Chapter Two
Basil
Challenge: Have a 100% 50% bullshit conversation with a total stranger
“Is it me or was that a total trip?” Evan strolled ahead of me into the open air of the pedestrian mall while we waited for the girls to make a pit stop.
“Definitely not what we planned.”
What we planned was a night revisiting some of our old college stomping grounds. Left to my own devices, I would’ve stayed home and sulked, but Evan cajoled me to hit some bars on his last night here, reminisce, forget our troubles.
This hadn’t been the best day of my life. Shit, I’d nearly quit my job earlier—and over a minor irritation. Thank God it was Friday, because I needed a weekend to recover from being scolded by a twenty-year-old for refusing to put “pumpkin spice” in the butternut squash soup.
Pumpkin spice.
As if that was an actual thing.
I took a deep breath to retain the mellow composure a simple conversation with a beautiful woman had brought me, swallowing the need to explain, to literally nobody, the existence of ginger and nutmeg.
Pumpkin spice. I shook my head.
Evan shot finger pistols at me. “I told you we’d have fun. You’re even smiling.”
I was. My thoughts returned to the cranberry lips and midnight black hair of the haunting vixen who’d captivated my attention from the minute I’d laid eyes on her. And her eyes, soulful and penetrating, had drawn me in. Sailors had been tempted toward jagged rocks by less.
“It didn’t turn out so bad,” I conceded. Understatement .
I’d worried for nothing that barhopping with Evan would make me feel worse about myself. It was a practical concern. Whoever said comparison is the thief of joy must have spent time with a golden boy. With his perfect smile, super-styled blond hair, and emerald eyes, Evan was the Type O of good looks—universally appealing. Whenever we hung out, women hit on him like I wasn’t even there. Evan was never a jerk about it, and I wanted to spend time with him, but I hadn’t been in the mood to feel even more invisible. Not tonight.
In the end, I’d agreed to go out because Evan had promised me no women. He swore he wanted to catch up and get reacquainted with the town after he’d interviewed for a potential job at a local news station. True to his word, he dorked up his look and batted away uninvited attention, right up until Lizzy and Chelsea crashed our party of two.
I gave Evan a pass for ignoring me. Chatting with an old acquaintance wasn’t the same as lady cruising. Besides, flirting with Chelsea had vastly improved my glum mood. After a day being bossed by a rug rat and an evening next to Mr. Television here, I drank in her attention. She’d never once glanced at Evan and confessed straight-up attraction toward me. But what had soothed my soul was the way she rhapsodized about my work, about my food. It was the antidote to my what-am-I-doing-with-my-life blues. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d needed some validation. It had been so long, I’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be appreciated.
Evan shoved his hands into his pockets and stared up at the sky. “It’s a shame I didn’t run into Lizzy earlier this week. If I had another night here, we could have a proper reunion.”
I did have another night here, an indefinite number of nights, though I didn’t know what that might mean. “I’m going to try to get Chelsea’s phone number,” I declared.
He shot me a skeptical glance. “Didn’t you hear her say she doesn’t do boyfriends?”
“Maybe she’ll do me,” I joked.
He wandered closer, not laughing. “If that’s what you want, you should invite her back to your place. It’s been long enough, Easy Lover.”
“Don’t call me that.” I hated when he chided me for being fickle. The trouble was I had a bad habit of confusing infatuation with love. Call it a genetic predisposition; passion was my birthright.
“Speaking of… Would it be weird to run into someone after ten years, bang her, then leave town?”
“Asking for a friend?”
This was a touchy subject. He’d renounced meaningless hookups with total strangers that left him emotionally bankrupt. But Lizzy wasn’t a total stranger.
He winced. “My therapist would dissect that for months.”
“But do you want to?”
“I want to see what she wants. Can you get a ride with Chelsea?”
“Sure.” Or I could walk home if she kicked me to the curb. It was only a mile.
At last, the two girls burst through the door, laughing.
“My performance has come to an end,” Lizzy called, as though she were addressing an entire crowd and not an empty pedestrian mall. Streetlights pooled on the bricks, creating the illusion of a spotlit stage.
Evan’s flirty grin contorted into a confused grimace. “I’m sorry, what?”
His question echoed like a shot through the eerie silence of the night.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, more seriously.
Evan rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Why are you sorry?”
She frowned. “Well, for lying to you.”
“About?”
“About being friends in high school.” She flapped her hands like she was conjuring the past. “And basically everything. I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
My jaw dropped, but Evan took the bombshell in stride. Maybe I’d been the only one taken in by whatever game these girls had been playing.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Lizzy.”
She winced and added, “And I actually go by Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?” Evan repeated, trying it out.
“Elizabeth Wright.” She made a little bow with her head, like she was introducing herself to royalty.
Evan chuckled. “Got it.”
“I hope you aren’t mad.”
“No. I mean, of course not.” He closed the gap and rubbed her forearm. “I wish we had been friends, though.”
Elizabeth took his hand. “We could be now.”
He stared down into her eyes, and she tilted her head, inviting a kiss, a picture-perfect ending to a romance movie. “Can I walk you home so we can talk more?”
Elizabeth sighed dreamily. “I’d like that.”
I shot a glance at Chelsea, and she gave me big holy shit eyes, watching this scene unfold. “Holy shit. My bestie’s gonna get laid tonight,” she whispered.
I moseyed over beside her. “Plot twist. I didn’t have this on my to-do list today.”
“Oh, I did.” She laughed. “Literally.”
“Sure,” I scoffed. “ Friday night: be the sidekick to my best friend’s meet-cute. ”
She cackled. “I’m serious. It’s why I was being so full-on TMI before.”
My eyes narrowed as I parsed her words. “I don’t understand.”
“One sec.” She unlocked her phone and scrolled to a page. “My to-do list. See, we had these two items to check off. And look: you’re right here.”
As I watched, she marked a little C next to Have a deep, authentic conversation with a total stranger.
Should I feel offended? “Oh, so I’m a notch in your bedpost?”
Did I imagine her sharp inhale before saying, “Yes to the notch. No to the bedpost.” She put her phone away. “I mean, sometimes I get lucky and meet a random stranger who fits the bill.”
I grinned. “I’ve never been called random before.”
“Would you prefer predestined?”
“Actually”—I waggled my eyebrows—“the Greeks love the idea of destiny. The Fates.”
“Say no more.” She laughed, and I could’ve kicked myself for making stupid jokes to hide my nerves.
On the other side of the mall, Evan and Elizabeth leaned toward each other under a wan streetlight. Elizabeth looked like she wanted to eat Evan alive. I’d seen that naked lust from nearly every woman in every bar we’d hit tonight, even though Evan had unsuccessfully tried to mitigate his appearance with a pair of dorky glasses. He sometimes paid a price for his devastating good looks. He wasn’t always eager for the interest he got, and he ended up in more shallow relationships than were good for his mental health. It was nice to see him getting the kind of attention he craved, for the right reasons.
Evan lifted a hand to Elizabeth’s cheek, drinking her in with Mr. Darcy levels of longing. It was so intimate, and I couldn’t help glance over at Chelsea, at those lips, wondering how to orchestrate a good-night kiss of my own.
Chelsea called over, “Text me when you get home, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Mom.” Elizabeth hooked her arm into Evan’s crooked elbow, and the pair headed away from us, toward a side street.
Chelsea shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t trust your friend, but this is how an episode of some show on ID Discovery starts out.”
My heart sank. Her wise fear of strangers snuffed the fantasy I’d been stoking to extend the evening with her. Not that I expected anything, obviously. But then Chelsea glanced my way and asked, “You going with me or them?”
Was this an opening to make a move?
“You,” I answered. No hesitation. I could at least walk her to her car, maybe get her number. Maybe get a ride home. Maybe more…
With the cobblestone lit only by moonlight and the sporadic streetlights, Chelsea strolled beside me, quiet at first, like we’d become strangers again, but as she veered onto a side street toward Water Street, she said, “ I have been deep and authentic. It’s your turn. Tell me why you became a chef.”
“I just love to cook,” I said. Authentic—but barely scratching the surface. Whenever I let my honest passions shine, people usually looked at me like I was the leader of a newly emerging cult.
Her elbow bumped mine. “Nuh-uh. You owe me more than that. I’m your greatest fan. I’d like to know.”
The promise that her curiosity wasn’t idle gave me a jolt of pride, a desire to expose this vulnerable side of myself, so I started talking, watching her for signs of cringing.
“When I first mastered macarons, I knew I’d found my calling. It’s fun to experiment and discover new ways to prepare food, but it’s a means to an end. At the back of my mind, I’m always picturing someone I can feed. It makes me happy to watch someone enjoy what I’ve created. The beauty of food is I can repeat that performance again and again.”
“That’s so hot.” She slid her hand around my elbow. “I love macarons.”
Without meaning to, she’d forced me to recognize the true reason I’d been so irritated earlier. Standing in a back kitchen day after day, without a real person to share my cooking with, I was dying a death by a million cuts. No wonder the work had become a chore. I’d had no idea who I was feeding. Until tonight.
“Let me ask you something,” I said, and her smile melted. It reminded me her honesty was the result of some bucket list. Maybe she normally hid behind walls.
She swallowed and rallied. “Ask away.”
“What do you think pumpkin spice is?”
Her whole face transformed into pure delight. “Delicious.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Not you, too.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those snobs who’s too good for pumpkin.”
“There’s no pumpkin!” I cried, still laughing.
She knocked my shoulder with hers. “Well, no shit, Chef Ramsay.”
Oh, no she did not. I was about to launch into a diatribe when Chelsea announced, “There’s my car. You want a ride home?”
Again, no hesitation. “That would be great.”
Any way to keep talking to her.
As I settled into the passenger seat, she handed me her phone, map open, and I typed in my address, tempted to cross a boundary and text myself so I’d have her number.
Instead, I set the phone on the dash and hoped she’d share that in her own time.
I buckled my seat belt, determined to use the ride to get to know her better. “Where exactly do you live?”
The engine started, and she glanced back to reverse out of the parking space. “Belmont.”
That wasn’t very informative. Belmont sprawled for a square mile south of the Downtown Mall.
I tried a new tack. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a graphic designer for websites.”
“Cool. That sounds like an amazing career.”
“Hardly a career. I have to subsidize it with a job as a barista at a coffee shop.” She shifted into drive, and the GPS commanded her to turn onto Water Street. “It probably would be a solid career if I went ahead and took a position at a real company instead of freelancing.”
“So why don’t you?”
As she exited the parking lot, she said, “I harbor this increasingly far-fetched dream of leaving here. I want the freedom to take my job on the road.” Her eyes were fixed forward, the streetlights illuminating her face.
“A traveling graphic designer?”
“Exactly.” She threw the blinker on at the light and turned left onto Ridge.
“Why do you think it’s far-fetched?” I watched her expression tighten. “What’s stopping you?” Combining travel with work sounded exciting to me.
“Inertia? Cowardice? I don’t know. Where would I go?” She worried her lower lip, like she’d never voiced this confession to anyone else before. Did it scare her to share even this much of herself?
“Anywhere. Everywhere?”
She shot me a look like I’d unlocked a new level. “Right. How do you choose when there’s a whole world to explore?” Her gaze lingered briefly before returning to the road.
“Do you travel?”
“All the time. I have terrible wanderlust.” She reached over and rested a hand on my thigh, surprising me. Her touch gave me the first sign this might be more than a ride home and sent a jolt of electricity straight to my cock. “One day, I’ll go on vacation and never come home.”
Hoping I wasn’t reading her wrong, I set my hand on hers. She didn’t pull away. “Then home would be wherever you decided to stay.”
“Good point.” She gave me a squeeze and let go to turn right onto Cherry. The hourglass was nearly empty. “But I don’t think I could ever leave Elizabeth here.”
“Is that the kind of thing you put on that checklist of yours? Traveling to new places?” I asked, cursing the GPS for announcing our imminent arrival.
“The opposite, really. Traveling is my default escape strategy. My therapist has challenged me to bring the adventure home, push me out of my comfort zone, encourage wacky shit like tonight, and dare myself to open up. Otherwise, I’d just do the same old day in, day out.”
“I understand inertia all too well. A body in motion stays in motion.”
“Is that another cheesy pickup line?”
As she pulled into my driveway and threw the car in park, I had to shoot my shot. “Do you want it to be?”
She swiveled toward me, her dark mane cascading over her shoulder in slow waves of moonlight and shadow. I longed to run my fingers through that liquid night. When I tentatively lifted my hand, she tilted her head, and I took that as permission to twine one finger around a strand of her silky hair.
I studied her face, committing her features to memory. “I’m glad I met you tonight.”
“Me too.” She winced, like she’d confessed more than she meant to.
“Has the truth serum worn off yet?”
She fixed me in a hard stare. “Soon.”
I let my palm fall against her cheek. I had to ask, while she might tell me. “If you don’t want a boyfriend, what do you want? Nothing? Friends with benefits? A one-night stand?”
“Are you offering?”
I searched her eyes. Was she serious? After she’d worried about Elizabeth going home with a strange man, I figured she’d be more circumspect. I set my sights on what I could realistically achieve in the here and now. “Would you be offended if I said I’d love to kiss you?”
I braced myself, longing for a yes, preparing for a no. She seemed to consider the request but pulled slightly away. “And then what?”
Fuck it. I wasn’t going to leave without at least trying. “And then whatever you want.”
She scoffed. “What if I just want sex?”
I swallowed hard. It was so forward, but did she mean it? I’d never managed a purely physical relationship, though in retrospect, my passion always ran its course fast enough that my “serious” relationships turned out to be as casual as a hookup. Evan called me Easy Lover because I loved the idea of falling in love, and I often got ahead of myself, imagining how every woman I flirted with might fit into my future. I’d already fallen half in love with this woman I’d just met, and here Chelsea had proclaimed herself a romantic cynic.
But I couldn’t resist the temptation. “Would you like to come inside?”
Her eyebrows rose. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
The dog barked as I unlocked the door to my embarrassingly small house. I shared this rental with a roommate, but as a medical resident, Farrid worked long hours. The foyer was empty and dark. I crossed the den and slid open the patio doors to let Pepper run outside. When I turned back, Chelsea leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.
She shook her head, so I stepped closer.
“Would you like to sit and talk?”
She sucked on her lower lip, let her teeth drag across it, and my cock stiffened. Her eyes closed as I neared. I brushed her hair from her temple, bent close, and whispered, “What do you want, Chelsea?”
Her eyes opened, and she leaned in, a breath away. “I want you to kiss me.”
I grasped her hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her to me, so I could taste those burgundy lips. She smelled like summer, like coconut and honeysuckle. Our mouths crushed together, her berry lip gloss sticky and sweet. When her tongue brushed mine, I unearthed a groan.
My lips dragged down to her jaw, her neck. She raked her fingers across my cheek, then clasped my shoulders, my chest, frantically tugged at the hem of my shirt. I helped her peel it off and let it fall to the ground, my skin on fire.
She stepped back and ogled me.
I reached for her shirt in turn but hesitated, needing her consent every step of the way. “May I?”
She nodded, and I stripped her, straining in my pants at the fantasy of her in just a bra. I traced the top of the lace, then slid it down, over her nipple. I couldn’t believe what kind of heaven I must be in that I could run my tongue across her. She moaned when she was in my mouth.
I unlatched her bra and cupped my hands under the swells, wanting her so much I was past the point of no return. If she told me no now, I’d obey her, but it would be a Herculean feat.
“Chelsea, I need you. But you have to tell me what you want.”
“You.” She laughed, breathless. “Now.”
I unbuttoned her pants and glided my hands down her back, under her panties, peeling the fabric with my forearms. I pressed her tight to me, skin on skin. I needed to see her. With both hands, I dragged her pants down her thighs, exposing her entirely, and then I froze in place.
She had curves my hands wanted, needed to touch. I wanted to lick every inch of her silky skin. I ached to be inside her.
I lifted her onto my counter, yanked her pants over her ankles, and dropped them on the floor. When I stepped between her legs, she ground into me, and I moaned with desire. I reclaimed her mouth, unable to get enough of her lips, her tongue. My zipper strained to hold me.
I watched her watching me run my fingers up the inside of her thighs, brazen desire flaring in her eyes. When I neared the apex, her head fell back and hit the cabinet. Her legs spread open, giving me permission to touch her, and I bent to taste her.
She was already wet, and I sucked on her, nearly shooting in my pants from the guttural sounds she made. She dug her hands into my hair and said my name as I ran my tongue across her. She arched her back when I slid my finger inside her, my cock aching to take its place.
I would have kept pleasuring her for hours, but her knees squeezed slightly, and she said, “Come here.”
I stood, and she unclasped my pants, finally. With the zipper down, I practically fell out, I was so hard. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue across her lower lip. “Mmm.”
She wrapped her hand along the shaft and slid up. My eyes rolled back.
“Chelsea, God.”
“Just Chelsea.” She kissed my cheek, then my lips. Her thumb grazed the head of my cock, and my mouth slackened against hers. “Do you have a condom?”
Her question brought me back to myself, and I pulled away to search for my wallet, pausing to admire the erotic Renaissance image of her, naked, hair a mess, flush with desire, eyes glossy black, imploring me.
My cock throbbed as I rolled on the condom. And then in two strides, I was between her thighs. “Tell me what you want, Chelsea.”
“I want,” she panted, “your cock inside me.”
She wrapped her legs around me, and I notched myself at her wet epicenter. Then slowly, excruciatingly, I slid in to the hilt, gasping with the overwhelming bliss of her. Her head dropped onto my shoulder, her teeth biting into my skin, and I wrapped my hands around her waist to anchor her in place, then lost control as I ground into her. Her heels bounced off my ass with every thrust, and she dug her nails into my biceps, urging me on with filthy words.
“Fuck me harder. You’re so fucking deep.”
Dirty talk spilled from my mouth, encouraged by hers. “I’m gonna make you come so hard.”
I found her clit with my thumb and added pressure, coaxing her, and she gasped. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
Our mouths sought each other, lips brushing, tongues messy, but I was too far gone to truly kiss her. The cabinet doors rattled where my knees knocked them. My fingers dug into her hips, and she clawed at my back.
The pleasure mounted until I couldn’t hold it. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”
She hooked her ankles above my ass and squeezed me in, holding me in place as I shot inside her, growling her name, and she cried out with me, shuddered, and held me tight. Spent, we buckled against each other, breathing heavily and lost to ourselves, floating in empty space, just the two of us.
I wanted to stay like that, inside her, for as long as she’d let me. She cradled my chin and pulled me in for a tender kiss, far less sloppy than a moment ago. We flowed together, tangled limbs, sweaty, kissing with a different need, two people who’d just shared a uniquely intimate experience. I couldn’t fathom how Chelsea wouldn’t feel the powerful connection between us.
She broke free and blew out a breathy laugh. “That was… Phew. I needed that.”
I took that as my cue, all the awkwardness of the reality slamming in hard as I pulled out of her and then dealt with the used condom, burying it under a cardboard box in the trash. Farrid never needed to know how we’d misused the counter. I’d never be able to cook in here again without remembering.
When I turned back, Chelsea was gathering clothes from all over my kitchen floor.
“So when can I see you again?” I asked, recalling with some dismay her pronouncements from earlier, hoping she wasn’t serious, or maybe I’d be the exception to her cynical rule.
“This was really fun,” she said as she fastened her bra and adjusted the straps. She pulled on her panties as I watched, and I probably should have started dressing myself, but I was mesmerized by her presence. We’d been strangers, and I’d explored that luscious body. I’d been inside seconds ago.
My cock pulsed at the memory of pounding her on my kitchen counter, and I wanted her again already, wanted her to stay the night, repeat the performance in my bed, in my shower, on every surface. “Can I at least call you?”
She didn’t answer. Just threw her shirt over her head and reached for her pants. I took the little time remaining to grab a memo off the magnet pad Farrid kept on the fridge, scrambling for a Sharpie in the junk drawer. As Chelsea hopped on one foot, pulling on an ankle boot, I scrawled my phone number.
When I held the paper out to her, she looked at it, then up at me, like she was debating whether it was worth the conversation to say no. In the end, she took it, folded it in half, then dropped it into her purse.
She stepped close, dragged her finger through my hair over my ear, and leaned in for one last kiss. “Good night, Bas. This was really nice.”
Then she turned and walked out of my house with a slam of the door. And I didn’t know when—or if—I’d ever see her again.