Chapter 7 #3
It's not identical to hers. The figs are cut differently, halved instead of quartered the way she did it. The lavender is a touch less prominent than Grand-mère's version, more subtle, just a hint on the finish. The crust is maybe a little thicker, more rustic.
But the heart and soul of it are the same, the essence is there, and the memory wraps around me like arms pulling me close, like her kitchen on a summer afternoon with the windows open and the breeze coming through, like being nine years old and barefoot and loved without conditions or expectations or the constant weight of not being quite good enough.
My eyes start watering behind the blindfold.
"Alex..." I pull the towel down and he's standing right there, close enough to touch, smiling at me. Not the cocky grin, not the flirtatious smirk he uses when he's trying to get a rise out of me. A soft, earnest smile that makes my chest ache.
"Told you it was a surprise," he says softly.
"You said your grandmother gave you your love of cooking, that she made you feel like food could be magic.
So I thought, as a night-before-opening present, I'd try my hand at it.
" He gestures behind him. "I was actually going to give it to you in the morning, but since you're here. "
I look past him at the galette on the counter.
It's beautiful, a small wedge already cut, the figs glistening with caramelized honey, the cast-iron pan it was baked in still warm.
It's not her galette, but it's his version of it, made with her memory in mind, and no one has ever done anything this thoughtful for me.
Not my father with all his money and his connections and his carefully mapped-out life. Not any boyfriend I've ever had. This man listened to a story I told him eight hours ago about my grandmother's fig tree, and then he went into a kitchen at midnight and made it for me.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice comes out small. "I… I don't know what to say. Just… thank you."
"Of course." He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "So what did you feel when you tasted it?"
I close my eyes, letting the taste and the smell wash over me again.
"Summer. My grandmother's hands covered in flour.
The sound of cicadas in the garden outside her kitchen.
Feeling safe, and excited, and like everything in the world was exactly where it was supposed to be.
" I open my eyes and look at him. "Like I could do anything and it would be okay. "
"Well, I think you're right about that. I haven't known you long, but you seem capable of anything. And I think tomorrow will be okay." He smiles at me.
We sit there for a moment in the warm kitchen, the galette between us and the vineyard dark outside the windows. The silence isn't uncomfortable. It's the opposite, actually. It feels like we're in a bubble, separate from everything waiting for me tomorrow.
Then the idea hits me, bold and reckless and probably stupid, but I don't care.
"Okay, your turn." I pick up the towel and hold it out to him, a challenge in my eyes. "Blindfold on. My turn to lead this little exercise."
He laughs, shaking his head but already reaching for the towel. "Oh man. One tasting and you think you can run the whole operation."
"I absolutely can run the whole operation."
"It's a very delicate art, you know." He takes the towel from me, grinning. "Years of training. Can't just hand it over to anyone."
"Shut up, Alex. Put the blindfold on."
He ties it around his eyes, still smiling, and sits down on the stool right next to mine, close enough that our knees are almost touching.
He's facing me now, his hands resting on his thighs, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest through his t-shirt.
His hair is messy from running his hands through it and he looks relaxed and open and completely at my mercy.
My heart is beating faster than it should be, harder than it should be, and I know what I'm about to do is probably a terrible idea but I don't care.
I don't know if what I'm about to do is crossing a line we can't uncross or not, but it's too late because my body has already decided, has been deciding all week every time he smiles at me or teases me or looks at me like I'm the only person in the room.
I lean forward and kiss him.
His lips are warm and soft and there's a moment of surprise where he goes completely still, frozen, and then his hands are on my waist, pulling me forward off my stool and against him.
I make a sound against his mouth, something between a gasp and a sigh, and his lips part and my tongue finds his and he tastes like honey and figs and everything I've been trying not to think about for a week.
One of his hands slides up from my waist to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek, then his fingers thread into my hair and he tilts my head and kisses me deeper.
I grip the front of his t-shirt with both hands because I need to hold onto something or I am going to fall right off this stool and onto the floor.
He reaches up and pulls the blindfold off with one hand, and for a second we just look at each other, breathing hard, his eyes dark and searching mine like he's asking a question he already knows the answer to.
Then his mouth is back on mine, his hand spread flat against my lower back, pulling me closer. I sink into him and the heat radiating off his body is so intense he might as well be on fire and I am more than happy to burn up with him.
I grip his arms, his shoulders, anything solid I can find.
He's still sitting on the stool but he pulls me flush against him so I'm standing between his legs and his hands are on my hips, my waist, sliding up my back under my sweater.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, then down to my neck, and I tilt my head back and make a sound I don't recognize.
His hand slides lower, gripping my hip, his fingers digging in, and I want him to take me right here on this counter. I want to forget about the stress and the critics and my father and just let Alex make everything disappear.
But reality crashes through the haze like cold water, and I hear my father's voice in my head—You should be in New York right now—and I see his Seattle deal, and I see tomorrow's opening night, and I realize what a catastrophically terrible idea this is.
I pull back, stumbling off the stool and nearly knocking it over in my haste to put distance between us. "I can’t!"
He stares at me, both of us breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than before.
"I shouldn't have done that." The words tumble out in a rush while I back up and hit another stool, making it scrape against the floor. "My father would kill you, and tomorrow is opening night, and this is so unprofessional, and I don't even know what I was thinking—"
He stands up, concern written all over his face. "Isabelle, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—"
"No, it wasn't you." I hold up a hand to stop him from coming closer because if he touches me again I'm going to lose whatever shred of resolve I have left. "It was me. I kissed you. This is my fault. And I have to go."
I turn and push through the kitchen door and run back to my cottage as fast as I can, my heart slamming against my ribs. I don't even care about the vineyard or the aliens or the dark rows stretching out on either side of me.
Because there is nothing in that vineyard scarier than what just happened in that kitchen.
Nothing is scarier than how much I wanted that.