Chapter 15
Freya
I’m just pulling the lamb out of the oven when the door buzzes.
“Shit.” Wiping off my greasy fingers on my caked apron, I jog to the front door and open it to find both Julian and Archer standing in the hallway.
Archer is in front, wearing a burgundy sweater under the same black wool jacket we used as a blanket in the elevator.
He smiles down at me with a bottle of what looks like red wine in his hand.
At the sight of his swollen lip and bluish-purple rimmed eyes, I wince, but I don’t say anything.
I get the feeling Archer is tired of hearing us complain about his extracurricular activities.
I do think it’s stupid that he fights with strangers in completely unregulated matches with absolutely no medical team nearby, but he’s a grown man, and I can’t tell him what to do.
“Come in,” I say with a smile, moving aside to let them both walk through the doorway.
Julian walks behind Archer, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His hair is styled to the side, not a single strand out of place. And when he shoots me a wicked, flirtatious grin, my insides turn to goo.
“Thanks for having us,” he says before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.
Useless, pitiful goo.
“You can hang your coats on the hook,” I say, scrambling around to stir the sauce and check on the meat. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m almost finished with dinner.”
My entire apartment is minuscule. Nothing like Julian’s grand penthouse.
My kitchen is actually quite impressive compared to the rest of my flat.
It has a long counter that is currently covered in dirty dishes and things I haven’t yet put away.
My dad helped me put together this makeshift kitchen island that doubles as a dining room table.
Julian meanders awkwardly around my place, looking at my pictures pinned to the walls and the collection of old records on the bookshelf. Archer steps up behind me, reaching over my head for the wineglasses hanging from under the cabinet.
“Smells good, Chef,” he murmurs before gently kissing the side of my head. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, making me nearly forget how to put an oven mitt on.
“Thanks. It’s slow-braised lamb in a spiced yogurt sauce with spongy dhokla as an appetizer. It’s a family recipe.”
His hands rest on my hips as he watches me work, towering over me from behind. My head feels fuzzy from his proximity, my thighs clenching like my body would gladly betray all my hard work just to feel his touch.
“Sounds delicious,” he says with a growl.
As he backs away to pop the cork out of the bottle, I try to rally the last few working brain cells in my head to get the rest of this dinner done and stop thinking about how good he smells or how amazing tonight could be.
Archer pours the wine while Julian picks a record, placing it on the turntable.
A moment later, Nina Simone croons through the speakers, and suddenly everything feels so sexy and so very not me.
What if I can’t pull this off? Not the meal.
There’s no doubt I can cook a delicious dinner.
But what if I can’t somehow convince these guys that I’m as sexy and sophisticated as they want?
Not that either of them have conveyed to me that that’s what they want.
Hell, I’m in my head again.
Archer leans against the wall, watching me with a smirk as I finish the sauce. “I could stare at you like this all day,” he says, making my cheeks pull into a bashful smile.
Without responding, I slice the dhokla into perfect yellow squares and scatter grated coconut and fresh coriander on top before placing it on the table. Then I grab the kachumber salad from the fridge. A moment later, I feel Julian’s eyes on me.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he asks, brushing his finger across the spice-dusted table.
“Mostly my biji, my grandmother, at first. But then I started to experiment with things. I didn’t want to make traditional meals.
I wanted to create something new.” I let out a giggle, remembering all the terrible things I put together in her kitchen.
“My family used to let me test new recipes on them, and ninety percent of the time, they were terrible. But they never told me so. They ate every bite with a smile.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Archer grinning as he watches me work. Even with a banged-up face, he’s still heartbreakingly handsome. The kind of handsome that people put in action movies. Julian is more of a…cologne commercial handsome.
A few minutes later, when the sauce is done, I turn off the heat and drizzle it over the meat before wiping off the counter-slash-table.
Archer and Julian sit on either side, watching with awe as I set the dish in the middle. Removing my apron, I toss it on the hook on the wall and quickly fix my hair.
“Bon appétit,” I say before taking my place in the third chair around the table.
Then, just like that, it feels like a date. Here I am, in my apartment, with a meal I just cooked, on a date with two people at the same time.
Some deceptive voice deep within my mind keeps trying to tell me that this should feel unnatural, but it doesn’t.
“It looks beautiful,” Julian says before reaching over and brushing something from my cheek.
Archer holds up his glass of wine, and behind the bumps and bruises, he’s smiling softly with a look that resembles gratitude. “To our second date.”
It doesn’t even feel remotely weird as I hold up my wineglass.
Julian interjects before holding up his. “So the elevator didn’t count? Because then it would be our third.”
“No, the elevator doesn’t count,” Archer argues. “That was our meet-cute. The restaurant was our first date, and now this is our second.”
With my elbow resting on the table, I hold my chin in my hand and stare at them both with the kind of lovesick look I’ve only seen in movies. “To whatever date this is,” I say, holding up my wine.
After we all take a sip of wine and start plating up, the first bites are met with low hums and quiet moans of approval.
I don’t need to look up to know their eyes have fluttered shut.
Instead, I lean back and soak it in, the warmth of their praise settling over me like sunlight.
Even I have to admit, I nailed it tonight.
The lamb practically melts at the touch of a fork, rich with cardamom, cumin, and a whisper of cinnamon that clings to the back of my tongue.
The spiced yogurt is thick and tangy, seeping into every tender shred.
And the dhokla is just the right kind of sour to cut through the richness.
Nothing burned. Nothing broke. Nothing buckled under the pressure.
It’s balanced. Bold. Beautiful.
It’s perfect.
Before the meal is done, we finish the wine, getting lost in easy conversation.
“Let’s say this was our second date…” I start, feeling the liquid courage in my veins. “What date do you normally…you know?”
My question is met with blank stares.
“You know…stay over. Take things to the next level. Jesus, sex. I mean what date do you normally have sex?”
My cheeks are on fire with embarrassment as they both fight their smiles.
“Oh, I knew what you meant,” Archer replies, placing his hand on mine. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”
“You jerk,” I argue, tossing my napkin at his head.
“To answer your question,” he says, “I don’t really have a rule. Sometimes it was the first date. On occasions, it was the third or fourth.”
“Oh my God, Archer Wilde. Are you…a gentleman?” I tease.
He feigns offense, placing a hand on his chest. “Excuse you. Of course I am.”
“And what about you?” I ask, looking at Julian. “Are you a gentleman too?”
Sitting at the opposite end of the table with a menacing sort of look on his face, he licks his bottom lip and maintains that deadly expression. After a few moments without responding, I wonder if this question somehow offended him.
Finally, he runs his finger along the rim of his glass as he quietly mumbles, “I’ve never been on a date.”
The room grows quiet. The Nina Simone record has come to an end, and both Archer and I stare at Julian, trying to gauge why on earth this is so heartbreaking.
“Never?” I ask.
There’s an edge of something bitter and acidic in his ministrations that leads me to believe Julian wants to lash out. Maybe in any other circumstance, he would. But with us…he holds back.
“Dating is for people who want to be in relationships. I’ve never wanted one. So I never dated.”
His answer is plain and straightforward enough that it actually makes sense. But I still have so many questions.
“And what about…sex?”
Thanks, wine.
“The wall, remember?” he says, touching his wineglass to mine.
“That’s it? There must be other times.”
On a heavy sigh, Julian shrugs. “I have hooked up with people before. People I’ve…paid, from time to time.” He glances at our faces to gauge our reaction this, as if we’d ever judge him. When neither of us react, he continues. “But for the most part, I prefer as little commitment as possible.”
“No intimacy,” I add, touching my fingers to my lips.
His brow furrows as he leans closer. “There’s so much intimacy.”
“How?” I ask.
He gestures between us. “Do you think what we’re doing right now is intimate?”
“A little, I guess.”
“Getting to know someone is great and all, but the real intimacy is in that moment when everything else in the room just fades away. When you both accept that you want the same things, no formalities. No meaningless banter. Just bodies and trust and pleasure. It’s what true connection feels like.”
I swallow the lump building in my throat. “And do you?” I ask, my words just above a whisper. “Do you feel connected to them?”
Julian leans back, looking slightly unsettled. “More than I feel connected to anyone else.”
This lump in my throat feels like sadness. Jealousy. Regret. This is how Julian experiences closeness with people? Screwing strangers in the dark corners of the club.