16. Chapter 16 #2
I mourn the loss of her touch, but she acts like this is all part of the show. She finds a kettle and fills it with water. I glance at her, mostly because I can't help myself.
"This is great," Mark pipes up. "Keep it up."
I take a slow, deep breath, and busy myself organizing and cleaning up. We're being recorded and I keep forgetting. Good thing she keeps me in line. I need her to remind me where those are, or I'll start coloring all over the page .
She comes back to the cooking station with a jar full of chopped dry leaves and small wooden pieces. In her other hand, she carries a small gourd rimmed in silver, and what looks like a metal straw with a flattened, sealed end.
She opens the jar and offers it to me. "Have you ever had mate? Notice the smell."
It's like dried grass and tea and something unique.
"Mhh." I give it back to her. "No, I haven't."
She pours some of the yerba in the gourd, angling it to create a hill against the side. "It's one of my favorite traditions from back home. It carries lore and customs— things you need to do to drink it right, like this."
She places the metal straw in the gourd at an angle.
"This is the bombilla," she says. "It has tens of little holes at the end. It sieves the yerba, so you only drink the liquid."
"Smart," I say.
"Love how you're talking to people at home," Mark interjects. "Keep it up."
We ignore him. The water starts bubbling up.
"Turn the heater off, please, Saint. We don't want the water to boil. Right now when the bubbles start to appear is the best temperature. Eighty celsius or around one-seventy Fahrenheit."
She adds water to the gourd very slowly, letting the liquid settle on the yerba.
"This is a shared drink," she says. "People sit around a table or around a fire and share a mate. Talk. Bond. If you prepare it right, you keep adding water and can make it last for hours."
"Most things you do right, you can make last."
My heart beats fast, and my voice is husky, but I don't have the time to figure out why.
She smiles. "That's exactly it."
Maybe it's how intimate this moment feels, even when a team of people watch us, and cameras point at us. Or maybe it's because if I knew how to do it right, there are things I would like to make last .
Ames sips from the straw. "Perfect. You want to try?"
I take the gourd and drink some. The flavor is strong and bitter and it wakes me up. "Wow."
"We usually share the straw, but people at home don't have to, of course. You can add sugar as well, maybe lemon rinds. Some people add peppermint. Did you like it?"
"It's strong."
"It has caffeine."
I sip some more. "It's really good."
She takes the mate from me and sips. "Let's keep going. What are you making for dessert?"
I grab flour and other ingredients. "A white chocolate cheesecake with cranberry sauce and shortbread crust."
"Sounds amazing. I'll check the lechón."
We get busy again. She checks the meat and braises it, and I get my hands dirty making the dough. We each describe what we're doing, to each other and to the cameras. Ames puts the dish back in the oven and starts on a side dish.
"Why did you become a chef?" I press the dough onto a dish.
I know the answer, but I want everyone to see her shine. The producers think I'm the draw for the show. I'm a well-known athlete. The guy that's on TV and ads and media on the regular. Fans will be curious to watch me cook… but I know better.
She's the star. Everyone else just needs to catch up.
"I chose to be a chef because food is community," she says.
"For millenia, celebration was a reason to eat, and abundance was a reason to celebrate.
When people come together, sharing a table means you're family.
Feeding someone is an ancient way— maybe a sacred way— to tell someone you care about them. "
"I love that." I gaze at Ames.
I'm pretty sure I'm broadcasting my feelings, but I don't hide it. I can pass it off as friendly admiration, because she glows .
Ames gazes back at me and a grin breaks on her face.
"Thank you." She steps right next to me. "It's the truth. Food is more than energy and nutrition. It's survival, yes, always. And it's a love letter to our bodies and to each other. It's a way to be close."
And she's close. Awe shines in her eyes— because of her love for food or because of me, I don't know. My heart misses a beat, still, because there's a chance this is a feeling for me. Oh, how I would beg for that feeling to be for me.
She caresses my face and I can't breathe.
I want a million moments like this. Times when every second stretches for an eon, because in it the space between us disappears.
All that exists is this joy glittering inside.
The belief that it could be real, lasting, and mutual.
That she could feel the same for me, too.
"You had flour on your face," she explains.
Something in me breaks. A clean snap of a cord, deep inside my chest.
Silly me.
Of course she wasn't suddenly taken by our proximity like I was.
"I see." I study my hands, with flour all over and dough on my palms. "I'm making a fool of myself."
"You couldn't," she says.
I raise an eyebrow and let myself hide in some playfulness. Moving slowly, I pass the back of my hand over her cheek. It's a thank you for her words, comforting as they were. It's the deprivation, too. The touch itself soothes the pang of my foolishness.
"Oops." I study the smattering of flour I left on her skin. "Let me fix that."
I'm certain everyone knows I'm doing it all on purpose, but I couldn't care less.
Everyone's welcome to jump to conclusions.
They will think I'm an opportunist taking a chance to flirt and seduce.
It's fine. I've built my fame as a playboy brick by brick, but I know the truth. I need to be close to Ames again.
The heat that flickers in her eyes tells me she is into it, too. Her lips part. I step close and use the dishcloth I hang from my shoulder to gently clean her face.
A corner of my lips lift as I stare deeply into her eyes .
"Good?" I ask.
She nods. My heart drums against my ribcage.
I step away and we gaze at each other for a few moments.
"Love the vibes, keep it up," Mark says. "You can talk about the charity now."
We turn to the kitchen island and all the half-prepped food. I share about the charity and Ames asks all the right questions to make it seem like we're chatting while working together at home.
"All right." Mark claps after a while. "If you need a break this is the time. Amelia, can I talk to you for a second?"
She nods and approaches him. I drink more of the mate and sit on a nearby set chair. I kill time checking my phone, until Ames is free and sits next to me.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"I think so. Mark wanted to ask about my last catering job." She frowns. "He also asked about Aidan."
"That's… strange."
She nods. "He said it was to make sure to prepare any kind of PR response that might be needed."
I frown. "Did he seem worried?"
"No, which threw me off." She smirks. "He seemed very business-like."
"That's good."
"Two minutes," another producer announces.
"This is going great, Ames." I nod. "You should connect with him again later on to ask for leads."
"I will. Thanks, Saint. I know you're doing this for me."
I smirk. "What makes you think that?"
"I heard you have avoided doing something like this for a while."
"I never had a good reason before." I shrug.
"But this is a good reason?"
I smile, say nothing, and lift a shoulder in a dismissive move.
She leans close and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "How will I ever pay you back? "
"Okay, let's keep rolling!" Mark calls.
I stand and offer her my hand. She stands close to me.
I cock my head. "You don't have to pay me back."
"I agreed to an invoice afterwards."
"Right." I laugh, take her hand, and lead her back to the kitchen island. "For now, I'll settle for you wearing my jersey at a game."
We finish cooking and sit down at a big table on a set right next to the kitchen.
We pretend to eat, then the whole production team shares our food with us and celebrates our work.
They praise her cooking skills and the ease with which she carried the show.
I smile away her attempt at saying I had something to do with that.
It feels like we're the it couple that hosted a holiday meal. Right before she attends my Christmas game as my guest, wearing a jersey with my name on it.
My poor heart— it had ropes around it before. The snap I felt earlier was one of them tearing apart. I need to be careful, or every bit of cord will give way until I forget why I put them there in the first place.