Chapter 25 Spit It Out
Spit It Out
Jack
I dip a spoon into a plastic container of vinaigrette and stick it in my mouth. I make a face as I swallow. Too strong. Bitter.
It needs way more fat—olive oil, in this case—but even then, this doesn’t taste like a winner. I dump it in the garbage.
“Hey, you didn’t let me try,” Poppy protests.
“No need.”
“You’re the one who told me to develop my palate.”
I spare a glance at her, curled up on the armchair from the kitchen office, sparkly pink pen in hand as she scribbles notes.
We’ve been at it for hours and haven’t made much progress. My idea for the snapper was bland. The black garlic I tried out
with duck overwhelmed everything else. These ovens are too inconsistent to attempt a soufflé, something we learned the hard
way. The starfruit-cherry pork was halfway decent, but it needs editing before it’s ready to go on a menu. As of now, Poppy’s
idea for foil-packet fish, which we plan to do with grilled asparagus and thin, crispy fried potatoes, is the only thing ready
for Fable’s opening.
“How much champagne vinegar did you put in there?” I ask. “It should be a delicate flavor.”
“Half a cup.”
“Half a cup?” I scowl at her. “No wonder it tasted like crap. I wrote down a quarter.”
“Your handwriting is incomprehensible,” she says, sitting straighter in the chair. “A monkey would have better penmanship.”
“And yours is pink. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You sound like my high school teachers,” she grumbles. “I told you a million times, it gives everything a fun flair.”
I sigh. “We’re not painting the bar pink.”
“Despite the retro Palm Beach vibes it would bring?” I don’t answer, because she does have a point—sort of. She smiles. She
won the argument over the restaurant’s branding, and I’m loath to admit it, but it looks great, especially on the website.
A tropical storybook of blues with hints of yellow and pink, ready to welcome you in. “Exactly. We’re tabling the discussion
for now.”
“I still don’t recall giving you free rein in the dining room.”
“So? You’re just going to sell the place anyway.”
“It’s the first restaurant I’m heading up myself. It needs to feel right.”
“Someone will be willing to pay a ton for this waterfront, and then it won’t matter.” I might be mistaken, but she sounds
a little sad about that prospect. “It’ll probably turn into a chain restaurant.”
A pang goes through me. That’s very likely, and not something I want to think about. Sal would hate the idea. But my future
isn’t here, and there’s no use in pretending. It’s not like Poppy will be sticking around, either.
She hops off the chair. “So, we’re scrapping this completely?”
“Yeah. Let’s go back to the beginning.” I drum my fingertips on the counter, thinking through our remaining ingredients. “Mince
some shallot for me, will you?”
If she’s exhausted from running around prepping ingredients for me and taking notes, she doesn’t show it. She just reties
her apron and picks up the chef’s knife she’s claimed as her own. It’s the same one I brandished at her when she was hiding
from the cockroach.
Maybe I should have left it with her at the apartment instead of moving her into the houseboat.
The mere thought has me on edge. We’ve fallen into a routine, this past week, and no matter how I pretend to protest, I like it.
When we go back to the houseboat, we’ll eat together at the small drop-down table.
We’ll brush past each other on the way to the bathroom.
We’ll say goodnight before I go above-deck to sleep.
All while she’s in another slinky nightgown, her hair loose and golden.
It feels good to have her so close. To know she’s safe. Not from stupid little cockroaches, obviously, but from other, genuinely
scary things.
“Why are you staring?” she says as she cuts into the shallot. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Your technique is great. I was just thinking over some other vinaigrette possibilities.”
She beams. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”
“You’ve been improving.”
I mean it. She’s proven tougher than a lot of people who come into kitchen environments, expecting things to be smooth sailing.
Worst of all are the culinary school grads who think they know everything, questioning the chef and constantly pitching bad
ideas for specials.
We try out the vinaigrette three more ways. The first is too sweet. The second, an awful, confusingly spicy combination that
has us reaching for water immediately.
“Last chance for tonight,” I say as I finish whisking the third one, emulsifying the oil with the vinegar. Poppy suggested
sherry vinegar to go along with the stronger, stone-ground mustard we used this round. I have my mind set on champagne vinegar,
but you never know. “Fingers crossed it doesn’t suck.”
I coat a spoon, passing it to her first. She licks it without taking the spoon from my hand. Her eyes flutter shut. My nape
warms at the reminder of earlier today at the Greenmarket, relishing the brush of my fingertips against her supple lips. The
way her hand settled on my knee, squeezing with tantalizing pressure. I’d successfully shut it out of my mind, but now the
rush of desire comes back full force. I had to stop myself from lurching forward and kissing her.
And good thing I did, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that a woman like Poppy wouldn’t work with a man like me.
I tried that once with Jessica, and the result was humiliating. Sure, I brush shoulders with high-paying, high-class clientele.
That doesn’t put me in their league.
“How is it?” I ask.
“Taste it.” She reaches for her notebook, scribbling something down with that distracting pink pen. A tendril of hair, loose
from her customary braid, falls over her face. I nearly tuck it behind her ear. She doesn’t notice, fortunately; one slip-up
in a day is more than enough. “I actually think I’m onto something here.”
I stick the spoon in my mouth. The slight sweetness of the sherry vinegar hits my taste buds first, always a pleasant sensation.
The flavor profile expands, however, as I sink into the silkiness of the olive oil and the sharp grain of the mustard. A hint
of shallot. A generous hit of salt and pepper. Honey, instead of a pinch of sugar, and fennel seed, an unexpected note lingering
at the end.
It needs tweaks—I can already picture them in my mind—but it’s much better than any of our other attempts. Poppy bounces on
her heels, clearly pleased with herself.
“So?”
“You already know the answer.”
“But I want to hear you say it.”
I’ve always admired the honesty of kitchens. No one tiptoes around anything. If something isn’t cooked properly, it’s brought
to that chef’s attention. If someone’s technique is wrong, they practice until they get better. Communication is paramount,
because without it, we’d be scrambling to put out different fires, and no one would get fed.
“This is the direction we’re going in.” I tap the edge of the plastic container with the used spoon. “Write down the measurements.”
“Already have.”
“I have tweaks in mind, but I’ll mull them over first. We should clean up, anyway.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No sarcasm?”
“I’m shocked too,” she teases, one shoulder lifting in a shrug.
I tested her earlier with that aged gouda, curious about what she would taste and how she’d describe it.
She sounded thoughtful, and downright clever.
A budding chef. I wonder what she’d say if I told her that.
Despite her enthusiasm, this is a brief interlude for her.
A push for independence. As soon as she realizes how much she misses the world she came from, she’ll be gone.
The sight of her in this kitchen, in my bed on the houseboat—it’s all temporary.
I can’t forget that.
And yet I also can’t stop staring at her as she bends over the sink, tackling the dirty dishes. She’s humming to herself,
her braid dangling over her shoulder.
Weeks of seeing that braid every day, and I haven’t gotten over the urge to tug on it.
Preferably while kissing her speechless.
I’m not the man for her, and she’s not the woman for me, yet my body doesn’t give a damn. It wants to press against her, my
rapidly stiffening cock fitting against the curve of her backside. It wants me to devour her mouth, licking up every remnant
of the food we tried. It wants to nibble on her delicate neck and earlobes and everywhere else as I breathe her in.
She catches my eye over her shoulder. “Hey, have you looked for staff yet?”
“What?”
“Staff,” she says, going back to the scrubbing. “You told me you’re handling it, but no one has even come in for an interview,
and it’s not like you and Herman can just . . .” She trails off, blinking as I sidle to the sink. “Hartman? You’ve got those
dead fish eyes again.”
One kiss. One kiss, and I’ll get this awful, unwanted desire out of my system. She’ll probably slap me after.
That shouldn’t make my cock throb, but fuck, it does.
I lunge forward, pressing my lips against hers with every bit of the feverish desire pumping through me.
She nearly falls backward into the sink, but I catch her in time.
Instead, mixing bowls and plates and measuring cups crash into the basin in a cascade.
I steady myself with a soapy hand, then wrap it around her braid, tugging so we’re kissing so deeply, our teeth catch.
I nip her bottom lip and she moans. It jolts her into action; she kisses back, arms flung around my neck.
It’s a fucking mess, harsh and bruising, but I can’t bring myself to cut it short.
Not with her body pressed against mine, warm and so, so soft.
Not as her fingers skate into my hair to tug on the ends.
I’m an animal, going on instinct, my body begging for more.
I devour her until my lungs are screaming, and by some miracle, she doesn’t pull away.
When we finally come up for air, she stares, her gorgeous lips swollen, a bit of soap on her cheek. Her eyes are wide, blue
as sapphires. She wipes her hands on her apron.
“Jack,” she whispers.
I tug her into my arms again. Breathe in the rosemary and mint smell of her, underneath the soap, and nuzzle a spot by her
ear. Her breath hitches. She presses close enough I can feel her racing heart. She feels right, held against me. Soft. Beautiful.
I’ve never had a moment like this with a woman, so charged that a first kiss has me aching for release. Her fingertips stroke
over my beard. Her breath ghosts over my lips. Sparks of heat rush through me, each one coaxing the fire in my belly, my groin.
I lean in the rest of the way, kissing her slowly this time. Taking my time, as if she’s a vintage wine I’m lucky enough to
taste. I wonder if she can feel my heartbeat, too. My arousal, straining against my jeans. She slides her fingers down, tracing
over the tentacle at my throat. I swallow against her fingertips, shuddering.
She tears away with a sharp gasp.
It shatters the spell. Reality crashes in, cold and unshakable. We might be exiled here together, but we’re not meant for
each other. The way my last and only relationship crashed and burned should be proof enough. Not to mention the fact that
I’m playing boss in this whole endeavor, and she’s still getting over a breakup.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have . . .” I swallow, looking anywhere but her, and back away. My body protests, drawn to her like a magnet.
“This was a mistake. I’ll, uh—I’ll get us some dinner.”
I could use a run, frankly. Get the blood rushing in my ears so I can’t think. Strip away the restless energy that wants to
lick into her mouth and tug off her clothes and touch her, smell her, taste her. Learn her, inside and out.
She turns back to the sink, sorting through the mess I made. “Fine.”
I can’t tell if she sounds relieved or upset.
Before I succumb to the urge to kiss her again, I flee.