Chapter Five
DELILAH
I’m double-checking my measured ingredients when I hear footsteps on the stage behind me, glancing to my left and relaxing when I see that it’s only Ava.
“Girl.” She gives me a pointed look. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had a hot-ass hockey player in your back pocket?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not ‘in my back pocket.’ He’s just an old friend.”
“You’ve never mentioned this ‘old friend’ before.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, giving my attention back to the little measuring bowls on the counter. “He’s been gone for a while. We haven’t really been in touch for the last few years.”
“I hope distance makes the heart grow fonder, because…” She fans herself exaggeratedly. “Wow.”
I know she’s just teasing, so it makes no sense for me to feel a pang of irritation at her obvious thirsting for Ian. I mean, can I really blame her? The man is sex on legs. Always has been, really. The years have only made him better. Ian Chase ages like Gouda, and I love me some fucking cheese.
“I’m practically a sister to him,” I mumble, tamping down the thought. “It’s not like that.”
She narrows her eyes, leaning in to study me in that freakish way of hers that lets me know I’m being entirely transparent. “But you’d like it to be like that, huh?”
“I didn’t say that,” I protest weakly.
“Oh, honey.” She pats my shoulder. “How long have you had it bad for the ginger giant?”
I frown, my hands stilling over a bowl of cherries. “Pretty much since puberty?”
“Fuck,” she says, her tone more sympathetic. “Is this all awful for you? I know he was married before. It’s gotta suck having him back around after already going through him being taken off the market.”
I wave her off. “Please. It’s not like I’ve been waiting at the door for him. I’ve dated plenty since he left. Good sex has a way of making you forget things.”
“Yeah, but…I mean, you never forget your first love.”
I snort. It’s a silly notion. I didn’t love Ian. What I felt for him was just teenage hormones and a too-intense crush on the first boy who ever gave me attention—romantic or not. That’s all.
“Seriously, it’s not that big of a deal,” I assure her.
She doesn’t look convinced. “Mhm.”
“Don’t you have something you’re supposed to be doing?”
“I’m checking in with the talent,” she says matter-of-factly. “Part of the job.”
“I’ll bet.”
More footsteps sound behind her, heavier ones this time, and when I turn my head to peer over her shoulder, Ian meanders on set wearing his Druids jersey and a disgruntled expression that looks insanely good on him.
“Hey,” I call, the word coming out as more of a croak.
Ava turns her body, glancing at Ian for a moment and then back at me to where I’m surely gaping like a stranded goldfish. A smirk colors her mouth, and I have to rein in the urge to elbow her in the gut.
“Hey, Ian,” Ava says as Ian steps closer to the counter where we’re gathered. “Dee here will give you another rundown of the takes we’re getting first. I have…stuff to do. Over…there.”
She brushes past us, shooting me a thumbs-up and winking like she’s just been incredibly smooth. Normally, I would be calling her out, but as it is, I’m doing well not to drool over the aforementioned ginger giant who looks perturbed and cranky, which somehow makes him even more endearing.
“I didn’t know they were going to put makeup on me,” he grumbles.
“Your toxic masculinity is showing,” I remark dryly.
He scoffs. “I don’t give a shit about that, but she said she wanted to make my lips kissable. What the fuck does that even mean? They’re all shiny and sticky now. Feels weird.”
My eyes dip down to the lips in question, finding he’s absolutely right. And they are kissable, so much so that the urge to lean in and taste them is as powerful as it is wrong, and I manage a tight smile instead.
“That’s show business, Cupcake.”
He eyes the ingredients laid out in front of me. “What are we making, anyway?”
“A cherry clafoutis,” I tell him. “It’s a French pastry.”
“Another thing you picked up over there?”
“Among other things.”
“Speaking of picked up.” He makes a face. “Jack told me all about some douchebag you dated over there.”
“Jack is biased,” I laugh. “Etienne was nice.” His frown deepens, and some hopeless part of me wants it to be jealousy that has him looking so sour, as silly as that is. Maybe that’s what leads me to say, “Plus, he was really hot. Dirty talk is ten times better in French.”
The only reaction Ian has is a barely-there clench of his jaw, but that could just be him feeling awkward. Most likely is, if I’m being honest with myself. I can’t say why I feel the urge to keep pushing his buttons.
“Definitely not something I need to hear about, I think,” he says quietly.
God, I wish it was more than just seeing me as a sister. I really do. And here I am telling Ava how over Ian I am. Maybe I really believed that, before I saw him again. Maybe you really don’t forget your first love. Crush, I correct. Crush.
“Anyway,” I say, reaching to the other side of the counter and grabbing the pink cloth there. “I have your apron right here.” He eyes it like I’ve just asked him to put on a Speedo in the studio, and I can’t help but laugh. “You don’t give a shit about your male ego, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He takes the apron from me—just like mine, with the show’s name embroidered over the front—gripping the looped neck in his hands and lifting it to pull it over his head. The pink totally clashes with his hair, but the sight of him in it takes him down from smolderingly sexy to comfortably cute. I should make him wear it more often so I can have an easier time not turning into a simp whenever he’s within a ten-foot radius.
“Dee!” the cameraman calls. “They want to know if you’re ready to get rolling.”
“I think so,” I call back, checking my ingredients again to make sure that, yes, they’re all there and accounted for. I peek over at Ian, who looks a little queasy as he grimaces at the large camera being rolled up closer to the stage. “You ready, Cupcake?”
His face is still sort of pinched when he meets my eyes, but he nods, albeit warily. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” I laugh.
Thirty minutes into filming, and things are going far better than I expected them to go, admittedly. Ian has never shown any sort of aptitude in the kitchen, from what I remember, and I half worried he might drop a bowl or stick his hand into the batter or something. He’s engaging if not quiet in front of the cameras, answering my questions and asking plenty of his own as I walk him through mixing the ingredients, and all of it reminds me of summers in my aunt’s kitchen with him impatiently waiting to taste something I was trying out. It’s distracting, but not enough that I can’t maintain my normal camera persona.
“So, that should do it for the batter,” I note, checking the consistency. “How are my cherries?”
Ian peeks into the baking dish that he’s been meticulously arranging cherries into with some slivered almonds, as if they needed to be just right at the bottom. “They’re in there.”
“Julia Child would be so proud,” I laugh.
His brow furrows, eyeing my bowl. “That looks like cake batter.”
“It’s similar,” I tell him. “The almond extract makes it a little nuttier.”
I dip my spoon into the bowl, bringing the edge to my mouth to taste as flavors explode against my tongue. “Mm.”
Ian makes an almost imperceptible noise, almost like clearing his throat but softer, and I notice his big body shift a little beside me.
“You’re not supposed to eat the batter,” he scolds.
“Okay, Dad,” I scoff. I smirk in his direction as I deliberately give my spoon another lick to catch the lingering bits of batter I missed. “But it’s the best part.” I wink at the camera after I slide my spoon from my mouth. “Listen, I know raw batter is bad, but sometimes being bad is worth it.” I mm exaggeratedly. “Life is short, or as the French say, ‘la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin.’?”
Ian’s mouth is turned down into a frown, but his eyes aren’t on mine, instead fixed on my mouth. I can almost imagine a slight heat to his gaze, and if I let my eyes linger too long on his face, I can almost tell myself his cheeks are slightly flushed. It makes me want to whisper more French nothings in his ear. Dirty talk really is better in French, honestly.
Ian is still looking at my mouth, and it’s stupid, the idea that pops up into my head, and they’re definitely going to cut it from filming, but the tight look on Ian’s face makes it irresistible.
“Oh, come on, Cupcake,” I coo. “Live a little.”
My heart hammers a bit as I grab another spoon and dip it into the batter, holding it out with my hand underneath to catch any drippings so that Ian can taste it for himself. There’s a moment where I think he’ll refuse; his lips are pursed and his eyes are hard to read, and I’m seconds away from pulling the spoon back and laughing it off as a joke when his wide palm reaches to cup the back of my knuckles, his fingers curling around the hand holding my spoon and enveloping it in his warm grip.
The inhale that rushes past my lips is short and quiet, but as close as he is, I can’t help but wonder if he hears it. His eyes hold mine until the last second as he pulls the spoon in and lets his plush lips taste some of the batter he’d just been scolding me over, but I can’t even bring myself to point out this hypocrisy with the way my skin is tingling beneath his touch.
“It is good,” he admits, his fingers still holding my knuckles. “Still bad for you though.”
I swallow, something that wasn’t all that difficult prior to about seven seconds ago, pulling back my hand and both mourning and celebrating the loss of his touch for the havoc it wreaks on my system.
“Right,” I laugh shakily, trying to compose myself. I manage to look sure when I glance back at the camera—I think so, at least—but I can’t help but wonder if they can see my pulse hammering in my throat even from the other side of the lens. “Ian has always been a stickler for the rules.”
I don’t look at him as I set my spoon on the rest nearby, focusing on the bowl of batter that has just become the bane of my existence.
“Let’s pour this over the cherries, huh?” I remember the whole appeal of “big hockey player trying to bake” then, giving Ian my brightest smile that I can only hope doesn’t betray my racing heart. “Or do you want to do the honors?”
“I can do it,” Ian says quietly, nodding as he reaches for the bowl.
I nod at the sleeves of his jersey. “Unless you want a dry cleaning bill, I suggest you roll those up.”
“Oh.” He glances at his wrists. “Right.”
I watch as he reaches to grip the fabric of one sleeve, starting the slow process of rolling it up, and my tongue suddenly becomes glued to my mouth.
Oh.
My.
God.
My eyes move greedily over the corded, lightly freckled muscle of Ian’s forearms, drinking in the swirls of ink that cover each one.
When did he get those?
I can make out some shapes and a block of script that I can’t read at this distance, and my fingers itch to explore, to see how far they go. Does he have them anywhere else, I wonder?
He continues to roll each sleeve right up over his elbow, and I can see more dark ink creeping up his biceps, making them all the more lickable. My brain actually fizzles a little. Someone could ask me right now what the hell it is we are making, and I might honestly not be able to tell them. It could be a goddamned soufflé for all I know.
“Here,” he says, his sleeves effectively rolled and my mind effectively blown. “Let me.”
I nod mutely as he takes the bowl from me, and I know I should be explaining something, giving a fun fact about the dish and where it originated—but I am helpless to do anything but watch him pour batter over a bowl of cherries as if it’s the sexiest thing a man has ever done. Honestly, at this very moment, it very well might be.
Ian looks pleased when he’s done, giving me one of his rare-ish smiles that is full and open, and it’s too much, really. Baking, ink, and full-blown smiles? They’re going to be paying me workers’ comp after this for stress-related injuries. I don’t realize I’m just standing there gawking like an idiot until I hear Ava quietly saying my name, a gentle way of telling me to snap the hell out of it.
My cheeks flame, and it takes absolutely every bit of willpower to smile at the camera and pretend that whatever…that was didn’t happen, but I’m fully aware that the studio and Ian all saw me lose my mind for about four seconds.
And we haven’t even gotten the damned thing in the oven yet.
“Cut! That was great, guys. We’ve got plenty to work with here.”
I shoot Greg a smile before peeking to my left to check on Ian, finding him already wrestling the apron over his head only seconds after the camera has stopped rolling.
“Wow, you were counting the seconds down until you could do that, weren’t you?” I laugh.
He rolls his eyes, tossing the garment on the counter before reaching to rub at the back of his neck. “Damn string was irritating the shit out of me.”
“Sure it was.” I pull my own apron off, chancing a glance at my chest and confirming that, yes, there is flour there. “How did you manage not to get a single thing on your jersey?”
He peers down his front. “Maybe I’m just less clumsy than you are.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
His lips twitch. “You’re the professional here. How do you manage to get so dirty?”
“Well, when you’re carrying the team…”
He rolls his eyes. “I helped.”
“You did,” I chuckle. “You didn’t burn anything down, at least.”
He follows me when I step away from the set, his heavy footsteps not far behind mine when we move from the raised platform of the stage to the refreshments area set up nearby. I grab a bottle of water and then offer one back to Ian, eyes lingering briefly on his hands as the memory of what his sleeves are hiding flit through my thoughts.
“So,” I say as I unscrew the cap on my water, “I never pegged you as being into tattoos.”
He looks thoughtful for a brief moment before he shrugs. “My mom always said that you can’t get just one, because you’ll become addicted. I guess she was right.”
“I only got one,” I counter. I take a swig from my bottle before adding, “Haven’t had the urge yet to get any more.”
He cocks one eyebrow at me, perching his fists on his hips to give me a stern look that absolutely doesn’t have me repressing a shiver. “You have a tattoo?”
I beam back at him. “Sure do.”
“What is it?”
“A better question would be: Where is it?” I wink, and I notice a slight flush of color at his cheekbones. Wow. Okay. I like that reaction. It almost makes me believe that I might eventually get him to see me as Delilah—not Lila, the kid sister of his best friend. “But I’m keeping both a secret. For now.”
He still looks a little stunned by my boldness, and to me, it feels like a small victory. Sure, I’ll never get to play out all the fantasies I’ve entertained of Ian Chase over the years—ones made marginally worse after that bit of spoon-feeding not even half an hour ago—but at least I can give him back a fraction of the discomfort he’s caused me in my young life. It’s only fair, I think.
“Hey, guys!” Ava practically skips toward us, holding a clipboard and looking cheerful. “That was amazing. I was totally sure that Ian was going to burn himself at one point—”
Ian scoffs. “What is it with everyone thinking I am going to burn something?”
“—but, you guys did great,” Ava finishes, ignoring Ian’s grumbling. “Did you plan that moment with the spoon? Because it was totally hot.”
“What?” Ian looks taken aback. “It wasn’t hot.”
My lips purse. “Ava…”
“What?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It was. I guarantee viewers are going to eat that shit up. I thought for sure you planned it.”
“Of course we didn’t,” Ian asserts, sounding almost irritated. “We’re friends. We don’t want to give people the wrong idea.”
There’s no reason for that statement to sting, considering it’s true, but there’s still an irritating sensation in my chest when he says it. Especially since he looks so uneasy right now—shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his lips twisted in a frown.
So much for him ever seeing me any differently.
“Right,” I answer tightly. “It was just spur of the moment. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Whatever.” Ava waves us both off. “It was still hot.”
Ian still looks positively uncomfortable, and even with the long stretch of years between the me today and the me who used to follow him around begging for crumbs of his attention—seeing the physical proof that he still thinks of me as the dumb kid who clung to his ankles…It’s not the best feeling in the world. Actually, it’s downright awful.
I turn to Ian, patting him on the arm. “You did great, Cupcake. I’m really glad we did this. And we should catch up again soon, yeah?”
His brows turn down. “You got somewhere to be?”
“Oh, you know…” I shrug noncommittally. “Just have some things to check on. But I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
He nods stiffly, still looking at me strangely. Probably because I am acting strange. Or maybe I’m acting normally, and it just feels strange to me. I turn away from Ian and Ava to leave them standing at the refreshments table, heading for nowhere in particular, just wanting to put space between Ian and me and let my brain breathe. I can’t believe that after all this time, Ian can still make my head a mess like this.
It stays messy for the rest of the day, even much later when I’m sitting safe in my apartment and staring at a text that came through from Ian while I was in the shower.
IAN: I had a lot of fun today. Let’s hang out again soon.
I’ve typed out a few innocuous replies that all sound stupid in my head, finally settling on a generic: I had fun too! Definitely!
I know that if Ian is back for good, I am going to have to get a handle on these old feelings rearing their ugly heads, that I’ll have to figure out a way to navigate them if there’s any chance of slipping back into a friendship with the guy whose name I used to doodle in my notebook margins with little hearts.
Maybe some distance is the best answer. It’s not like I have to hang out with Ian again anytime soon. Some time to get my head in order would probably be just the thing to figure my shit out and stop acting ridiculous.
Yes, I think. That’s definitely the right call. I’ll just make sure to only spend time with Ian when there’s a good amount of buffer. One-on-one is definitely off-limits.
I cling to that resolve through brushing my teeth and readying for bed, halfway managing to convince myself that it will work, that I’ll start to feel less crazy in his presence as time goes by.
As I crawl into bed, I actually feel mostly optimistic about the whole thing. I close my eyes for the first time since Ian blew back into town, not thinking about his voice or his eyes or his deep laugh that makes my stomach clench.
Well, mostly.