Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Walker
Eden
Are you really canceling on James Ryne-Young’s charity event?
Once I’d gotten back in my office after one hell of a long night in the kitchen, I looked at Eden’s text that she had sent earlier, and I stopped myself from replying.
I didn’t know why. I had no intention of cooking for James and the hundred people she had invited. But I knew the aggravation it would cause Eden since she was the one who would have to put out the fire, and a part of me felt bad.
A small part, that was, but a part big enough that as I held the phone in my hands, I couldn’t type out the word yes.
Goddamn it, if I hadn’t caught eyes with Alivia in that room while James was talking my ear off, getting fucking mesmerized by Alivia’s body and wanting nothing more than to be inside her, then I wouldn’t have agreed to James. My head just hadn’t been in the right place.
I glanced up from the screen when there was a light tap at my door.
“It’s Rachel.”
“Come in.”
She opened the door and poked her head through the crack. “I’m going to head out. Things are all wrapped up here.”
“Is everyone gone?”
“I believe so.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She gave me a small wave and closed the door.
As my eyes returned to the screen, my head started to fill with questions.
Can I even consider doing this event? Can I come up with a fresh menu that will make me want to go in the kitchen? Can I make my hands crave the feel of food, make my nose miss the scents I used to create, make my palate yearn for something other than whiskey?
Do I miss cooking? At all?
I reached into my desk drawer and took out the tumbler and bottle I kept in there, filling it with several fingers’ worth before I brought the glass up to my lips.
I didn’t immediately down the liquor. I let it slosh around my mouth, letting the burn increase, allowing it to sizzle on the top of my tongue.
And while I savored each sip, I stared at Eden’s text, waiting to see if I felt any different.
If the whiskey changed my mind.
If there was any chance I could do this for my sister.
When the glass was empty, I poured a little more and leaned back in my chair, rocking to the quietness of my office, my eyes closing.
The ideas never started in here. My brain needed visual inspiration. It needed to take in the different colors of food. I needed to feel the textures under my fingertips.
That was how my menus were designed.
A visual, hands-on approach, not by holding a pen and tapping it against a blank piece of fucking paper. All that got me was a room full of balled-up, jumbled jargon, spread across the floor like snow.
I didn’t know where the desire had come from—if it was even there or if I was forcing it or if the booze was hitting an empty stomach—but I left the glass on my desk and went into the kitchen. Everything was in order, just how I liked it. The surfaces had been cleaned, even the metal shone.
I went into the walk-in fridge and scanned the shelves of produce and protein, listening to the whispers in my brain. It was like a calculation, a puzzle of moving pieces—ones that either fit or collided—and if they didn’t work together, a new algorithm would take shape.
“I’m so sorry. I … know I shouldn’t be here.”
The sound of each word was like a mental slamming of brakes.
My neck turned, my head whipping around. Alivia was standing behind me, her box of gifted knives in her hand, a look of hesitation on her face.
If there were a hole, it appeared as if she would crawl into it.
“I was just going to tiptoe past you on my way out, but I had a feeling you’d hear me,” she added.
“I would have.” My eyes narrowed in on her. “What are you doing here? Rachel told me everyone was gone.”
“I must have gotten so lost in cutting that I didn’t realize everyone had left.
And that’s not Rachel’s fault. Please don’t blame her.
I told her I was wrapping up, and she probably thought I was already gone.
” She pointed at the side kitchen that handled the overflow on extra-busy nights. “I was over there … practicing.”
“Do you have any idea how late it is?”
She nodded, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
“I’m assuming you have to be at your other job in the morning?”
She nodded again.
“Then why are you here late, sacrificing your sleep?”
She broke eye contact, taking a long look around the kitchen.
“This is the only time I really get to practice. I want to get better, Walker. I want more nights like the other evening, when I got to see the little girl chowing down on my chicken nuggets.” She wrapped an arm around her stomach, holding the box of knives toward her chest. “That feeling … I can’t even describe it. ”
My head dropped.
I was envious.
I remembered that feeling. I just hadn’t felt it in a long fucking time.
I backed up, gripping the side of the cold door, and while I gazed inside, I waited for the sensation to hit me. A burning need to grab one of the items off the shelf. To manipulate the flavors into something sensational. To create like I used to, like I was known for.
But it wasn’t there.
I felt … nothing.
I finally looked at her. Her gorgeous hair knotted on top of her head. Full lips waiting to smile. Eyes eager and fixed directly on me. Since she’d started at Charred, a few pounds had been added to her tiny frame, and they looked beautiful on her.
Every time I was around this woman, something inside me changed. I wondered if that would happen again right now.
I wondered if she could make me feel.
“Come here, Alivia.” When she came closer, looking up at me, I had to do everything in my power not to kiss her. “Do you want to practice?”
“With you?”
I let out a breath. “Yes.”
“I would absolutely love to.”
I nodded toward the cooler. “After you.”
She stepped into the large refrigerator, wrapping an arm around herself, shivering from the temperature.
“Pick something,” I ordered.
“What am I looking for?”
“When it comes to creating, everyone’s process is different. Personally, mine has no road map. I don’t go in with a plan. I go in, like I am right now, and see what speaks to me. I look, I feel, and then I grab.”
“Is that because you know what pairs so well together?” Her eyes were on me instead of the food.
“Experience, I’m sure, helps, yes. But what if you get to the fridge and you’re out of something?
What if it’s gone bad? What if the quality doesn’t meet your expectations?
Experience will teach you that. So, I go in”—I scanned the shelves in front of us—“and I let the food speak to me. When the voice feels right, when I feel it here”—I banged my fist against my chest; the sensation building was far more than the hollowness I’d felt prior—“I make my choice.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Yes, wow. I had no idea. This is way deeper than I thought.”
I turned toward her. “This is your art, Alivia. This is you looking at a rainbow of colors and picking up the tubes you want to paint with. This isn’t pouring a gallon of paint into a container and rolling it onto a wall.
The latter is what we do every night at Charred. What we’re doing here … is different.”
Fuck, I meant that in every sense of the way.
Because even having this conversation with her, nothing felt the same.
“My art.” Her voice was low, her stare as intense as ever.
“Show me how you can paint.”
She moved toward the section of protein, taking her time as she studied the various options, eventually lifting a piece of Chilean sea bass into her hand.
“I like where you’re headed.”
My response caused her to look at me.
“I’ve never even tasted it. I’ve only seen it in cooking videos.”
“You’re going to taste it tonight.” I pointed at the vegetables. “Now think of how you’re going to paint the background. It’s a light fish with a buttery texture. You want a pairing that won’t contrast the flavors, but enhance them instead.”
She ran her fingers across the rows of vegetables and stopped at the stalks of bok choy.
“Fuck yes,” I roared.
“And this.” She lifted a box of cremini mushrooms.
I nodded toward the exit. “Go set up your workstation.”
She gave me a smile that was so achingly breathtaking, I wanted to pull her into my arms. She rushed toward the gas range, setting three pans on top of the grates, and started a low fire below them.
She then removed a cutting board and displayed her knives next to it before giving the vegetables a quick wash and positioning them on the heavy wooden block.
“Where do I start?”
I stayed nearby, giving her plenty of space to move between the cooktop and counter. “What’s going to take the longest to cook?”
“The vegetables.”
“Think back to the painting.” I leaned on the counter, picking up one of the mushrooms, wishing it were strands of her hair that I could wrap around my fingers.
“If there’s a cabin in the center of the canvas, what would look more beautiful—a sunrise or a sunset?
That’s what you have to ask yourself when you think of the accompaniments.
You don’t want them to overshadow the star of the show, you want them to enhance it. ”
“Small, bite-sized pieces so you can fit in some veg with every mouthful of fish.”
“Yesss.”
I could tell she’d been practicing her cutting skills. That she’d listened to every goddamn word I told her. The chef’s knife slid right through the bok choy, and she was using a perfect wave of wrist motion. Once she finished with the mushrooms, she brought the piles of each to the stovetop.
“Oil or butter?” she asked.
“From here on out, you’re going to repeat in your head, Do I want to overshadow or enhance? That’s your answer.”
She picked up a bottle of olive oil and drizzled it onto the stainless steel pan, tossing the vegetables in.
“Alivia …”
She halted. “You would have chosen butter?”
“No. I can’t get over how fast you’re learning.”