25. Chloe
twenty-five
While I’m trying to literally cool off by popping my head in the fridge, Justin steps next to me. “Chloe, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“M-hm?” I pop my head out of the fridge but hold onto the door to steady myself. His gaze is boring into me with more force than I can handle.
“I really am sorry, more than you can imagine. I wanted to tell you in person. I’m glad you liked the flowers, but I don’t think that’s nearly enough. I’m ashamed. I’m sorry. I want to make this right.” He stops and just looks at me, waiting for me to say something.
My breath comes out shaky. “Water under the bridge, Justin. Apology accepted.”
“Bullshit,” he whispers. “You’re still on the fence.”
I lower my eyes. He’s right, I’m not sure about him. But not in the way he thinks. It’s going to be hard for me to be just business acquaintances. I’m going to have to reframe how I feel about him, and I’m not sure I can do that easily.
His voice comes out raw when he continues. “There’s no excuse, only an explanation. I hadn’t been myself since Boston. I was angry at myself. I took it out on others. Like I said, it’s no excuse. I need you to know, this isn’t who I am. That’s all I have to say.”
I want to ask him what he means exactly, that he’s been ‘angry’ since Boston. I want to know everything he feels about Boston, but he’s not volunteering that. What he did volunteer in Boston, was that he didn’t want a relationship. Ever. So I’m definitely confused over what he’s talking about. “Apology accepted. Truly.” I lift my eyes to him and meet his, appeased.
“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”
Myheart bottoms out. Why isn’t he saying more? Why does this seem to be so important to him?
He turns on his heel and steps outside. The door of his truck slams, then he comes back with a bag of food. “Christopher’s breads, herbs from Cassandra’s garden, and my sauces,” he says with his half-grin that shoots straight to my panties as he plucks Mason jars from the bottom of the bag.
My mind and my heart battle over what to do.
Focus, Chloe.
Work is the answer. And the good news is, cooking has never been work for me. It’s always been a hobby, a relaxation, so now that it’s work as well? Double win.
It should help me focus on something other than my attraction for Justin. I mean, you would think.
Except, of course, he’s here, in my space, close—too close—his scent all around me, leaning over me to help assemble mini BLTs and short rib sliders, teasing me endlessly over the way I beat the mayonnaise (“like a miniature boxer hitting the punch ball”) or the way I pull apart the meat off the marinated short ribs (“like you’re ripping off a Band-Aid. Scrap that. Like you’re plucking out your worst enemies’ eyes.”).
“So you’re saying, I’m aggressive when I cook.”
“More like, you’re letting off steam.”
He’s so right, though. I stay silent.
“My friend Chris—”
“The baker?”
“Yeah. He has this thing about the dough sensing the mood the baker is in, and how it impacts the result. He says the dough is alive.”
“Lemme tell you, nothing I’m touching here is alive, m’kay? We can all take a deep breath.”
He chuckles, a deep rumble that resonates deep inside me. My toes curl like they’re on autopilot and we’re in for a good orgasm. Darn it.
He leans over to grab one of his homemade sauces, his forearm brushing against mine, his front so close to my side we’re almost touching. “How about the Mamamia sauce for the pork belly sliders?”
“What’s the Mamamia again?”
“Maple Mango Madness.”
“What’s the Madness part?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just a name. Haley was going through her Abba phase at the time.”
“That doesn’t answer the Madness question.”
He chuckles. “Shit, Chloe, you never let go, do you? I made it in March. There. Happy?”
“Yes, happy.” I take my mac’n cheese out of the oven and set it to the side to cool. When I turn around, he’s scooping his Mamamia sauce onto an open-faced pork belly slider. My pork belly, marinated, his friend Christopher’s brioche bread, and coriander from Cassandra’s vegetable garden. He hands the bite-size slider to me, one hand under it so the sauce doesn’t drip on the floor. I meet him halfway, my gaze hesitating between his green eyes and the food he’s finger-feeding me. He could have set it on a plate. On a napkin. He could have let me take it myself.
He probably should have.
Because now, my mouth is closing down, his fingers are caught in, and his gaze is searing into me. What is he doing?
He wipes his fingers on a dishtowel and turns his back to me to fix himself the same bite. “So? What do you say? Good?” His voice is detached. This must have been nothing to him. I need to cool down.
I swallow and take a long drink of water. “It’s heavenly.” The pork belly is a perfect balance of crispy and soft, the coriander adds depth, and his sauce is equal parts sweet and spicy, in tune with the dish, enhancing it without overpowering it. The brioche bun provides a sweet, soaking vessel.
“Umm, good,” he agrees. “Yup. That’s up there. Lemme write it down.” He grabs my notebook and the pen.
My fingers tingle as his decisive handwriting fills my notebook with the recipe we just created. I can’t help but recognize it—so he did write the apology note himself.
This is ridiculous. I’m like a schoolgirl watching her crush fill her yearbook. Next thing you know, I’ll be carving our initials on a tree. Rolls eyes inwardly. I grab our glasses and refill them with water, then set his next to him.
“Thanks,” he says.
The countertops are full. We’re not in a professional kitchen, so we have to make do with the space we have, which isn’t much. It’s cramped and messy but it’s fun. And Moose can be with us. I throw him a lean piece of meat, which he swallows in a fraction of a second.
My phone dings with a text message from Corine. Sam is here.
Hm. She doesn’t call him Chef.
Me: Okay. All good?
Corine: Yes. Just wanted to let u know.
Me: thx
I’m not looking forward to going to the restaurant today. Samuel hasn’t answered my messages checking in on him, and I’m not sure how to navigate that situation with him. He did lock me up to yell at me, after all. I don’t want to blow it out of proportion, but I can’t accept that. On the other hand, he was beaten up pretty badly by Justin for doing just that, so it’s not like I feel super comfortable addressing that again.
What bothers me most is what Corine said about menu items we never sell. And I know we order a lot and should never be short. I’m going to need to look into that.
“Almost done with the pork sliders,” Justin says, cutting into my thoughts. “What next?”
Me: Might be running late today
I put my phone down, stress from the day ahead lodging right between my shoulder blades. The restaurant can wait, for now.
The mac’n cheese has cooled, so I grab a fork and dip in. “Holy crap. It’s the best I’ve ever made.”
“Is that your specialty dish?” he asks.
“Nope. My specialty dish is a lobster risotto.”
He stops with his pen midair. “Why didn’t you make that today?”
Last time I was going to make it was for Tucker. “It brings back bad memories.”
“Lemme guess. Douchebag?”
I nod.
He shakes his head, writes more stuff in the notebook, then puts the cap back on the pen and comes to stand next to me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to let some asshole dictate what makes you happy.”
“Makes me happy?”
“Cooking.”
Hmm. He noticed. “I thought you said it made me angry.”
He hands me my glass of water, and our fingers touch briefly. He keeps his hold on the glass and answers, “I said you were letting steam out. That was phase one. Now we’re onto phase two. Happy Chloe.” His voices dips a little, and so does his gaze, down to my lips. “Now drink some water.”
And I do, and you’d think the cold would douse everything he does to me.
Nope.
He picks up a fork and digs into the mac’n cheese. I eye him sideways to test his reaction. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles, then looks at me. “Clover—” he starts.
I can’t. I can’t take it. I can’t have him call me Clover. “Please, don’t,” I plead. I feel my eyes betraying my feelings, and I hate myself for that. I’m going to pay later, I know it. But I need him to stop reminding me of everything he gave me that night.
Everything I’ll never have again.
His gaze latches onto mine. “Sorry, I slipped.” His gaze drops down to my mouth, and I turn around to break the connection. To breathe. Does he want this? Do I want this?
His phone buzzes on the counter with an incoming call, and he shoots his hand over to silence it. Then it dings repeatedly with a slew of messages, and I can’t help but look when he grabs it, swipes the messages open and closed, but not quickly enough that I can’t see the picture of a blonde in a suggestive selfie pose.
“Seriously?” he mumbles and starts doing stuff in his phone. “This phishing shit is getting out of control,” he says, and I breathe better. Why am I feeling possessive of him?
“Where were we? Right. Your mac’n cheese.” He takes another forkful and closes his eyes, giving my eyes freedom to roam his chiseled jaw, the gold stubble that grated my thighs not so long ago, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. “That’s the shit. We’re keeping that.”
“I dunno. It’s not easy to eat at a fair. People would have to sit down. Use forks and stuff.”
“Then why’d you make it?”
“As a starting point.”
He snaps his fingers. “Let’s make breadcrumb-coated balls of your mac’n cheese. Deep fried. Bam.”
I dip my fork in the dish and take a bite. “I like the idea.” What could we serve this with? “With tomato soup?” That’s a little basic. I can do better. I load my fork with a heaping serving. The shit is good, and it’s getting to midday.
“Gazpacho,” he says, his eyes shiny.
“Ohmygod—yes! That’s genius,” I spurt with my mouth full. “Little shots of gazpacho!”
He takes a mock bow, his messy blond hair falling all over, and when he straightens, somehow he’s gotten closer to me. Very close. So close it’s hard to swallow.
He flings his finger to the corner of my mouth, wiping it. I stop breathing, my body humming with desire for him. For his touch, his gaze.
His friendship.
All of him.
I know he doesn’t want a relationship. A girlfriend. A date. I could want all of that, with him. But right now, I want his finger back on my mouth. I want it in my mouth.
Is my lust for him going to ruin our new friendship?
He licks the finger that was on my mouth, taking his time, his gaze caressing me, making me miss a heartbeat or two.
“Are you eating food that came from my mouth?” I blurt on a whisper.
He removes his finger from his mouth with a pop and places his hand against the counter, right by my side, his forearm brushing against my waist. “I wish.” His eyes drop to my mouth as he inches closer.
Oh.
My.
God.
My tongue wets my lips.
“Yoo-hooo! Anybody home?” We both jump apart as the front door slams shut. “I saw the two cars, and no one was answering the door. I wondered if you’d killed each other alr—” Alex stops in her tracks, a knowing smile spreading slowly on her face. “You’re alive! The two of you!” She sets a tripod on the floor and fusses with Moose while I get myself together.
“Nice braid,” I say. “Coffee? Water?”
“Hungry yet?” Justin asks.
“Starving. Chris has been up since three.”
“Bet you were with him,” Justin says as he hands her a pork slider. “I’m surprised you made it out of the house at all.”
She blushes. From what I heard, she and Christopher are finally together after a love story that was so hot it made the news. “I was—ohmygod these are the bomb,” she says with her mouth still full. Her eyes dart between the two of us. “Who made these?” She takes her phone out and starts filming us.
“Team creation,” Justin answers her as I say, “I’m not—I’m not camera ready.”
Justin trails his gaze over my track suit, lust in his eyes, and Alex giggles. “You so are. Totally authentic, you two. Love it. Just ignore me and keep doing what you were doing before I came in.” She lifts her gaze from the phone to set it on us. “Just keep it PG and throw in some cooking, ya know?”