Chapter 24 Notes of Caramel
Notes of Caramel
Poppy
Jack rolls over in bed, pressing against my back. His hard, generous length rubs along my bottom, just barely contained by
his sweats. He kisses my neck, then sucks on my earlobe, one hand wandering to my breasts while the other slips between my
legs. He cups my pussy like he owns it, the heel of his hand grinding just above my clit.
“Jack,” I whine. I rub my face against the pillow. He huffs out a laugh as he continues to tease me, a finger slipping into
my core and crooking at an angle that makes me pant. I push back against him, shamelessly seeking more friction. He’s big
and solid in all the right ways, and I want his weight pressing me into the mattress until I can’t think.
“Poppy,” he replies with amusement.
“I need—”
“I know what you need.” His teeth graze my neck, nipping the sensitive skin. I clench around that lone finger until he adds
another, breath hitching. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man. Not Ryan; he didn’t come close to the way Jack is
working me over. Playing my body like it’s an instrument he invented himself.
I abruptly roll over. We kiss, hard enough it’s a clash of teeth and spit.
He stuffs two fingers into me, his thumb teasing my clit.
I’m riding his hand, and he’s smiling against my mouth, his pine-scented beard scratching my jaw.
I drag my nails down his bare chest, that collage of tattoos, and dig in.
I want to make my mark on him as well. Leave an imprint for him to remember later.
“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice more tender than I’ve ever heard it. I clench around his fingers so tightly he groans. “Just
like this. Now, sweet girl.”
I wake with a start.
The smell of sea air fills my nose. I squint in the darkness. My core is throbbing, on the edge of release and needing just
a little bit more. I inch my hand down my panties, making a face at the wetness coating my fingers.
I had a sex dream.
A sex dream about Jack Hartman.
In his bed.
At least he isn’t down here. He has no idea that I was just dreaming of him touching me. Praising me. If I didn’t wake up,
I’m sure dream-me would have ridden dream-Jack’s cock. I wonder if I said anything aloud. Thank god he wasn’t here for it.
I’d be mortified beyond belief.
I scrub my clean hand down my face. It’s impossible, anyway. Jack would never praise me like that. He’d never call me sweet girl. It’s impossible not to notice the begrudging heat coming from him when he looks at me, but nothing will ever happen. Period.
End of story.
And even if it did, real sex has never come close to my fantasies. Without fail, I get in my own head, too focused on whether
I’m doing it properly. Being sexy without being needy. Loud, but demure. Pretty enough, generous enough. When my influencer
career took off, it became impossible to find a guy to hook up with who wasn’t already aware of how I looked and presented
myself online and expected the curated version of me once we were together.
The first time I slept with Ryan, he told me he thought I’d be more of a freak in bed because I had no problem baring my body
online. I still don’t know whether he intended it as an insult or a compliment. Either way, after that I struggled to stay
in the moment every time we were intimate, worrying that I was letting him down.
I don’t want to find out what Jack would expect, only to inevitably disappoint him.
I stand, rearranging my nightgown. It’s warm, but I wrap myself in a blanket after I use the bathroom. I inch up the steps
to the deck, tensing at the way they creak. Jack is asleep on the bow, the same way he’s been all week, an arm flung over
his eyes. He’s stripped down to a pair of boxer briefs that cling in all the right places. Even in the middle of the night,
the heat in the air lingers.
I wet my lips as I stare at him. He looks like a statue carved from marble, hard and lean and decorated with beautiful swirls
of ink.
I wonder what kind of women he goes for. Has he had sex since he came back to Florida? Would he have gone out for a drink
tonight and brought someone back to this houseboat if I wasn’t living with him?
He turns over with a groan. I scurry below deck before he notices me.
It’s suspiciously easy to fall asleep again, with the sheets smelling like him.
I hurry alongside Jack as he weaves through the West Palm Beach Greenmarket, trying to keep up with his purposeful strides
while texting Julia. I didn’t mention the dream—for obvious reasons—but the fact I’ve been shacking up with Jack is definitely
newsworthy.
Me: Thanksgiving can’t come soon enough
Julia: You don’t really think that
Me: Ugh
Julia: You’re enjoying yourself, I can tell. I’ve been watching the Fable updates. Love the website design!
Me: I had to fight for those pink accents. Totally worth it
Me: But I’m still convinced this ends in a double murder
Julia: No way. You like him
Me: Take that back
Julia: And he likes you
Me: What
Me: Jules, no
Julia: The way he looked at you on that island? I mean, come on
Me: I told him to smile for the camera
Julia: If you say so
Julia: Mom and Dad miss you
Julia: How long are you going to dodge their calls?
Just as I thought, the video of him fishing—shirtless, as requested—made the rounds on social media.
He’s becoming a celebrity chef against his will.
Our followers aren’t just potential patrons; big players in the food media space have taken notice.
My eyes nearly fell out of my head when I noticed that Gordon Ramsay started following us.
We’re in a perfect position to announce the pop-up.
“Poppy,” Jack says, his voice scattering my thoughts. “I thought you said you wanted menu input.”
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “What? Yeah.”
“So pay attention to what I’m saying.”
“Sorry.”
“Who are you texting? Kiara? Chester?”
“Not everything is about you.” I roll my eyes. “I had a life before this, you know.”
He scowls. “Try this.”
We’re standing in front of a produce stand. There’s a husband-and-wife team behind the table, wearing matching aprons and
smiling as they sell tourists and locals alike on their fruits and vegetables. Jack picks up a paper tasting cup with a sliver
of something yellow inside.
“You’re not trying to poison me, are you?” I eye the cup. “You know my secret now.”
“Just try it.”
I take the cup. “What is it?”
“Starfruit.” He scrubs his hand over his nape. “They don’t have pineapple at this stand. No cross-contamination.”
My belly does a happy flop at his words. He’s so serious, and it’s nice to see him be serious when it comes to me. Well, when
it comes to keeping me alive, at least. I pick up the piece of starfruit—which I now notice does look like a star, with translucent
yellow flesh—and put it in my mouth.
Sweetness bursts on my tongue. “Wow.”
“They’re perfect when they’re ripe.”
“It’s delicious.”
“I want us to think of a way we can use it,” he says, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. He pulls a pencil out from
behind his ear, licking the tip before writing. “Maybe candied as a dessert garnish. Or as an element of sweetness in a sauce.
We could do a pork chop with starfruit and cherries.”
“Or we could put it in a salsa,” I offer. “Maybe over blackened fish?”
He taps the notebook with the pencil. “Delicious. Let’s get a few pounds and experiment.”
“Restauranteurs?” the woman asks as she weighs the starfruit for us.
Jack hands her cash. “Sort of.”
“He’s being modest,” I say, nudging his side. “We’re opening a restaurant up in Diamond Bay soon, right on the water. It’s called Fable.”
“The old Sailfish spot?” she says.
“Yeah,” Jack says, a wary note in his voice.
The woman smiles sadly; she pats Jack’s arm. “I was so sorry to hear of Sal’s death.” She adds a few more starfruit to our
bag. “You do right by him.”
“I’m trying.” Jack smiles, but it’s stiff.
“She seemed nice,” I say, as we amble to another booth.
“Last time I came here, it was with Sal.” He shakes his head slightly. “Doesn’t look that different.”
After an hour of walking around the Greenmarket, it’s obvious that Sal knew most of the vendors, and by extension, many of
them remember Jack, too. Jack braces himself each time he’s offered a hello or an extra sample, as if expecting to be reprimanded,
but that never happens. A baker who knew Sal comes around his table to hug him—I smile at the bewildered look on Jack’s face—as
his husband presses a free loaf of walnut-cranberry sourdough into my hands. A local distiller insists upon handing off a
bottle of gin to us; we promise to get in touch about stocking it behind the bar at Fable. The cooler bags Jack brought along
grow heavy with ingredients, each one representing a new dish for him to work on.
He wants fresh pasta on the menu. Seafood stew. Korean barbecue inspired steak, seared tuna, a vegan dinner salad filled with
roasted vegetables, topped with tahini and lemon. I start taking notes after a while, typing way faster on my phone than he
can manage writing in that little book. The sun beats down on us both. My body zings with electricity every time we accidentally
touch. I steadfastly ignore both. This is the most we’ve spoken about the menu at one time, and I don’t want to mess up his
flow, especially with how animated it’s gotten him. There’s passion in every word, and I’m addicted to the way his eyes shine
with each new idea.
“Let me do the prep later,” I suggest, voice hesitant, when we finally settle underneath an enormous tree by the water to enjoy some of our spoils.
The air smells hot and salty, and I’m grateful for the shade of the leafy canopy.
We have a bag of street tacos filled with shredded chicken and slaw, wrapped tightly in foil, plus freshly made Italian sodas.
“I can get the mise en place set up and take notes while you cook.”
He unwraps a taco. His eyes shut at the first bite. He chews slowly, as if picking out each spice on his tongue. I bet if
I asked him to list all the ingredients, he’d be able to. I wish I had that talent. I wish I could look at a table of random
produce and see dozens of menu options.
“It’s going to be a long night,” he warns eventually.
“Good thing we’re heading to the same place after.”
His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Most of the recipes will be shit.”
“I want to learn how you do it.” I unwrap my own taco. “How you put together flavor combinations, I mean. How you decide how
much acid to add to a sauce, and how much fat to round out a dish.”
He studies me. “Yeah?”
I take a sip of the grapefruit-flavored soda, relishing the burst of carbonation. “Yeah. Things are different now.”
“Different,” he repeats.
“When we started this, you said I could earn the chef title. I want to. Earn it.”
A bit of juice sneaks out of the taco, running down my hand. I lick it clean. Jack stares, his gaze practically burning a
hole through me. He shakes his head slightly. He reaches into one of the bags at our feet, taking out a small, paper-wrapped
package, and works it open with one hand.
“Take a sip of your drink.”
There’s a curious note in his voice, so I listen without protesting. He holds out something between his fingers. When I reach
out to take it, he shakes his head again. My breath stutters. I sway closer, and so does he.
Our eyes catch, blue on green. His fingertips brush my lips as he feeds me the small morsel. He caresses my bottom lip with
his thumb before easing away.
The small gesture freezes me so thoroughly, I don’t remember that I have something in my mouth until my taste buds are overcome
with flavor. It’s cheese. Nutty, rich, and yet like silk in my mouth. He watches as I swallow, those irreverent eyes shaded
by the tree’s branches.
We’re close enough that it’d take no effort at all to touch. No effort to kiss, our mouths messy with flavor.
“Good?” he asks roughly.
I nod, mesmerized by the way he’s looking at me. I can’t manage to get my lungs to work, much less my voice. There’s a raw,
almost carnal edge to his expression. I feel stripped down, even though we’re in public. The banyan canopy might as well be
a curtain. We’re ensconced in our own little world, quiet and full of possibility.
“Tell me what you taste.”
“Is this a test?”
“Close your eyes and think.”
It does feel like a test, and one I don’t want to fail. I close my eyes. His fingertips tap against my lips. He places another
sliver of cheese on my tongue.
This time, I let it melt intentionally. My focus narrows to this one point. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense his nearness.
I scoot a little closer, my hand squeezing his knee. I want to please him. I’m desperate to ace this test.
“Caramel,” I finally say. I’m surprised by my own answer, but it’s the truth. “It’s like toasted caramel.”
“Clever girl.”
My eyes startle open. He’s grinning, perfectly relaxed, as if he didn’t just rock my world sideways. He tucks a wayward lock
of hair behind my ear. My fingertips dig into his knee as I shiver, despite the humidity. I manage to jerk myself away from
him, as far on the other end of the bench as it allows.
“I guess we’re cooking tonight, Winfield.”
My breath catches. I squirm, fighting the urge to throw myself into his arms, as excitement tumbles through me. “Yes, Chef.”