Chapter Four
Basil
Challenge: Let someone cook you dinner
I second-guessed myself as we entered the market. Not only because Gretchen at the cash register shot me a curious glance, and I had to hope she wouldn’t go narking on me to my manager, Ryan. I should have been at home, cleaning up before Evan arrived sometime this weekend. He’d called to tell me he’d accepted the job, and I’d offered him my sofa until he could find his own place.
But I wasn’t going to ignore a sign from the universe.
For the past two weeks, I’d been trying not to think about a girl who didn’t want to be thought of.
I’d replayed that Friday night in my head a hundred times, picking apart the mixed messages she’d sent, how she’d given in to her attraction, held me like she was coming up for air, all while cutting off every avenue to pursue anything more serious.
It had driven me crazy that she didn’t want to give me her number, but I wasn’t going to stalk a girl who wasn’t feeling it. Since she knew where to find me, after that first week with no contact, I figured the universe had spoken. Only then did she turn up at the cash register of a coffee shop I frequented. But since she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me, I told the universe to make up its mind. And then there she was at the wine cellar, in those jeans that hugged her hips, that ink-black hair cascading in waves I remembered twisting around my finger. Although she was only a few feet away, I couldn’t fathom how I’d ever get that close to her again.
Go home, universe. You’re drunk.
Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, but the way Chelsea glowed just thinking about my food, I needed to feed her, needed live reactions from a real human. It didn’t hurt that she looked so sexy when her tongue dragged across her lips.
In the kitchen, Chelsea waited with one hand on her hip. Her stiff stance reminded me of that Friday night when I’d handed her my phone number, and she’d looked at me like I’d offered her a porcupine, like that was too far out of her comfort zone. Lucky for me, we were in my realm now, and I let my training take over.
“Sit.”
She perched on a stool at the prep table, and I opened one of the bottles I’d just bought. As I set a glass next to her and began to pour, I asked, “What did the grape say when it got crushed?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Uh. What?”
“Nothing, it just let out a little wine.”
She blinked at me a couple of times before she got that pained look on her face that made me know I’d landed a terrible pun. “That’s awful.”
In the walk-in fridge, I found a few of the soft-shell crabs and a pint of goat cheese risotto. I scooped risotto into a pan to warm up. “Everyone knows at least one joke. What’ve you got?”
She twisted her mouth for a second. “Okay, but this is Elizabeth’s.”
I waggled my fingers. “Can you hand me that bowl?”
She jumped up to fetch it, then leaned against the counter beside me. “What do you say when Edgar Allen Poe is about to run into a tree?”
“Oh, bonus. A University of Virginia drop-out joke.” I loved sharing that bit of infamy with a more esteemed failure. I dusted the crab in some panko and drizzled oil into the pan. “I give up.”
“Poetry.”
I thought about it for a second, then barked a laugh. “Solid pun.”
She grasped my upper arm, peering at the stove, her body brushing mine. “Are you going to pan-fry the crab?”
Those luscious curves had featured prominently in my fantasies. I’d let the food burn if I could just kiss her again.
“Do you want to do it?” I grabbed a saucepan and set the risotto on the back burner to reheat.
“No. I’m in awe of this magic.” She dropped my arm and turned to face me. “Have you always cooked?”
“Not really. I was banned from the kitchen as a kid, but I grew up surrounded by food.”
“Hmm. Must be nice. My mom was handy with a Domino’s menu.” She laughed, and I tried not to look horrified.
Food to me was synonymous with family, with love.
“My earliest memories are of my mom feeding the small army that is my family. I can make a mean moussaka, but my mom’s will always be my favorite version. Not that I’d ever be allowed near Ma’s stove.”
While the crabs sizzled, I quickly tossed some wild greens in a balsamic vinaigrette with Chelsea rubbernecking over my shoulder.
“Can you pull down some plates?” I pointed out their location.
She set the dinnerware on the counter, and once the crabs crisped nicely, I plated the food, decorating the rim with a lemongrass-ginger coulis.
When I set the dish before Chelsea, her jaw hung open. “Fuck me, Bas. Just watching that was incredible. Competency porn is my weakness.”
I tried to hide my stupid grin. “Noted.”
At last, we were sitting kitty-corner, sharing a meal together in the back kitchen where I normally only imagined the people who’d be eating my food. All the stress of my day seeped away as I watched her making oh faces I longed to see under me or over me again sometime, if she’d give me another chance.
But more than another hookup, I hoped she’d let me in again, let me know her better. I needed more than a warm body. I needed some emotional connection, fun, conversation. I couldn’t stop longing for a hit of that vulnerability she’d shown me at that bar.
She finished the last bite, running a finger along the remaining coulis. “Holy hell. I never knew food could be this good.”
I beamed with pride. This was the praise I longed for. “It was my pleasure. Thank you for letting me cook for you.” I’d nearly forgotten how wonderful it felt to have a part of me loved so openly. I wished I could get anyone to drool like that over me for more than food one day.
“Oh, and I get to check another thing off the list.” She slid open her phone with a cackle. “Elizabeth’s gonna get a kick out of this.”
It was a punch to the gut hearing her brag about using me for her game, that my company hadn’t been enough of an experience on its own.
“Is that all this was to you?” I burst out. I couldn’t help my scowl. “A checkmark?”
Chelsea flinched, arms pulling into her torso, like she was expecting a physical assault, and I heard the anger in my tone belatedly. It was like a splash of cold water to see her fold up like that, and because of me. She’d told me she’d grown up with an abuser, but seeing this normally tough, confident woman cower so quickly? Fuck . What the hell was wrong with me? I’d invited her to eat with me.
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean that.”
She hauled herself to her full height, lifting her purse onto her shoulder. “Then why did you say it?”
Why had I? I checked my own motivations and sagged as I confessed. “It hurt my feelings. But that’s on me and my wounded pride. You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry.”
She eyed me warily, like she was weighing the sincerity of my apology. “Well, don’t ever do that again.”
The possibility we might have an again came as a relief, so I said, “Sit. Stay.”
Slowly, she settled back onto the stool. “For the record, if anything, the list was an excuse to say yes to your cooking, not the other way around. I probably could have bought this from out front.”
Not likely, but I wasn’t going to argue the point.
“If I’d had more notice, I promise it would have been much better.”
“Better than that? I might have to let you do this again sometime.”
I raised my eyes to say a silent thanks to the universe. “Tell me what else is on your list. Maybe I can help you check another one off.”
“Well. Probably not, unless you run a local writing group.”
“Let me see it again.”
She slid her phone over, and I immediately saw a couple of ways I could turn her list to my own benefit. “Well, for starters, you could let me have your phone number.”
“Nice try.” She laughed.
“If you want to spend a day eating vegan, I can fix you up.”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.” She slid off the stool. “Thanks for dinner, Bas. It was a treat.”
I wasn’t ready to part ways so soon, but I’d gotten further than I could realistically hope, so I stood as well. “Didn’t we make a bet? Dinner for your phone number?” I swallowed. It was a long shot.
Her eyes closed, opened, and her mouth flattened into an apologetic frown. For a second, I thought she was going to say no, but then she surprised me by reaching for a Sharpie and writing her number on some stray wrapper. “Use it wisely.”
I would.
There’s a Greek saying. The unripe grape becomes sweet like honey—slowly.
I wasn’t in any hurry, but I added that number to my contacts the minute Chelsea walked out the door.