Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
It will have to do since Luke is downstairs waiting by the car. Taking one final look at my reflection, I think again it will have to do since the man has given me no indication of where we are going, despite me asking him more than a few times.
His answer:
LUKE
Surprises are good for you.
No. What surprises get me is pairing a fit and flared yellow sundress with functional white sneakers and thick socks.
No way am I wearing heels if I don’t know how much walking tonight will entail.
Anything over half an hour and my flat-footed feet complain, so this is what he gets.
At least my cleavage is plumped by a great- fitting bra.
Downstairs, Luke is reclined against the door of a wildly expensive luxury car, texting on his phone.
I’m reminded of how busy everything must be for him so close to the conference.
To take a few hours out to practice must mean selling our relationship to Intel is an imperative step in his merger plans.
I’ll have to treat it seriously, too. Full commitment ahead.
When he sees me approaching, Luke Abbot pockets his phone.
He is dressed in a black shirt open at the collar, and perfectly fitted trousers that are cinched with a leather belt.
Rich, gorgeous, a touch dangerous-looking.
It’s true commitment to my craft that my heart thunders in reaction as his fake fiancée.
If becoming a chef starts wearing down on me, perhaps a foray into acting would not be remiss.
He holds the passenger door open for me. “Fiancée.”
I tip my head at him. “Fiancé.”
“You are beautiful, Rita.”
“Oh. Ah, thank you. You too.”
“Shall we commence this date?”
“Let’s.”
When Luke puts the top down of the car so we can soak in the sun, I am thrilled.
My hand sticks out of the window, playing with the wind.
Having never owned a car, it strikes me how lovely it is to have the freedom to drive anywhere you want.
We encounter many roundabouts he lazily maneuvers, caught in a steady amount of traffic amongst taxi cabs, motorcycles and mopeds.
A few people gasp when they catch sight of our car.
It must be an especially rare brand, not that I would know.
I wave at a couple. They wave back.
“You haven’t changed your mind about this? Helping me? Even after last night?” asks Luke when we stop at an intersection, watching me from the corner of his eye.
“I haven’t. You left early in the morning. Couldn’t sleep?”
“I could not. It was hard.”
It . Not him. There is no reason to take his words literally, even if goosebumps break out over my arms. Uselessly, I try rubbing them away.
When we are back on the highway, Luke clicks a button and the roof of the car closes. He thinks I’m cold. I should protest, but then I’ll have to explain the reasoning behind the goosebumps.
“You still haven’t told me where we are going,” I complain.
“Patience, darling.”
Woozy warmth arrows through me. “Darling?”
His hands tighten on the wheel. “I figured if we were together, I would call you that. Is that okay?”
“Only if I can choose a name for you. How about…” I change my tone, make it higher. “…my precious?”
A laugh bursts out of him. “Nothing kills a mood like a Gollum voice.”
“Don’t kink-shame me.”
“Oh, are we discussing bedroom preferences? I didn’t realize we’d gotten comfortable enough to do that.”
“A fake fiancée should know if their significant other is into sucking toes. That information might be instrumental in making sure your deal goes through at the conference.”
“For the record, no. But if you want me to suck yours, I am available.”
“Actually, I’m partial to other sucking.”
As soon as the words are out, I’m cursing myself.
My hand reaches and clutches the little handle above my head, the one you can hold onto when a particularly vigorous turn is made.
The road in front is straight. The only sudden turn is the one I’ve set this conversation on.
I must course-correct. “Not sucking like that. Not that I don’t mind reciprocating pleasure on a partner’s body in that spot, because I do enjoy that.
I meant—my own tastes. On my own body. Um, my décolletage area—and below. I enjoy that. For suckage. On me.”
Luke stabs the button that lowers the window. Wind comes in and slaps his face. He seems to welcome it.
I’m starting to get cold, but thankfully in a few more minutes, we arrive at our destination. He parks beside an architecturally medieval building situated in the corner of a plaza. There isn’t obvious signage outside. Only a deeply green wooden door Luke walks us through.
Inside is a warmly lit restaurant front, walls done in a rustic monochromatic beige.
Wooden beams bracket the walls, forming an expanded textural grid you notice only when you step back far enough.
Red pendant lights hang above an older black woman with a stylish buzz cut who brightens when she sees us.
“Welcome. I am Verity. You are the last to arrive. Quick. Come to the kitchen. The other couples are waiting.”
What couples?
We pass through a set of swinging doors and step inside a commercial restaurant kitchen with three separate cooking stations.
Each one has a counter, stovetop, sink, and stocked pantry.
In front of each station is a small dining table set up with long tapered candles, red wine, and a spread of cheeses and sliced bread.
Already in the room are two other couples. Two young women who look to be in their thirties, and an elderly man and woman who look to be in their seventies. The couples have split up. One has taken up a spot behind the cooking station, and the other is seated at their respective dining table.
I elbow Luke. “You brought me here to cook?”
He leads me to our empty cooking station, and gestures for me to sit at the table. “Of course not. I’m learning how to cook for you.”
“That’s right,” says Verity loudly to the group. “This is a cooking class where one partner learns how to cook while the other partner drinks wine and watches them do all the work. Let us begin.”
I’ve perished and been revived. If questioned, I can now say the single sexiest thing I have witnessed is Luke Abbot putting on an apron. He doesn’t notice me goggling at him, too busy rolling up his sleeves.
Verity introduces the dish the cooking partners are going to make from scratch. My eyebrows shoot up.
“I know this isn’t a beginner pasta,” she says.
“But I think watching the non-cooker sweat a little as they try impressing you will be both sweet and charming. Don’t worry, they’ve got detailed instructions in front of them, and I’ll be walking around to help them with the recipe.
Those sitting and enjoying their wine through this experience can encourage them along, but don’t have to worry about doing any of the labor of cooking tonight. Sit back and enjoy.”
Luke pours me out a glass of wine, and another for himself. “Be gentle with me.”
“You seem nervous,” I tease. “Focus on your breathing. It will help you relax your muscles. Also, sugar and salt may look the same, but they are not.”
“I dare hope I’m not a complete imbecile.”
The women beside us gush reassuring sentiments to each other. As for the elderly couple, they are smooching ferociously as if parting for war, not for the paltry amount of distance this activity requires.
My hands fold under my chin. “Hopefully, I don’t expire after one bite.”
“The largeness of belief you have in me is unparalleled. ”
“I do believe in you. Unrelated and for no reason at all, I’m also wondering about directions to the closest medical facility.”
“Eating my food will make you feel so alive,” quips Luke.
“Doesn’t one feel a rush of adrenaline when approaching the brink of a fatal accident?”
We’re both suppressing our grins, I can tell.
“Enough dawdling,” says Verity to the group. “Cookers, please start preparing the appetizers.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I sip tasty wine and watch Luke make salad dressing from scratch. He rereads the menu several times, and measures each ingredient out twice. His eyebrows remain furrowed. It’s clear he is trying really hard.
When he starts whisking the mixture, words topple out of my mouth. “You’ve got good hands.”
He stops mid-stroke and looks at me, baffled by the compliment. Do I not usually give him any? “Not as good as yours,” he says. “They were one of the first things I noticed when I met you.”
“You mean when you ambushed me in your office over the cake I left behind?”
“You talk with your hands. Your hands are strong. Admirable.”
In retrospect, having such spectacular wine on an empty stomach makes one loose-limbed and very vocally open. A risky combination when trying to maintain professionalism with your fake fiancé.
“Did you ever think we would end up here?” I ask, soft-toned.
“Not in my dreams.”
“You don’t dream of me?”
Luke resumes whisking. “No. That specific scenario hasn’t come up yet.”
The way he has answered is strange enough for me to ask. “Do you…dream of me, otherwise?”
“I have.”
“More than once?”
“More than once.”
“I must be yelling at you,” I decide. “Or ordering you to eat cakes or spilling all your smoothies down the toilet.”
“It’s—” It’s either the wine going to my ears, or his voice has gone husky. “Not quite like that either.”
The salad dressing is complete. Very efficiently, Luke folds it over some greens. And then he comes over and serves me a portion. A napkin is laid out on my lap.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him.
“Anything for you, darling.”
Verity puts the cooking partners back to work immediately on the main course, saying that once they are done that, couples can enjoy the finished meal together.