10. Brie
JANUARY
“Hello?”
God, his voice.
I hadn’t heard it in nearly a month, but it still undid me exactly as it had that first time.
“Ez, I need help,” I said without preamble, not giving myself the chance to back out. When we’d exchanged numbers after our…tryst, it felt like more of a formality than anything.
I never expected to use it.
But there I was. Calling him. Asking for help.
“What’s wrong?” he asked instantly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “But I somehow got conned into hosting a dinner party tonight for some fancy restauranteurs in Chicago, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Why not just get it catered?”
“Because that’s the coward’s way out,” I said, exasperated.
“So why are you calling me?”
“Because you’re the best chef I know, and…”
“And what?”
“We’re friends, right? That was the deal.”
Ezra’s sigh echoed through the speaker, and I bit back a grin.
“Are we really friends?” he asked.
“You tell me. Do you usually eat your friends’ pussies?”
“Brie!”
“Yes, Chef?”
“Who are you and what have you done with my Brie?”
My Brie . I shouldn’t love that so much, but I wanted to belong to him in whatever way he’d have me.
A few hours with the man had turned me inside out. I’d done my best to stay away from him, to never tap the screen when I was three glasses of wine deep and my finger hovered over his contact in my phone. I always avoided bringing him—and our hookup—into conversations with my sisters, not wanting to discuss it. In hindsight, the whole thing felt like a dream, a moment trapped in a snow globe forever, and I didn’t want to risk shattering the glass and destroying the magic.
But he was always there, in the back of my mind. I constantly wondered what he was doing, where he was at. With the winery closed until April, he had a lot of free time on his hands, and I desperately wanted to know how he was filling it.
I wanted to know everything.
“I guess one afternoon with you turned me into the wanton woman I was always meant to be.”
Ezra snorted. “There’s nothing wanton about you, Brie.”
Exasperated, I sighed. “Can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your dinner party.”
“Are you going to help me or not? You’re not busy, are you? ”
The winery was closed, so I knew he wasn’t working right now. A quick flick of my wrist had me clocking the time at just before two p.m. My guests would be here at five, and I’d spent more time freaking out about the fact that I had to entertain these super important people in the culinary landscape of Chicago than I had actually preparing to cook. I was out of time, and calling Ezra, though dangerous—this was, after all, the first time we’d spoken since going our separate ways that day—was my last hope.
“Of course I am. Now, how much time do you have?”
“Three hours.”
He cursed softly. “You should’ve called me sooner.”
“I was afraid,” I admitted quietly.
“You never have to be afraid of me. I’ll never say no to you.”
Hope flared in my chest, and I did everything I could to smother it. The words were too sweet, too perfect, too much of everything I wanted to hear from him and the reminder of everything I couldn’t have—that he couldn’t give me.
Unable to respond without spilling my heart all over the phone, I said, “So what am I making?”
“What do you want to make?”
“I don’t know, Ezra! That’s why I’m asking you for help!”
I was frazzled, spinning entirely out of control both thanks to him and the mess I’d gotten myself in.
But his voice soothed me when he said, “It’s okay, Brie. You’re going to kick ass. Just take a deep breath and tell me the first dish that comes to mind.”
“Gyros,” I blurted.
Ezra laughed. “You want to make gyros for a fancy dinner party? That’s so…Greek of you, honey.”
“Well, I am half-Greek,” I reminded him.
“Trust me, I’m aware,” he said lowly, and my skin tightened at the recollection he conveyed with those words. “How about we fancy it up a bit and do a deconstructed lamb gyro with roasted vegetables?”
“That seems…easy enough.”
“I’ll talk you through every step,” he promised. “Now, get a pen and paper. You need to go shopping, and here’s what you need to buy…”
Thirty minutes later, I walked back into my apartment and called Ezra again.
“Okay, I’m home and got everything you said. Now what?”
“First, get the lamb in the marinade. You’re going to need lemon juice, oil, paprika, salt, pepper, and minced garlic for that.”
I withdrew ingredients from my grocery bags as he listed them off, lining them up on the counter before digging through the cupboards in search of a large glass bowl.
I measured out the ingredients per Ezra’s instructions, but otherwise, he was silent. Neither of us felt the need to fill the quiet. It was companionable, the kind of stillness I often craved. I loved my sisters, but…they could be a lot. They were why I hadn’t had roommates since my first year of culinary school, when I thought it’d be a great way to make friends.
I’d been wrong, but it taught me some valuable lessons about constructing boundaries for myself.
Once I finished the marinade, added the lamb, covered the bowl with plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge, I asked Ezra, “Now what?”
“Now, you need to prep the toppings. Get the honey and vinegar in a saucepan and bring them to a boil. You’ll add the onions to give them a quick pickling. Then, start chopping the cucumbers and tomatoes.”
“You know,” I said as I pulled more ingredients from my grocery bags, my hands closing around a particular can, “I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do with these chickpeas.”
Ezra snorted. “You’re going to toss them in lemon juice, dill, and mint. The texture will provide a nice bit of richness to balance the rest of the dish.”
“Why am I not just making hummus?”
“Because hummus is too heavy. We’re going for lightness. If you want to serve hummus on the side with some chopped fresh veggies, you can, but we didn’t plan for that, and it’s an added step I’m not sure you have time for.”
“You’re probably right,” I said with a sigh. “Okay. Back to business. What’s next?”
“I mean, the hard part is done,” he said. Then, his tone more urgent, he added, “Do you have any alcohol?”
“There’s a bottle of tequila in my freezer,” I said, confused.
“Great. Take it out.”
I did as he asked, the bottle clinking loudly against my counter when I set it next to the phone in front of me.
“Now what?”
“Now pour a shot and toss it back. ”
I choked on a laugh. “Ez! It’s barely three in the afternoon, and I have guests coming over!”
“And you need to take the edge off. Everything is going to be fine, but I can tell you’re freaking out. Just…be a good girl and do what I tell you.”
Be a good girl .
The words dragged me right back to our time together, to him asking me the last time I’d done something reckless.
The truth was, I didn’t think I had a reckless bone in my body—at least, not where anything but he was concerned. With him, I wanted to be someone different. Someone new. Sexy, desirable, confident, bold, playful. I wanted to shed my old skin, let the flames of our desire consume me, and rise like a phoenix from the ashes.
Which was why agreeing to be just friends had been such a difficult pill to swallow, even if I’d been the one to pump the brakes. For starters, I lived over three hundred miles away. Long distance wasn’t an option for a relationship that would maybe—probably—never move beyond physical chemistry. Secondly, he worked for my father, which was a whole other set of issues. I was long past the point of letting my parents dictate my life, but their opinions did matter to me, and I never wanted to disappoint them. Plus, Ezra’s job with the winery was important to him, allowing him to provide for his number one priority—Hansen. I would never jeopardize that, no matter how much it hurt my heart.
With a sigh, I retrieved a shot glass from the cupboard and filled it with the silvery liquid. Then, to Ezra, I said, “Cheers,” and downed it .
The alcohol scorched a path down my throat, suffusing my limbs with warmth, loosening the tension in my shoulders.
After a beat, Ezra asked, “Better?”
“Much.”
“Good. Now get back to work.”
“Yes, Chef,” I said cheekily, and Ezra barked out a laugh.
“I love when you call me that.”
“Maybe I’ll have to do it more often.”
“Is this going to become a thing?” he asked, and I didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone. “Us…cooking together?”
“It could…if you want it to.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “I definitely do.”
“Then it’s done,” I said happily. “How did you even learn how to cook, anyway?”
I realized then, despite the fact that he knew the exact sounds I made when I came and I knew the exact outline of his cock where it pressed against the fly of his pants, we didn’t know a ton about each other on a personal level. Intimacy was funny that way—the details of what made up a person weren’t really necessary when it came to exploring that physical connection. But I wanted to know those things about him, wanted to know what exactly made him into the man he was.
“My dad,” he said. Then, in a rush, he added, “I’m sure you’ve noticed I don’t mention my mom.”
“I had picked up on that, yes,” I said. But like the absence of his wife, until now, it seemed like a sore spot I didn’t have the right to press on. “Is she…dead?”
“In the sense that we haven’t seen her since I was three, have no idea where she is, and have no desire to locate her. I suppose, for all I know, she actually could be.”
“I’m sorry.” My mother was one of my best friends, and I’d be completely lost without her—without both of my parents.
“It’s fine,” he said, and I believed him. “The point is, my dad taught me how to cook. My dad taught me everything. Growing up, I was a curious child, and I especially loved watching him cook. One day, I asked if I could help, and the rest is history.”
“Do you have any formal training?” I asked.
Before he could answer, the timer I’d set to let me know when the lamb was done marinating went off, so I took it out and uncovered it, dumped some oil in my cast iron skillet, and turned the heat on.
When I returned, he said, “I went to the Institute of Culinary Education, actually.”
“Shut up,” I gasped.
“What?”
“I went there too.”
“You’re joking,” he said with a disbelieving laugh.
“I’m not. Actually…” I trailed off, wondering if it was wise to inform him of our previous, albeit inconsequential, connection. Then, I thought, screw it , and did it anyway. The man was already intimately acquainted with my private parts; this little admission wouldn’t make a difference.
“You guest-lectured in one of my classes during my own culinary arts program. You probably don’t remember, but you were showing us how to properly prepare—”
“A roast chicken,” he piped in, cutting me off.
“Yeah. You…remember?”
“Vaguely,” he said. “God, that had to be, what, three years ago now? Did you just do the program or get your Associates?”
“I went the Associates route,” I said. “I wanted to learn as much as I could, so I did that, followed by getting my Associates in Pastry and Baking Arts, and topped the whole thing off with the Restaurant and Culinary Management program.”
Ezra whistled low. “Damn. That’s impressive, Brie. I only did the culinary arts program, so I don’t have any fancy degrees, but…”
“You don’t need them,” I assured him. “Some people just have natural talent, and you’re one of them.”
“I could say the same about you.”
My cheeks heated with my blush, and I was grateful he couldn’t see me preening at his words.
The oil in the pan began to sizzle, so I moved back to the stove and dumped the lamb in, spreading it out in a single layer so it would cook evenly.
In truth, I probably hadn’t needed Ezra’s help for this. I could read a recipe just fine, and a quick Google search would’ve yielded something perfectly simple to prepare for tonight. But I liked talking to him, and for some reason, when my earlier stress was spinning me out of control, he was the first person I thought to call.
We chatted idly about inconsequential things while I prepared the rest of the meal. He told me more about Hansen and his dad. Not that I needed to hear them, because I was well aware how amazing they were, but he sang my parents’ praises. I got the feeling there was more to his relocation than he was letting on, but he wasn’t saying, and I wasn’t about to ask. That wasn’t my place .
Even though we’d only spent a few amazing afternoons together, he calmed me. Being around him, or talking on the phone with him, as it were, was so easy. I could imagine days like this, dancing around a kitchen together instead of separated by hundreds of miles.
I wanted that for myself: a simple life with a good man who made me feel things no one ever had. Unfortunately, I had found him—but I wasn’t allowed to have him.