CHAPTER 19
Honestly, she probably didn’t need to call Hudson.
She was currently snuggled up with Noodle on her couch, looking at a messy sprawl of sticky notes that she’d scattered over the surface of her coffee table, still unable to figure out how to write the stuff that wasn’t just ingredients and instructions, much less in Sexy Chef Sam’s voice. It really would help for her to talk to the guy, even for an hour, to figure out the personal touch that separated a recipe from what readers expected these days. While so many people were trained to “jump to recipe” on a blog post, she knew that if readers or home cooks were shelling out money for big glossy cookbooks, they needed more than ... well, any recipe they could jump to in a blog, quite frankly. They were buying the personality.
Of course, she’d been out of the game. For all she knew, she could make it like a calendar, just having sexy photos of him holding up “two eggs” or “a half cup of milk” with his tongue out, and it’d sell. She giggled at the thought, even as she internally hoped it was a joke.
She’d kind of figured out some possible recipes, some adapted from Sam’s videos, some she’d played with herself in the past or worked with at various pop-ups. She knew that Vanessa technically just wanted a finished product and that—hopefully—they weren’t expecting a whole lot out of this. But this was still her entry point, and she had too much pride in her work to make just a collection of clichéd Valentine’s Day recipes. She needed to create food that was sensual—and, yes, sexual—as well as appealing.
So despite having the recipes, she had to, essentially, sexy up her current potential list. She was so very, very tired—and, for the most part, still felt unsexy.
Unless you’re around Hudson.
Yesterday’s barbecue, with her brief but memorable foray into the world of marijuana, was the first time she’d felt relaxed in longer than she could remember, and she didn’t regret it. She’d eaten the whole cookie because she’d been intrigued: the grassy taste wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was hardly nuanced, and she felt like she could adjust it. When was the last time she’d felt like playing with food just for the hell of it? Just experimenting out of sheer joy?
It was like when your arm fell asleep and you worked on waking it up—it felt great to get the sensation back, but it also stung like crazy. What she did regret: letting Hudson see her so vulnerable, and worse, blurting out things that really, really did not need to be said. Not that she didn’t trust him, although she didn’t know exactly why she did trust him. But she’d let things spill with him that she hadn’t even told Nat, and Nat was one of her best friends.
She couldn’t believe she’d told him about Steven.
She couldn’t believe she’d told him the details about the cookbook project.
And she really, really couldn’t believe she’d told him about her hopelessness, her numbness.
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Rather than withdrawing from her, being judgy or critical ... he’d kept an eye on her while she slept (or rather, given up his own bed to sleep in his kid’s room, while still making sure she was all right) and then brought her breakfast in bed.
Yet another thing on her “I can’t remember the last time ...” list. Much as she’d loved Steven, the guy had never, ever brought her breakfast in bed. It wasn’t their relationship dynamic. She had no doubt that he’d loved her as well. But she’d also known that he loved the spotlight, loved living life in the biggest, brightest, most exuberant way possible.
She also knew, deep down, that Steven lived like that because his doctors had told him at a young age that there wasn’t a cure and that as he got older, it would only get harder. That he’d die too soon, and that his life, by necessity, had to be limited, or it’d be even shorter.
Steven, being Steven, had said Fuck that . He’d chosen the path with no limits every chance that he got, and she’d been his willing companion.
Hudson wasn’t like that.
She wasn’t sure what that meant, or why she noticed. Or why she really liked spending time with him ... or what to do with that knowledge.
In a repeat of their first meeting, she startled when he knocked as Noodle leaped for the door, barking his head off. She shushed him as she opened it, watching with a smile she couldn’t stop as Noodle cavorted around Hudson.
She didn’t stop smiling when Hudson looked at her with a warm, affectionate expression either.
“I’m not sure how he keeps getting in,” she said with a note of apology, even though she was glad that he was there.
She followed Hudson as he went out to the garage, checking out where Noodle’s point of entry might be. There was so much stuff, haphazardly stacked and completely unsorted, that she didn’t even park her car in there ... which, she imagined, might be a problem come winter, if there was any kind of snow.
“Does it snow here?” she asked, as Hudson rummaged around.
“Sometimes. More, lately, and worse than it used to. But don’t worry: I’ve got a plow attachment on my truck. I’ll make sure that you aren’t stuck. And if the power goes out, we’ve got a good generator, the wood-burning stove in the main house kicks ass, and we have a bank of batteries with the solar panels from the barn.” He looked over his shoulder at her and winked. “You can always crash with us if you need to.”
Again, that consideration was making her melt. Among other things. She cleared her throat. “Thanks. I’ve got a fireplace, but ...”
She stopped abruptly as he moved some boxes out of the way and then crouched, his head going out of sight—but his ass suddenly presented in front of her, a perfect bubble butt. And she wouldn’t even have considered herself a butt person.
She swallowed hard. Respectfully, that thing is a work of art. God. Damn.
She coughed, mentally slapping herself. Seriously, she was almost fifty, for God’s sake. Not a teenager!
“... um, but I didn’t, ah, know how to light it,” she finished. “Since it’s summer, it’s not like there’s a need. I’ll figure it out in the fall, I guess.”
“I’ll make sure that the flue’s clear and that you know how before winter,” he promised, his words dampened by the detritus around him. “Okay, I think I see where the guy’s getting in.”
“Oh?” She walked over, craning her head to look. While the stuff obscuring her view meant the light was dim, she saw it: rotten boards that had somehow been torn out.
“He’s lucky he didn’t get cut or scratch himself,” Hudson said, and she immediately felt concerned. “I’m going to board this up.”
“Yes,” she agreed, worried. She loved Noodle, and the last thing she wanted was for him to get hurt, even if she would miss his visits.
“I’m going to see if there’s anything in here I can use, if that’s okay?” he asked. “Otherwise, I’ve got some plywood scraps in the truck.”
“Whatever you need,” she said. She stood there for a second, watching as he looked around, until he glanced over at her and she realized she was just literally watching him. She wasn’t helping. If anything, she was just sort of hanging out like, again, an attention-starved teen. “I’ll just go back to the living room!”
She sounded like a hamster squeaking, so she rushed back into the house before she could humiliate herself further.
Back to work, back to work. Even the punch of stress was worth it ... almost comforting in its familiarity. Of course, then it was just trading in one set of problems for another as she felt the clench of despair and fear.
She decided to test a few recipes, even if she wasn’t sure quite how to organize things. A list of recipes and a shitty framing mechanism was better than nothing at all. Desserts were the easiest, if the most overt. She decided chocolate with chili powder—sweet and heat. A truffle. Was it basic? Yeah. But she wasn’t exactly a font of inspiration right now.
She had just finished the ganache and was playing with the chili ratio when Hudson walked back in.
“I’ve been thinking about your problem,” he said without preamble.
“Which one?” she joked, but it came out a little brittle.
“Your cookbook.”
If her hands weren’t covered in chocolate, she’d have hidden her face. “I really wasn’t supposed to tell anybody about that,” she said.
“I promise, I’m not going to say a word,” he said, and she believed him. Then again, who was he going to tell? Nobody who would get back to her publisher. But she appreciated that he took her seriously. “But you were saying that you weren’t feeling, um, sexy. Remember?”
She knew she was blushing. You could toast a marshmallow from the heat of her face, from the feel of it. “Oh, God,” she whispered, looking at the floor.
He nudged her chin up, his eyes looking into hers. He wasn’t making fun of her. If anything, he was looking at her carefully. “I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, because you shouldn’t.” It wasn’t stern, but it was, well, firm . “I just wanted to say that maybe you’re approaching this wrong.”
“I’m having problems approaching it at all!” Her voice sounded like a wail, and she bit her lip.
His smile was warm. “The thing is, you’re thinking of it like ... well, like the guy you were talking about. All flashy, over the top, that kinda thing.”
“The man cooks without a shirt,” she pointed out. “And the bottom line is, he’s the client and I’m the ghost. I need to match his approach and his ... well, his voice, basically.”
“Yeah, but I think you might be focusing on the wrong thing,” Hudson continued.
She waited, a hair’s breadth away from irritation. Was he trying to mansplain ghostwriting cookbooks to her? If that was the case, she was going to be very, very peeved.
“Don’t laugh, but I watched a few of the guy’s videos,” he said, and her eyes widened. “I mean, he’s not my type or anything, but I saw what he was doing.”
Like you need any help being sexy! He could probably teach a master class. Of course he saw what Sexy Chef was doing!
She bit back a giggle, and his grin turned sheepish, even as his eyes twinkled with amusement. She couldn’t help but ask, “What was he doing, then?”
“Yeah, he stripped off the shirt, but that wasn’t ... look, I’m a flirt,” he said. “Not even going to pretend I’m not.”
“I have suspected,” she answered, deadpan.
“I’m not the best-looking guy, but ... okay, this sounds terrible, but I have not, erm, had difficulty ...”
“You hook up a lot.” He squirmed, and she knew she shouldn’t, but somehow she sadistically enjoyed his discomfort.
He rubbed the back of his neck, which was slowly turning red. “‘A lot’ is kind of ...”
“Just cut to the chase,” she teased. “Be my flirt guru. What’s he doing?”
The fact that even his cheeks were turning pink was so unexpectedly cute she could die. “It’s not his chest. It’s the smile, the wink, and the way he looks into the camera,” he finally revealed. “A guy could be a bodybuilder or look like a movie star, but if he doesn’t turn it on, boost the charm, then it’s not gonna matter.”
She frowned, momentarily distracted, then shook her head. “But that’s just going to be the photos,” she said. “What’s that got to do with my recipes?”
“You’re thinking of the sex itself,” he said, no longer embarrassed. He seemed frustrated that he couldn’t get his point across and obviously blamed himself. He took a deep breath and tried again. “It’s ... look, I have nothing against strippers.”
“Neither do I,” she agreed. “Sex work is work.”
“But it’s like hitting you with a sledgehammer,” he said. “That’s the whole point. It’s zero to sixty, then she steps off the stage. You’re trying to make these in-your-face, sledgehammer, slam-you-against-a-wall dishes, right? And you’re not feeling it, so it makes it even harder on you.”
She walked to the sink and washed her hands, mostly to hide her face as she processed what he said. He was right, of course. She was trying to write sexy and channel a kid who exuded pheromones like a fire hose blast, and it was coming out awful . Clumsy and disconnected and just ... wrong .
“So what do you think I should do?” she asked quietly, turning back to him when her hands were dried.
“I think you should go slower,” he said.
“I don’t have time to go slower,” she protested. “The book’s due by the end of summer!”
He shook his head. Then she saw him take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean ... Can I show you?”
She nodded, confused.
He then bracketed her, putting his hands on either side of her on the sink. She could feel the heat from his body, smell the spicy, woodsy scent of him. His eyes were blazing, but he was right ... it was that small, lopsided smile that mesmerized her.
“You okay?” he checked in.
She barely let out a squeak. She could hardly breathe.
He then traced his nose up the side of her throat, from her collarbone to her earlobe, before whispering in the filthiest, sexiest voice she’d ever heard in her life. “See? You don’t have to be naked to be sexy as hell.”
She held her breath, her body vibrating like a tuning fork. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, and she both feared what it might be—and craved it.
To her shock, he took a step back, nodding.
“See you tomorrow.”
Then the man had the audacity to wink before turning, whistling to Noodle, and then strolling out the door, like he hadn’t just turned her to a puddle on her kitchen floor.