Chapter 24 Now #3
I nod. Regardless of what Andre said, she’s right to be wary. What if Bubba gets better—or, God forbid, what if she doesn’t? Who’s to say Sebastian won’t be on the first plane back to California?
But I also know that I’m too deep into this to turn back now. I have no idea if more heartbreak is on the other side, but I have to see it through.
“I’ll be careful,” I say, not fully believing myself.
Maren’s phone buzzes. We hug once more in the headlights of her approaching Uber.
“I love you,” I say. “Message me when you land tomorrow?”
“Duh,” she says, blowing me a kiss before ducking into the car.
Back upstairs, I open my apartment door and find Sebastian at the sink, handwashing wineglasses.
I think of one shift during my first summer at the restaurant, when the ancient dishwasher finally crapped out.
Omar said he couldn’t get a technician to come until the next day, so we’d need to handwash everything.
Sebastian had gathered the staff in the kitchen and rallied us around what he called the First Annual Dishwasher Derby, complete with rules and a point system (which, I remember thinking, was unnecessarily complicated).
It turned out to be the most fun shift I worked all summer, and the Dishwasher Derby did, in fact, become an annual tradition after that.
“What are you thinking about?” Sebastian asks, rinsing the last glass. Carefully, he places it in the drying rack next to the sink.
“Dishwasher Derby,” I say, smiling. I’m still standing near the door.
He laughs, turning off the tap. “My mom says the staff still does it.” He dries his hands on a towel and turns toward me, leaning against the counter. He lowers his voice. “Anything else?”
In three slow steps I’m in front of him, close enough to see the faint shadows of water droplets on his T-shirt. I tip my head back as he tilts his down, our eyes meeting. He smells like beer and dish soap. I’m very into this combo.
Maren’s words from earlier echo in my mind. Not the warning—the part before that. If I could go back in time I’d tell those girls that the real fun would start when they stopped waiting around for something to happen and finally just went for it.
“This.” I graze Sebastian’s jawline with my fingers and stretch up on my tiptoes, pressing my lips softly to his. He pulls me close, leans into the kiss. Then he transfers his mouth to the curve just below my ear.
“Well,” he whispers, cradling my chin. “I’m thinking how glad I am that you switched to water.”
“Oh yeah?” I manage to speak as he trails feather-light kisses down my neck. “Why’s that?”
“Because I would have tucked you in or held your hair back if you needed me to, Mariano.” His voice is a low growl against my throat. “But I’d rather do this.”
“Well, then. I guess it’s a good thing I’m so responsible.” I pull his face back to mine and flash him a wicked grin. Then his lips are on mine again, possessive and all-consuming.
I’ve just slipped my hands under the hem of his shirt, pressing my palms to the warm skin of his stomach, when my own stomach growls.
I pull back, mortified.
“Hungry?” he asks with a smirk. I don’t miss the double meaning in his playful tone, but I’m too embarrassed to play along.
“Sorry!” I drag a hand down my face. “I was so busy getting everything ready for tonight that I basically had cheese for dinner.”
“Let’s order something,” he says, already pulling out his phone. I notice he doesn’t seem at all bothered that I just totally ruined the moment, his mussed hair and crooked shirt the only reminders of what we’d just been in the middle of.
I spin toward the fridge and peer inside.
I didn’t have time to do a full grocery shop today, so aside from leftover hunks of cheese and cured meat, there’s not much: eggs, milk, a single Jersey tomato, half of a red onion, a half-wilted bunch of parsley I bought last week but never had a chance to use.
And of course the longstanding assortment of sauces, condiments and spreads that stand at attention along the door.
“Yeah, we should probably order. I don’t have much right now. ”
Sebastian grabs the door, opens it wider. “I don’t know about that, Mariano. I think we have plenty to work with here.”
His resolve transports me back to the occasional slow closing shift, when Omar would let us all hang in the kitchen while he whipped up whatever creative concoctions he could come up with.
Sebastian and the other cooks would challenge him to incorporate seemingly incongruent ingredients—whipped cream and hot sauce, pickles and Smucker’s jelly packets, you name it—like they were building a Chopped mystery basket.
He always pulled off something delicious and yet I remember we were shocked and impressed every time.
I should have realized then how talented he was.
“All right, Nikolaou,” I say, taking the produce out of the fridge. “Let’s do this.”
An hour later we’ve made a pretty damn good roasted tomato quiche and a huge mess.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much fun in the kitchen.
Growing up and in the years right after college, when I’d still lived at home, cooking and eating had been a communal event that I’d shared with my parents, a social activity as much as it was a practical one.
Working at Bubba’s echoed that. But in more recent years it had become quite solitary—enjoyable, but not joyous.
I still loved cooking, and I did what I could to make it less lonely.
Some nights I’d FaceTime my mom, phone propped against a mixing bowl, and we’d make dinner at the same time—together but not.
Or I’d pour a glass of wine and listen to a podcast. Cooking with Sebastian, though?
That was … something else entirely. Fun and messy and creative and sexy. I already want to do it again.
“What are you smiling about?” Sebastian asks, planting a kiss on my forehead as he moves to clear my empty plate. I grab his arm, stopping him.
“You,” I say. I stand and take a step toward him. He’s still on his stool, and I nestle myself in the space between his legs. “Let’s clean up tomorrow.”
When he starts to protest, I cup his face in my hands, steadying him. “My apartment, my rules.” For once, my voice doesn’t tremble.
He raises a brow, eyes glimmering with mischief. “All right, Mariano. I’ll follow your lead.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, breathing in everything about this night—the laughter, the messy kitchen, the man in front of me—and think: It’s about time.