Chapter 12
My phone rings from beneath the covers of my bed where it got lost somewhere in the haze of my afternoon nap.
I search for it bleary-eyed, snatching it up on the fifth ring and just managing to slide right and answer the call before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” Ben’s smooth voice perks me up, and I rise up from the twisted sheets like he just put a spell over me with one word. “How’s your day been?”
“Boring,” I answer, picking a piece of fuzz off the floral duvet.
“Plans for this evening?”
“Nope. Another typical Thursday.”
“Would you like to cook dinner with me?”
I blink. “Like a date? Cooking dinner?”
“I guess you could call it that. Whenever I really cook, it’s always enough for a small army because I can never make anything in small batches. I thought you might want to join me.”
“But you want me to help you cook?”
He laughs. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but the only thing I can really make in the kitchen is scrambled eggs.”
“That’s fine, I’ll teach you.”
I bite my lip in order to stop myself from blurting out that I’m bad at following directions. Though, I have been partial to whenever he directs me—whenever I manage to put the brat in me away.
“Okay, I’ll trust that we won’t have to trash everything by the end.”
“Surely, we won’t. If it’s really that bad, then I promise we’ll order your favorite takeout and eat that instead.”
“Mmmm, you sure you don’t want to just do that instead? I love a good chicken tikka masala.”
“We can get that another time, I promise.”
“Fine,” I drawl. “But I’m holding you to it. No takesies-backsies.”
“My word is good for it.”
“Good. When do you want me to head over?”
“Now, if you’re ready.”
I glance down at the oversized shirt and the bike shorts I threw on last night before burrowing into bed like I was planning on hibernating.
“I just have to get dressed, then I can catch an Lyft.”
“Lovely. I’ll see you soon then, Emmeline. Be safe on the way over.”
Tossing my phone on the bed, I lay back down for a moment and scrub my hands over my bare face and let out a groan. There’s no way I’m going over there without putting a little makeup on.
It’s an hour and a half before I’m raising my fist to knock on Ben’s door. Surprisingly, he only texted me twice inquiring whether I’ve been kidnapped or died in a car accident.
He pulls the door open after a short while and steps to the side to invite me inside. I let my gaze roam over him as I slide past, admiring the fitted black t-shirt that hugs his biceps and shows off the abstract tattoo sleeve that covers his entire right arm.
I haven’t had much of a chance to admire him, but I expect I might tonight.
“Nice to see you alive and well,” he teases.
“Sorry, I may have lied when I said I just had to get dressed. But surely you could have inferred that I’d be late by now with all your years of experience.”
“Oh, I have. But I literally couldn’t care less about what you’re wearing today. Or about what you put on your face.”
And if that doesn’t just about strike me dead.
Because somehow it doesn’t seem like it’s all just words to get into my pants.
“That’s appreciated, but I like looking put together for you at least.” The only time I’d consider myself as such.
Hanging my jacket and purse on the hook in the entryway gives me goosebumps as I recall Ben’s hands turning me and pressing me up against the wall. I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance, but he waits for me to finish before reaching out his hand to me.
I slip my fingers into his palm, and he reels me in until we’re pressed chest to chest. He lays my hand on his shoulder before skating his fingertips down the length of my torso.
“This color makes your eyes seem so bright,” Ben murmurs, gripping my waist with both hands, sending a thrill down my spine.
“It’s the same shade as my lipstick.” I grip the fabric of his shirt in my hand. His eyes focus on my lips, and he makes a hum of approval. “I wore it last time, too.”
His eyes swallow me whole, all the way down to the heels he bought me clicking against the wood floor as I shift on my feet. Though I don’t think this is about to be a repeat of last time, despite the way he’s looking at me.
“It suits you,” he says, hand rising to grip my chin between his fingers and drag our mouths together.
We kiss slowly, drinking each other in and savoring the flavor.
I almost throw my hands around his neck and beg for more when he finally pulls away.
“Why don’t you take your heels off? I want you to be comfortable while we’re in the kitchen.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice when it comes to that. Next time I should bring a pair of slippers to wear, too.” I grin, enjoying the way he rolls his eyes. Spinning around, I slip out of the heels and place them delicately underneath my jacket before rising back up and tugging on the hem of the violet fabric at my thighs. I wish I’d worn some tights with this dress.
I step forward until my toes are touching the end of his brown, fuzzy slippers. He circles my wrist with one hand and holds me in place as I tip my head back to look up at him. The difference in our heights is more obvious when barefoot.
His eyes roam over my face, and I’m sure my lipstick actually smudged despite the label telling me it wouldn’t, when he brings his thumb up to brush over my bottom lip. But I’m just as bad, focused on the way his beard looks a little more unkempt today and how I want to comb it through with my fingers. His eyes look tired, but as dark and dangerous as every time I’ve seen him. I almost offer that we take a nap instead.
“Have you had chicken piccata before?”
I lean into his touch and shake my head. “Sounds Italian.”
Ben shrugs, fingers trailing down my neck and sweeping the loose waves of my hair back off my shoulder. “It’s Italian-American. The classic Italian version uses veal.”
I scrunch my nose up. “That’s where I draw the line in my meat consumption. I’m not eating a baby cow.”
“Like I said, we’re having chicken.” He chuckles, tugging on my wrist and directing me toward the kitchen.
I give a sigh of relief.
There’s already a cutting board, a skillet, and a stack of bowls along with some packaged ingredients set out along the island.
“Peanut butter?” My brows raise at the jar amidst the items.
“That’s part of dessert.” He pauses as he pulls down a black apron from the side of the fridge, casting me a worried glance. “You don’t have a nut allergy, do you?”
“Mmmm, nope. Not allergic to anything as far as I know.”
His shoulders visibly relax, and he hooks the neck of the apron behind his head and ties it at the waist. When he turns around, he’s holding out another one for me to take.
“May the forks be with you?” I say, reading the white graphic print on the front of Ben’s chest. I take the apron from him and look down at the fabric. “Romaine calm and lettuce carrot on? Oh my God—” I can’t help the wheezing laugh that escapes. “Why are you such a dork?”
“What’s wrong with a little kitchen humor?”
I smack his forearm before he gets too deep into pouting. “Stop. I just—you’re so serious all the time, I wasn’t expecting it. A kiss the cook maybe, but this is so…corny.”
It doesn’t take him any longer than it takes me to pull the apron over my head before he bands an arm around my waist and brings me in.
“Oh, that was good. My clever little bird.” He grins. There’s a hint of a dimple beneath the scruff of his beard, and I get the feeling he’d look so young if he shaved.
But I like him like this. Graying at the temples, eyes worn with wisdom, heart full of memories that outlive me.
“Now, now, let’s not get distracted. Show me what to do, chef.”
Ben’s gaze narrows in on my face, his grip tightening around my waist. The little hum that leaves his throat tells me chef is on equal terms to daddy or sir for him, so I tuck that away should I need it later.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get to work or we’ll never get to eat.”
“Now that would make me crazy. I don’t want hangry Emmeline coming out to play.”
“Is that worse than impatient, sassy, brat Emmeline?”
I shove out of his grasp and poke his chest with my finger, only successfully pushing myself away from him. “You’ll just have to find out organically.”
“Is that another produce pun?”
“Oh—” I laugh. “Maybe? I didn’t even realize it.”
He shakes his head, taking a step forward into my space again to reach for the strings of the apron behind my back, drawing them around to my front to tie them together. “If we want to eat any-thyme soon, we better get to wok.”
“No, no, no—that’s terrible.” I push him away, stepping over to the sink to turn the tap on and wash my hands. “Okay, seriously that’s enough. Before I”—the word slips out before I can register it—“beet you with a wooden spoon.” It takes me all of two seconds before I let out a screech, turning away from the sink with wet hands and flicking the water at him. “You’ve infected me with some kind of disease.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Ben brushes the water droplets away before bumping me out of the way with his hip to wash his hands.
My hands drop to my hips, and I watch him with pursed lips.
He turns around, drying his hands, and then motions to the island with the spread of ingredients and cookware. “Let’s get to cooking before hangry Emmeline actually does show up.”
“She’s already halfway here…”
“Come on, you can smash the chicken with the rolling pin and get some of that anger out.”
“That’s a thing? Really?”
“Of course,” he says, opening the fridge to pull out a package of chicken breast and handing it to me. “Put them in a Ziploc and flatten them to about a quarter inch.”
“Okay, bet.”
He’s giving me his best impression of me right now with the way his eyes roll.
Although, finding said Ziploc bag is a task and a half.
I open every cabinet and drawer without him saying a word, like watching me fumble in his kitchen that costs more than my college tuition is amusing. I lift up from the bottom drawer to the right of the stove and smack the box on the counter before blowing out a breath that makes my bangs fly up. I miss my sticky notes littered all over my kitchen, telling me where everything is in case my goldfish memory reigns.
Pushing up the loose sleeves of my dress to my elbows, I settle in for my task. Which is kind of fun. I press down with the rolling pin over the chicken in the bag, and it takes a bit of effort that has me leveraging my height over the counter.
When I’m finished, Ben’s watching me as he fills a pot with water from the sink.
“What’s next?” I ask, taking the thinned pieces of chicken and stacking them on top of the bag.
He shuts off the tap and sets the pot on the stove, flicking the burner on to start the flame. “You know how to boil water?”
“I’m not that clueless,” I scoff.
He raises a brow. “You said the only thing you could make was scrambled eggs.”
“Okay—but I guess not literally. I can boil water for pasta and manage to cook it until it either still has a little crunch or is entirely too soft, but that’s not really cooking—especially when I only put butter on the noodles afterwards.”
“Just butter?”
“What? It’s good.”
“Butter is barely even a flavor.”
“Well, continue with our cooking lesson and maybe you’ll impart some wisdom on me.”
Ben motions me toward him, and I step forward as he positions me to stand in between the counter and himself, molding into my back as he leans over me. I’m suddenly having a very hard time concentrating. More so than normal.
But I want to learn. I want to be able to make myself something to eat without it being a highly-processed frozen dinner or ordering takeout every day, wondering how I spend all my money.
Ben leans in, fingers gently tucking my hair behind my ear before his breath blows over my skin and heat travels all along my spine.
I ignore it.
Sort of.
He guides my hand to the spice jars and drags them toward me. “We’re going to season the chicken—salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning.”
I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.
“Next, we coat them in the flour.”
He guides me to pick up the chicken and though the texture is beyond unappealing to my sensitivities, I drop it in the bowl of flour and then flip it over till it’s covered.
“Easy peasy.”
“Good. Let me heat up the skillet, then we sear it.”
His warmth leaves and I turn, watching him place the skillet on the stove before moving to wash my hands again.
He coats the bottom with a splash of olive oil from the bottle and turns the burner on. “Multitasking is important if you want all of your food to be hot at the same time.”
“Oh, I’m doomed then. That’s one of my worst skills.”
“That’s why it’s easier with two people.”
That makes sense. Why does that make so much sense? I suppose when you have an elegant and spacious kitchen, it’s easy enough. Cora and I can barely stand at the sink and the stove at the same time without bumping elbows trying to do anything.
“So, while this heats up, we’re going to put some heavy whipping cream in the mixer.”
“Okay, that sounds easy.”
“Very.” He hands me a carton from the fridge and motions to the navy blue stand mixer on the counter next to the stove.
I grab the measuring cup he offers out next and fill it with the liquid before dumping it in the mixing bowl.
“Now watch the magic happen. We’re making peanut butter mousse.”
He turns the mixer on, and I blink down at the whisk starting to turn. Just when it starts to get thick, Ben turns me back to the stove. He holds his hand just over it and must deem it hot enough because he has me drop the chicken in. The immediate sizzle and pop makes me jump back.
“That’s why we have an apron, I don’t want you to have to strip down while we clean your clothes. Oil stains are hard to get out.”
Something makes me think he wouldn’t actually mind.
He checks the bowl of whipping cream which is just…whipped cream now. I’m transfixed by the way it clings to the whisk when he pulls the bowl out and taps the excess off on the edge.
“What’s your favorite color?”
I’m caught off guard, tearing my attention away from watching him replace the bowl under the mixer with an empty one.
“Purple. Am I too obvious?”
His lips twitch up into a smile, and his head bobs in a nod. “Maybe a little.”
“What’s yours?”
“Green. The color of jade.”
He hands me a silicone spoon and I set it next to the bowl of whipped cream, glancing at where the skillet still sizzling away.
“I know your favorite takeout, but what about your favorite food?”
“That’s difficult because there are categories of food, Ben. You should know this.” He looks at me skeptically, but allows me to continue. “First of all, sweets and candy are separate categories—sweets, it’s anything lemon. God, I’m a slut for lemon. Candy is gummy bears. Then there’s salty—soft pretzel bites. Savory—steak is the superior umami flavor. And finally, there’s comfort food—grilled cheese.”
“You made that way more complicated than it needed to be,” he says with a laugh. “But I love that you’re passionate about food, even if you can’t cook it.”
“Oh, I’m very passionate about eating. What’s your answer?”
“Mmm. A good cheeseburger is my guilty pleasure.”
He pauses like he just dropped a bombshell and I just give a hum of affirmation, because I can get behind a cheeseburger no problem.
“What’s your go-to coffee order?” he asks.
“I’m lucky to like coffee at all. It has to be extremely sweet. You weren’t wrong when you said I had a sweet tooth. Like a cold brew with three pumps vanilla, three pumps caramel, with sweet-cream cold foam from Starbucks sweet.”
Ben smooths a hand over his beard before grabbing another measuring cup. “I’m a sweet guy, too. I like a good mocha Frappuccino when I want something besides a cappuccino.”
Interesting. I would have pegged him for a black coffee. Maybe even decaf.
“Well, that wasn’t on my bingo card. What about your favorite thing to do outside of work?”
“Besides you?”
I flick a dollop of the whipped cream in his direction and it lands smack dab in the middle of his chest, barely within the edges of the apron’s fabric.
“Okay, fine.” He measures out some powdered sugar and tosses it in the new bowl along with a brick of cream cheese. “I go to the gym a couple times a week, but that’s still work in my opinion. I do this.” He shrugs, gesturing to the space around us. “I love to cook. And you?”
There’s not much I do.
“Since I wouldn’t actually count watching trashy reality TV as a hobby, reading is just about the only thing I’ll spend my time on consistently. There are times my ADHD won’t let me, but when I get into hyperfixation mode, I can finish multiple books back to back without breaks, or hell, even sleep.”
“Do you have a lot of books, then?”
“I have a Kindle Unlimited subscription, which feeds my addiction nicely.”
He laughs. “You’re going to call me old again, but I have to be holding a book and physically turning the pages.”
“I don’t begrudge you on that one, actually. I like to purchase physical copies of the books that I really love.” I take the spatula he offers me, flipping the chicken in the skillet as directed while he drops a handful of angel hair pasta into the boiling pot of water next to me.
“Another question,” Ben starts. “If you could have dinner with any three people, dead or alive, who would you choose?”
Oh fuck, that’s a thinking question right there. I chew on my cheek as I tilt my head to stare up at the ceiling.
“Vincent Van Gogh, Audrey Hepburn, and Anne Frank.”
“Interesting,” he muses. “No one currently living?”
“That would defeat the purpose, in my opinion. I could still have dinner with Taylor Swift tomorrow—never let your dreams go until they’re actually dead and buried. Now you,” I prompt.
“Stephen King, Frank Lloyd Wright—the father of modern architecture—and my dad.”
My eyebrows raise, and I can put two and two together—I’m smart. Sometimes.
“When did your dad pass?”
He blows out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “When I was twenty-five.”
The only thing I can think about is that I’m not even twenty-five yet. Ben’s lived the equivalent of my entire life without his father. He sounds remorseful; the way my heart hurts when I think of my own parents is for another time.
“Okay, so you picked three dead people, too, then.”
Ben cracks a smile, swirling the cooking pasta in the water and setting a colander in the sink for when it’s finished.
“Stephen King is still alive.”
“Might as well be dead, he’s creeping up on eighty.”
“You’re so cynical. What’s something you’d like to do before you die?”
“Mmm.” I press my lips together, tilting my head before my gaze flicks over to him. Shifting my attention back to the chicken, I flip the heat off now that it’s a golden brown. “You mean like something on my bucket list?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
It’s something I haven’t thought a ton about, but there are definitely things I want to do before I can’t anymore.
“I prefer an experience over something material, like a visceral memory as opposed to a shopping spree in Paris—though honestly that would be fire, too—but I really want to see an aurora borealis.”
He’s silent for a moment. Maybe I’m crazy. Is that crazy? I don’t know.
I chew on my lip, ignoring the fact that I’m wearing lipstick, in order to stop myself from blurting out anything else—like thinking I could actually walk the entirety of the Great Wall of China. I’m not even sure I could walk a marathon without keeling over.
“The Northern Lights, huh?”
“Yep.”
Ben scoops a half-cup of peanut butter into the mixing bowl and flips the switch to the mixer on. He rests his hands on the edge of the counter before turning to watch where I’ve moved away from the stove to play in the whipped cream with a spoon.
“I think that’s great. Something I hadn’t considered at all, to be honest. But that sounds like it would be something magical to witness.”
“Yes!” I drop the spoon to the counter, and cream splatters across the polished concrete. “There’s just something nostalgic about it without ever even experiencing it before.”
“Sounds like some world travel is in your future,” he says before taking the spoon from me and dropping several dollops of the whipped cream in with the peanut butter mixture.
“Eventually. Now you answer the question.”
“I’d like to go to Oktoberfest—the real one, in Munich. It’s already over for this year, but sometime soon.”
Oh, that would be so fun, actually. I went to the one here in New York at Pier 15 the year I turned twenty-one and was still so excited I could drink alcohol. I was sick for days after attending. I can’t remember anything I did, but I can remember it was a good time. It’s surprising I can still drink beer at all without wanting to puke.
“Why haven’t you been? You have the time and money, I’m sure.”
Ben’s shoulders droop the barest hint. “Maybe, but I don’t want to go by myself.”
“Fred?”
“Sober for fifteen years.”
“Family?”
“My brother suggested the one here in town. He doesn’t have an interest in flying for that long, plus he has young kids.”
“Other friends?”
“Nobody I’d want to go on a trip with like that.”
I’m scrambling even as he guides me to work the whipped cream into the peanut butter concoction.
“Me?”
His hands pause over mine, and I look up over my shoulder at him. He’s quiet, assessing in the way he sweeps over my face with his gaze so intent and hooded eyes so dark. There’s something he’s looking for, but I’m not sure if he finds it. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, either.
“If we’re still together next year,” he says after a beat.
I’m not sure why that destroys me inside. Ripples my insides, twists my gut, tightens my lungs.
“Of course. It sounds fun.” I shrug.
Ben takes the bowl of peanut butter mousse and pulls open the drawer, stretching out a piece of plastic wrap over it before putting it in the fridge to chill. He turns the burner off under the pot of noodles before grabbing a wooden spoon and holding the handle out to me.
“Time for the flavor.”
He instructs me on how to make the sauce, letting me do it all, including chopping the garlic and berating me for not tucking my knuckles. Also, capers seem gross, but apparently “they’re necessary.” Then we’re mixing the chicken and the sauce, plating the noodles, and all of a sudden it’s a fucking meal.
“Okay, you definitely held my hand through that, but this looks so good.”
“You did great. I think you’d be able to follow a recipe just fine.”
I scrunch my nose up as we settle on the stools at the island. “Maybe if you’re the one reading it to me.”
“I’ll read to you anytime you want.”
I might have to take him up on that, but the thought disappears when I take a bite of our food.
“Oh my God. What the fuck?”
His brows draw up, and he pauses with his fork midway to his mouth. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s too good. Holy shit, I’m a fucking chef.”
Ben laughs, resting his elbow on the counter and rubbing away the worry on his forehead. “You’re so expressive. I love that about you.”
The way my body responds to that is so very different from my brain. I shove another bite into my mouth before I say something incredibly stupid and burn this whole thing to the ground.
We finish the night, and he hands me another six hundred dollars, even though I make a bit of a guffaw about not even sucking his cock. He just laughs and says I did what he asked me to do, cook dinner with him.
It feels entirely transactional when I tuck the money into my purse, but I guess that’s how this is. It wouldn’t work any other way.