Chapter Eight #2
“No arguments from this corner,” Wyatt said, extending his hand. “Thank you for inviting me into your home. I’m Wyatt Blake.”
Flor let go of Ryan and gave Wyatt a quick, but very thorough look up and then down. If he’d thought Tabitha’s examination had been tough, it had nothing on Flor’s.
She reached out like she was going to shake his hand, but then pulled him into a hug. Wyatt got a fleeting impression of coconut and roasted pork and sunshine.
“You are ready to cook, yes?” she asked, leading them into the house. “Ryan told me you are very good.”
The house was scrupulously neat, with warm wood floors and framed retro tourism posters dotting the walls. A navy-blue couch sat across from a flat screen television, with sunny orange and yellow pillows brightening its surface.
Wyatt had never felt particularly unsure about his qualifications before, but faced with Flor’s fierce gaze, he wavered and Ryan ended up answering her instead.
“Yes, I told you,” Ryan said. “He’s a chef.”
“Well, lucky you came in time. I’m making the sofrito first.”
The kitchen was tiny, with just barely enough room for the three of them. But something incredibly delicious was already simmering on the stove, warming up the room. Ryan shot him a smug look, and Wyatt couldn’t help but wish that he’d taken Ryan’s advice and dressed down.
“Sofrito?” Wyatt asked, fully expecting that he would get incredulous looks from both Ryan and Flor.
“Oh, you didn’t tell me he knew nothing.” Flor directed this comment to Ryan.
But Ryan only laughed. “Titi, I told you he was a chef. He doesn’t know anything about Puerto Rican food.”
Flor turned to Wyatt. “Sofrito is . . . the most important thing in Puerto Rican food. It creates the important flavor. I usually make mine every few weeks and then freeze it.”
Wyatt took in the counter full of peppers, huge bags of herbs, onions, garlic. “I can help chop,” he offered.
Flor wordlessly handed him a knife. “Not perfect,” she said once he began to break down the peppers. “We’re going to blend it all.”
But Wyatt hadn’t learned knife skills in culinary school for nothing, and then honed them in one of the most exacting kitchens in the world. He knew what to do with a knife in his hand, even with Flor glancing over at him to check in every minute or so.
After he’d broken down the peppers and onions and had started mincing the garlic, Flor turned to Ryan, who despite what he’d claimed earlier, was just lounging against the kitchen counter, browsing through his phone.
“Hijo, he’s very good with his hands.” Her knowing look in his direction had him blushing and Ryan sputtering. He’d been right then, Flor had not met many—or any—of Ryan’s boyfriends. If he’d even had one. That was still unclear and Wyatt wasn’t sure it was even right to ask him.
“It’s why I hired him,” Ryan said.
“You didn’t even give me a real interview,” Wyatt pointed out. “We sat at a table and you half-heartedly asked me a few questions.”
“True,” Ryan admitted and Wyatt didn’t miss Flor rolling her eyes.
“You’re going to end up broke,” she said.
“Been doing good so far,” Ryan argued. “I have a huge shoot coming up for Adidas. I think I told you about that.”
But Flor didn’t seem to be deterred, even as she pulled out a big Vitamix blender. “You trust too many people, who want to take all of your money.”
Wyatt wasn’t sure he agreed. Yeah, Ryan was generous.
He paid him a great salary and had insisted more than once on picking up the bill for things.
Had given Wyatt a credit card to charge supplies and groceries.
But more than one offhand comment he’d made had made it clear that he monitored it fairly closely.
He wasn’t tight-fisted by any means, but he certainly wasn’t running through cash the way Flor made it sound.
“You’ll have to forgive my titi,” Ryan said. “She thinks anyone who gives a gift over a hundred bucks is careless with their finances.”
Flor glared at him. “If you had told me how much this blender cost, I never would have taken it.”
Ryan’s eyes were guileless. “You could have given it back after you found out.”
“Hardly. It saves me so much time and energy, it’s cost-effective to use it,” she sniffed.
Wyatt found himself chuckling into his garlic while still missing his nana so much it was hard to take a breath. He’d wanted to call her again, but frankly he was afraid to, terrified that he would dial her number and a stranger would answer again.
He knew it was something he might have to get used to—not might, he corrected bitterly, he would—but he wasn’t ready. He needed more time, except that the disease wasn’t exactly clued into his timetable, or anyone else’s either.
“So what have you been feeding my nephew?” Flor directed this question Wyatt’s direction, her bickering with Ryan over the blender concluded—at least for now.
“I’ve been to the farmer’s market three times since I got here. So lots of fresh veggies. Salmon. Chicken. I made burgers the other night with roasted mushrooms.”
Flor made a tsking noise as she began to load his chopped vegetables into the blender pitcher. “He takes terrible care of himself on his own. I thought this was a bad idea, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Wyatt had a feeling that this was unusual, so he gave her a grateful nod. “It’s very different from what I’m used to, but I agree. It’s been good.”
The toughest part had probably been being around Ryan and not being able to do what he wanted to him, with him, against him, etcetera, but second toughest had been all the unexpected free time he’d found himself with.
He didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t working fourteen hours a day, falling into bed, and then getting up to do it all over again.
“And you’re used to what? Very long days?” Flor shot her nephew a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re keeping him busy enough.”
“I’m only one man,” Ryan complained. “I can only eat so much.”
“Sofrito isn’t cooked, then?” Wyatt asked. He’d looked up the rudiments of Puerto Rican cooking before this day, and he’d seen many recipes claiming to be authentic, but most of them cooked the pepper and herb mix down first.
Ryan groaned. “Don’t get her started.”
Flor shot him a glare. “Each cook does it differently. This is my way, at least for this dish.”
“We’re making pasteles,” Ryan supplied. “Usually served on holidays or special occasions. Very fancy. And sort of my aunt’s specialty.”
“Not sort of,” Flor corrected. “Hijo, come here and do something besides hold up that counter. Chop up the pork for me.” She gestured to where she’d set up another plastic cutting board.
A huge hunk of pork shoulder sat on it, waiting to be broken down.
Wyatt’s fingers itched, because he would much rather be doing that more delicate, more skilled work, than mincing another fifty cloves of garlic.
Also, despite Flor asking him to do it, Wyatt wasn’t sure Ryan knew how. He’d acted very uneasy every time Wyatt had asked him to help with anything in the kitchen.
“Very fine,” Flor reminded Ryan as he picked up the knife. “You know how it should be.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Sí, I know.”
And to Wyatt’s surprise, Ryan very competently wielded the knife and began to break down the shoulder into more manageable pieces. It wasn’t precisely how Wyatt would have done it, but he’d been trained in professional kitchens, and he was certain that Flor had taught Ryan.
In fact, now that Wyatt was seeing Ryan chop up the pork, he realized that Flor had been more concerned about his knife skills—for ingredients that were eventually going to be blended. Wyatt didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.
“Professional skills,” Flor said, following Wyatt’s gaze to where Ryan was working. “I only trust what I know.”
Wyatt laughed. “And you taught him.”
Flor broke into a huge smile. “Exactly.” She turned towards Ryan. “I think I like this one. You don’t let me meet many—or any—of your men, hijo, but I still like this one. Don’t scare him away.”
Ryan flushed red, knife pausing in the middle of a cut. “He’s not my man, titi.”
Throwing up her hands, Flor retreated back to the blender, and hit the power button. She didn’t seem very convinced, and Wyatt was torn between embarrassment and pure satisfaction.
He’d totally dawdled through the rest of the garlic, because he’d been listening to Flor and Ryan chatter and then watching Ryan chop up the pork. So he was unexpectedly surprised when he heard a voice over his shoulder.
“You’re looking awfully smug at that garlic clove,” Ryan murmured near his ear. Only long practice helped Wyatt keep his rhythm and not let his knife falter.
“I don’t know why I’d be staring smugly at garlic,” Wyatt said.
“Okay, so you were staring at my ass at least fifty percent of the time,” Ryan said, and Wyatt looked up at him to see smiling, little dimple and all.
“I think I wouldn’t be staring smugly at your ass if I was getting it,” Wyatt groused. Hopefully quiet enough that Flor wouldn’t hear.
“True,” Ryan admitted.
Wyatt wanted to ask again, when am I going to come home to find another man in the house, the one who gets to play your boyfriend? But Flor was right there, and Ryan had shut down the last time he’d asked. So he didn’t, even though he could taste the question on his tongue.
“I’m going to smell like garlic for a month,” Wyatt said, changing the subject for self-preservation reasons. “Reminds me of when I first started at Terroir, and Aquino put me on garlic duty for contradicting him once.”
Ryan sighed deeply. “You’re only convincing me more that I have to go up to Napa and kick the Bastard’s ass. Soon.”
“Language,” Flor piped up from the other side of the kitchen. “I know I raised you better than that.”
“That’s his name,” Ryan protested.
Flor raised an eyebrow. “Okay, it’s his nickname, but it seems like a god damned accurate one,” Ryan added.