Chapter 18
Eighteen
ELI
Addie had flour on her neck.
It was right behind her ear, which was probably why no one had noticed, including her.
But I could see it, and now I couldn’t stop staring at it.
A white smudge against brown skin, almost kissed by the gold backs of her earrings.
I wanted to go over there and wipe it away with my thumb, but doing so would probably make me do something stupid.
Like cup the back of her neck in my hand and stroke my thumb along her jawline.
I wanted to see what colour her eyes would turn as I stared at her.
I wondered who would make the first move once we entered that standoff.
Green locked with brown. Whose lips would touch whose first?
Would hers be cool like the gin and tonic she was currently sucking through a straw?
Or would they have traces of the lemon that I used in the pasta dish that was sitting mostly empty in front of her?
I had ventured out of the kitchen for a reason and, funnily enough, it wasn’t so I could let a smudge of flour against a neck derail me into fantasies of kissing my flatmate.
I needed my brain to learn that just because she no longer openly hated me, it didn’t mean that we were suddenly going to run off into the sunset together.
I pivoted away from Addie’s table and went to the one with my bosses sat on it. Maybe that would clear my head.
“Eli! This chicken! I might need to steal the recipe,” Xander said when he caught sight of me. Relief like I had never felt before flooded through me. My lips turned up into a smile.
“Thank you. I might hold on to it just a little while longer so the public can try it first,” I replied.
I hoped it sounded like I was joking, but I was so emotionally and physically drained from the build-up to this one day that I had no idea if it was coming across.
Maybe I should just stop trying to be funny today. It clearly wasn’t working for me.
“I think that is very wise.” Xander patted my forearm, and I felt a flash of emotion spark through me at the gentle touch.
“Any other feedback you have would be useful. I mean, I’ll just spend the next couple of days frantically perfecting the whole menu anyway, but if you have any other notes that might make the perfectionism feel like it is directed towards something, I would be eternally grateful,” I said once I had swallowed the clump of emotions that had settled in the base of my throat.
“If you want actual, constructive feedback, then the kids’ table is where it’s at,” Darren said, pointing at Addie’s table.
“Right. Kids.” I laughed, looking at the group of thirty-somethings in a heated discussion.
“I mean, they are our kids,” Darren said with a smile. The love that he had for all the people sat at that table, even the ones that weren’t related to him, was clear. A wave of emotions crashed over me again.
I knew what it was this time, though.
Jealousy.
It had been a while since anyone had loved me that casually and deeply.
“No, no, I get it,” I said in a way that masked my inner turmoil. “I will see what they have to say.”
I took a deep breath and turned towards Addie’s table.
“I have it on good authority that if I want honest feedback, then this is the table to get it from,” I said as I approached. Addie’s eyes flicked to me quickly, and then she looked back at her sister.
“Our dads are out here making it sound like we’re Anton Ego or some shit,” Lucy said with a laugh. It forced a snort out of me. This table scared me more than a fictional, albeit scary, food critic ever could. They could end my race before I even left the start line.
“So, were they wrong?” I asked.
“No, they weren’t. But now, when we tell you that it was amazing, you’re going to think that we’re lying because they made us sound like the Big Bad,” Becky answered.
She sounded almost identical to her twin sister.
Actually, a lot about them was similar. Their voices, their mannerisms, even their outfits were coordinated.
The only obvious difference was the way that they wore their hair.
I was so thrown by their similarities that it took me a moment to register what she had said.
“Do you actually think that?” I asked. I cringed at how needy I sounded. I was a good chef. I knew that. I prided myself on that.
And yet. I needed them to like this menu.
“See! This is what I mean. Yes, we did really think that. And yes, I can speak for the whole table because we were just talking about it,” Becky answered, gesturing around to everyone who responded with various nods.
“I thought the pasta was wonderful. What was the sauce you used?” The sole man at the table said. Judging by the fact that Clara was the one leaning into him, I guessed he was Jesse. I thought Becky’s husband was supposed to be here as well, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“It was lemon, mascarpone, some cayenne pepper and then some of the oil that the chorizo was fried in,” I said.
Jesse turned to Clara and said, “I told you there was something to do with chorizo in the sauce itself.”
“You cook?” I asked, and immediately, I hoped he didn’t take my mildly surprised tone to be patronising. I did not need to burn bridges this early.
“Yeah. Everything but lasagne. That is all Clo here.”
They were in love. It was obvious in the way they co-existed.
I hated witnessing it. I wanted it. And I was resigning myself to the fact that I was never going to get it. Which was fine. It was.
I needed to shift my focus away from them.
“That’s cool. What about you, Addie, thoughts?”
Saying her name made her look at me. Sharp green eyes locked in with laser focus, and I felt a heat rise inside me.
“Honestly? The chicken was delicious. I think it would be a hit. Can’t really go wrong with it. The veggie Wellington needs something else, maybe a different herb or spice, but it’s a great dish. I’d eat the pastry for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
The pastry had nothing to do with me. “I’ll let Kayla know. Anything else?”
“Pasta was the standout dish. Again, I think that would be popular. I can’t eat white fish, but the chips were really good.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the feedback was focusing on the positives.
This was the least toxic space I had ever worked in.
But there was something about the praise that was making me uncomfortable.
Why were they being so nice about the fact that I was clearly missing an ingredient in the Wellington that was throwing off the balance of the flavour in the dish enough for it to be noticeable?
Why wasn’t I being told off for serving white fish when one of the people in charge of approving the menu didn’t even eat it? How unaccommodating was that?
I had been distantly aware that this industry had broken me, but I had no idea how badly until I started working here. How could I be unnerved by positive feedback and the lack of elevated voices telling me to do better?
“It’s a good menu, Eli,” Addie’s voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. She was still looking at me, her eyes soft.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to cry over being told I had done a good job.
I broke eye contact. “Thanks, I’ll go let Kayla know you’re ready for dessert,” I said quickly as I turned on my heels and headed back to the kitchen.
This rise in emotions was making me feel like a powder keg about to explode.
Pride that I had managed to create something good.
Anger that the career I had chosen had me suspicious of people telling me I had done a good job, and I’d just let it become the norm.
Elation that the hard part was done, now that the menu was created, because cooking was the easy part.
And ever-increasing lust directed at the woman I lived with.
I needed something to release the valve.