Chapter 17 （The Best） Grilled Cheese #2
there’s no way I’m going back out into the blizzard.”
“You’re from Florida,” she says, an impish note in her tone. “I don’t know if I can trust your judgment when it comes to winter
weather.”
“Trust me. Owen came in half-frozen. We turned up the radiator so high, I thought it was possessed, with the noises it was
making. But anyway, I finally rustle up some cheese, bread, and a lone onion. Potato chips; we always had those around.” I
check on the onions again, nodding to myself at the look of them. They can’t be rushed, but they’ll be worth it. “Remember,
this was a competition. Owen smoked me the last few times. So, I’m like fuck it, I’m going to make the best grilled cheese
he’s ever had.”
Her lips tilt upward. “I’m guessing he liked it?”
“Loved it. We made versions of it twice a month for ages.”
“You’re really building up to this grilled cheese.” Her eyes are sparkling; she nudges her elbow against my arm. At the small
touch, I stiffen; it sends another jolt down my spine. One that settles low in my stomach. “What if I hate it?”
“Impossible.” I nod at the prep counter, sliding away so I don’t do something stupid, like tug on her bun until it unravels. “You can start putting those together. Thin layer of mayo on each side, two slices of each kind of cheese. Don’t close them yet.”
By the time the sandwiches are assembled, it’s time to deglaze the pan. I gesture for her to come over to the stove. “With
caramelized onions, you don’t want to mess with them too much. Leave the vinegar until the end to deglaze the pan. It’s where
the flavor comes from.” I hand her the wooden spatula I’ve been using. “Get up all the good, browned bits.”
As I pour in a little of the vinegar, thick and sweet, she scrapes the bottom of the pan.
“That’s it. Don’t be shy.”
Her arm jerks, nearly launching a few pieces of onion onto the stovetop. “Hartman—”
I realize how close I’m standing. Way too close for my sanity. “Sorry.” I lurch away, even as I suddenly ache to mold our
bodies together. To inch my fingers under that crop top to feel her breathe.
“Like this, Chef?” she asks, head tilting back to meet my gaze.
Fuck me. “Yeah.” I swallow, hard. “Just like that.”
When she finishes, I add a scoop of onion to each sandwich, along with a generous handful of potato chips. I put them right
on the flat top, pressing down with a spatula, and reach above for a melting dome. Poppy tracks my movements, asking questions,
soaking in my likely too-technical explanation of cheese melting points. I’m almost certain she’s humoring me, but at least
it’s keeping her from thinking about Ryan. And me from imagining the look on her face if I kissed her.
Finally, it’s time to cut each sandwich in half. She nods approvingly when she sees my precise diagonal cuts. “That’s the
way to do it.”
“The only way. Obviously.” I pass her a plate. “It might be a little hot—”
She’s already taking a bite. Her eyes slide shut as she chews. “Oh, fuck.”
“Good?”
“Shh.” She takes another bite. She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan. “I can’t even. This is ridiculous.
Amazing. Orgasmic.”
Never mind kissing. At that sound from her lips, that word, my mind shoots in ridiculous, impractical directions. What noises does she make when she’s being touched? Does she like
it fast or achingly slow? What does she taste like when she’s flushed and slick and begging?
Oblivious to my torment, she polishes off half the sandwich, leaving her lips shiny enough I want to lick them. My hand flexes
on the edge of the countertop.
“You know,” she says as she dabs her lips with a napkin, “I think this is the only time a guy has ever cooked for me.”
“Yeah?” I wonder if I sound as flayed raw as I feel. “That’s a shame.”
Her eyes look silvery in this light, framed by long lashes. “This was sweet of you.” She clears her throat. “I . . . the news
caught me off guard. But I don’t care about Ryan or who he’s with now. Really.”
“It’s okay if you do.” I have to force the words out. It’s the right thing to say.
She shakes her head. “No, really. I didn’t love him, I just . . . I liked the idea of finally hitting that milestone, you
know? I think part of me thought my family might look at me differently if I had a fiancé.”
I wonder what she’d say if she knew her father’s first thought was that she’d do something reckless. That he asked me to take care of her.
That I said yes.
I have to keep my distance. Deliberately, torturously, I shove every dirty thought about her out of my mind.
She pulls out her phone, opening Instagram. “What’s Owen’s last name?”
“Li. What are you doing?”
“Looking him up.” She glances at me, then back at her phone. “Hey, he works at a place in Fort Lauderdale. That’s not far,
right? You should go see him.” She makes a noise of approval. “Oh, wow. Whoever does his food photography is totally killing—wait. I have an idea. Don’t move.”
“An idea,” I say warily, watching as she rearranges my uneaten grilled cheese, stacking the halves and adding more potato
chips on the side. “What kind of idea?”
“This is the perfect way to introduce Fable on socials. Keep your hands there.”
She angles her phone so it’s above the prep table. The grilled cheese is in the frame, along with our hands. Mine, nicked
and tattooed, and her free one, the nails glossy, painted pale pink. She takes a series of pictures, tongue pushing against
her lips in concentration. When she hits upon one she likes, she uploads it to an app, fiddling with what looks like a bunch
of filters. All told, it takes her about ten minutes, and the image she’s left with looks magazine-worthy.
“Huh. Looks really good, Poppy.”
“I’m going to post it right now.”
“Wait,” I say, thinking of Douglas’s demand. “Are you sure this isn’t about Ryan? Because he posted something first, you need
to show him you’re moving on too?”
“We have to introduce the restaurant sometime.” She tilts her chin, as if daring me to disagree. “Give people something to
talk about. This isn’t about Ryan. It’s about us, and Fable.”
Us. Fable. I shouldn’t like the sound of that so damn much.
She posts the image, with both of us as collaborators. The mouthwatering grilled cheese in the center, framed by our hands.
There’s something secretive about it. A sneak peek; an invitation. The caption is short and sweet:
To new stories. Fable, coming soon xx