. I used to know this. It used to be…” His voice cracks. “It was everything.”
“And it still is.” I hold up the keys, letting them catch the streetlight. “That’s why we’re here. No pressure, no expectations. Just you and a kitchen.”
“And you.”
“And me.” I take a breath. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“Another one?”
“Whatever you make, I’ll eat.”
He reaches for the keys but stops short. “Naomi…”
“Just…” I keep my voice light, even as my heart pounds. “Cook something, and I’ll try it.”
“You hate eating new things.”
“I hate a lot of things.” I press the keys into his palm, letting my fingers brush his skin. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
“Then let’s go in.”
He moves through the kitchen like someone returning home after a long absence, each step hesitant at first. Checking burners, testing knobs, and running fingers along counter edges. But as the minutes tick by, something shifts.
He shrugs off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and tests knife edges against his thumb. His hands shake slightly as he reaches for the first onion and sets up the cutting board.
“What are you thinking?” I perch on a clean counter, watching him inventory ingredients.
“It’s different here. It’s like… my hands remember even if my head’s forgotten.”
“Your head hasn’t forgotten.”
“Maybe not.” The blade hovers over the onion, unmoving, as if he’s contemplating the first slice. “But it’s been fighting pretty hard to pretend it has.”
He makes the first cuts. No hesitation. No struggling. Just clean, professional movements that turn the onion into perfect, identical pieces.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
His lips twitch. “You like it.”
More than I should. There’s something magnetic about watching him work, about seeing confidence replace doubt with each slice, each motion.
“Want to help?” He glances up, that spark I’ve missed dancing in his eyes.
“Absolutely not. I’m here for moral support only.”
“Didn’t you want a cooking lesson?”
“Changed my mind.” I swing my legs, keeping well away from his workspace. “I will sit here, look pretty, and occasionally say encouraging things.”
He lets out a snort, his hand grazing my knee as he heads to the stove, and the touch feels like a confession. He wants me here.
“First rule of pasta.” He places a pot of water on the stove. “Always start with the water. Takes longer than you think to come to a proper boil.” He opens the industrial fridge, pulling out butter, heavy cream, and fresh parmesan. The pancetta comes out next, thick-cut pieces. “Elliot always did have good suppliers.”
“Is that approval I hear?”
“Don’t tell him.” A ghost of his old smirk appears. “His ego’s big enough.”
I know someone else who has a big ego.
When the bottle of vodka and tomato paste join the lineup, my breath catches. “Are you?—”
“Making the pasta that got you to play beer pong with me?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I won most of those games.”
“And somehow, I still felt like the winner.” He reaches back into the fridge, pulling out vegetables, red peppers, mushrooms, and broccoli. “Though I’m making some adjustments to the original.”
“Three days,” I say softly. “You spent three days experimenting in college.”
“You remember?”
“Of course. B and I were addicted to it.” It was the only food I was able to keep down. Other than salad or raw vegetables.
“You mean you were addicted to me?”
I roll my eyes. “I was addicted to your cooking.”
“Keep telling yourself that, cupcake.” He starts chopping the vegetables. “You used to hang around my apartment kitchen for hours.”
“Because you kept feeding me.”
“Because I wanted you there. Any time I got you there felt like I won the lottery.” He tosses the vegetables in a pan, and the sizzle breaks the tension. “Still do.”
Garlic hits hot butter, and the kitchen fills with a promise. He moves between pots with growing confidence, showing more of the Brandon I remember, the one who found his peace in the creation of something beautiful. The one who lived for this.
“Taste this.” He holds out a spoon, his other hand cupped underneath to catch any drips.
I lean forward, letting him feed me the sauce. The flavors burst across my tongue. Rich, creamy, with just enough vodka to give it depth without overwhelming. It tastes like college nights and stolen glances, like my Brandon.
“Good?”
“You know it is.” My eyes flick to his hands. “Your hands don’t shake.”
He glances down at them, as if just noticing. “Yeah. They don’t.”
“Because this is where you belong.”
Brandon doesn’t tense up like I expect. Instead, his shoulders relax further as he stirs the sauce.
“Done.” He steps back, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, his face flushed from the heat, but his eyes are clear. Present.
He plates the penne, pouring the vodka sauce over them, steam rising with an aroma that makes my mouth water. The pancetta pieces nestle throughout, promising bursts of salt and crunch. He adds the vegetables in a careful arrangement, then finishes with fresh basil and a light dusting of parmesan.
It’s nothing like the basic vodka sauce he made in college. That was delicious but simple. This is art.
Something made with care. With love.
My stomach doesn’t clench at the sight. Instead, it growls softly.
Brandon’s head snaps up. “Was that?—”
“Shut up.” I cross my arms.
“You’re actually hungry.” He slides the plate toward me, then grabs a fork from a nearby drawer. “Your turn.”
I twirl a small amount of noodles, the sauce clinging to them and coating my tongue as I take the first bite.
So good. He made it even better, and there’s something else, something new in the blend of vegetables he’s added.
“Well?”
I take another bite instead of answering. Then another. Each forkful feels like stepping back in time, but also moving forward. Like finding something I thought was lost.
“The mushrooms are delicious.” I scrape the fork against the plate, gathering more sauce. “And the red peppers give it more depth.”
“You can taste the difference?”
Yeah. It’s love. I nod. Because it’s not just the food that’s different. It’s him. It’s us. It’s the way he’s looking at me, like cooking for me means more than just keeping a promise.
“The kitchen suits you,” I say finally. “You look… whole again.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes the fork, stealing a bite from my plate. “Maybe dreams aren’t just dreams.”
“You miss it.” Not a question.
“Yeah.” He won’t meet my eyes.
“Then why did you sell it?”
“I wanted to be better.”
“Better?”
“I thought…” He grabs a dish towel, twisting it between his hands. “I thought if I gave it up, chose the path Dad wanted, maybe I’d finally be worth staying for.”
Something tightens in my chest. He thought he had to change for someone to stay. He thought being himself wasn’t enough.
And I let him believe that.
I really fucked up.
My stomach twists. Because the truth is, I’ve spent so long convincing myself I wasn’t good enough for him. That he deserved someone more put together, less messy. But that was never the problem, was it?
I drag in a breath, willing the nausea down. Not now. Not when I finally see it for what it is. “Let’s find you a space.”
“Naomi—”
“We’ll look at properties, run numbers, whatever you need.”
“Say I did this. Open the restaurant.” He places the fork back onto the plate. “What if I pour everything into it and fail? What if?—”
“Then we’ll order pizza.” I shrug. “Or Chinese. Or whatever the hell you want.”
“That simple, huh?”
“No. But neither is this whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing, and we’re doing it anyway.” I set the plate aside. “Brandon, you’ve spent so long living for everyone else. Your father, your siblings, hell, even me. When do you start living for yourself? What if people love it?”
“Maybe.”
“For what it’s worth? I liked drunk-mess Brandon. And corporate Brandon. And especially cooking Brandon.” This is too honest for me. Terrifying, but if it helps him see his worth. “I just like Brandon.”
“You were always nailing the girlfriend act.”
“It’s not an act anymore. It never has been.” I draw circles on the counter. “And you knew it.”
He just stares at me. Then, slowly a smile spreads across his seductive lips, showing off his dimples. “No acting, huh? So, you like the whole messy package?”
My stomach flips, not from anxiety, but something warmer, more electric. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He shifts closer, backing me against the counter. “You’ve been living in my head rent-free since college.”
“That explains the mess up there.”
His eyes drop to my lips. “You know what else I remember from college?”
“The vodka sauce?”
“That time you fell asleep in the library.” His voice drops lower. “Drooling on your Accounting textbook.”
“I did not drool.”
“You totally did.” He presses down on my bottom lip. “Right here. And I imagined something different on those pretty lips.”
The world narrows to that single, charged point where he’s touching me, and memories of college flood back, stolen glances across lecture halls, late-night study sessions that turned into cooking experiments, the way he’d always find excuses to feed me or be next to me.
“You used to watch me sleep?” I manage to say.
“I used to watch you do everything.” His other hand settles on my hip, anchoring me to the counter. “Even when you watched me during training. Still do.”
“Creepy much?”
“Says the girl who took the same classes as me.”
I did. “In your dreams.”
“You even signed up for the cooking class.”
Because there wasn’t anything else as calming and comforting as watching Brandon cook, it was perfect until I got kicked out. “We agreed never to speak of the Great Flambé Incident.”
“Pretty sure the fire department still has pictures.”
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”
“Maybe?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
“You already admitted it once. Why not again?” His smile turns wicked. “Consider it payback for all those times you pretended not to want me.”
“Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
It’s not what he asked for, but— “Your food doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. That’s what makes it perfect. That’s what made it perfect for me.”
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers weaving in my hair.
“God,” he breathes against my lips. “Never leave me.”
The “I won’t” is lost as his lips crash into mine.
Brandon kisses like he cooks—all passion and purpose, with an intensity that makes the world dissolve around us. I arch into him, my fingers finding purchase in his shirt as his tongue traces my bottom lip. When I open for him, a needy sound escapes my throat, and his grip tightens in response.
There are no voices in my head, no guilt clawing at my thoughts. There’s only this: his mouth claiming mine, his body pressing me against the counter, and the delicious heat building between us.
“Brandon.”
“Again,” he growls against my pulse point. “Say my name.”
It comes out breathier this time. “Brandon.”
He captures my mouth again, slower, savoring every taste, every touch. His thumb strokes my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the angle.
The kitchen counter isn’t exactly comfortable, but I couldn’t care less. Not when he’s kissing me like this, like I’m an essential ingredient he’s addicted to. Not when his other hand dips under my shirt, palm hot against my skin.
He slows the kiss, drawing it out, his thumb brushing the hollow of my throat, memorizing the way I breathe. I feel unsteady, the world tilting on its axis, leaving only him.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want this to stop.
But reality creeps back in, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the lingering scent of vodka sauce. If we stay like this much longer?—
“We’re in Elliot’s kitchen.”
“So?” Brandon’s thumb traces my jaw. “You started it with that whole ‘I like Brandon’ speech.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You were being honest.” His lips ghost over mine. “Finally.”
I can’t focus on anything except the way his body cages mine, how his chef’s confidence bleeds into something darker, more demanding.
“Brandon…” My voice catches. “The food will get cold.”
“I can always make more.” His fingers thread through my hair. “Now that I remember how.”
“Elliot will kill us if we?—”
“If we what?” His breath fans across my neck. “Christen his kitchen?”
The way he says it makes my toes curl. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still talking.” He tugs my hair gently, tilting my head back. “When you could be putting those pretty lips to better use.”
I should stop this. We’re in a professional kitchen. Elliot trusted us with his space.
But Brandon’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he wants to taste, and honestly? The food can wait.
I grab his shirt, pulling him down to me. “Let’s clean up and go home.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone got caught in here.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.” He grabs the pan, smirking. “Though I heard Elliot and?—”
“Nope.” I toss a dish towel at his head. “The only mental images I need involve you, me, and a bed.”
All I need is him.