Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
The next morning, I woke up to Kier wide awake, stretched out against the couch, fully invested in the next Saw movie.
Grown self had a whole setup going, eating a bowl of cereal with the box and milk sitting right next to him like he planned on staying there for the entire day.
I gave him hell immediately for watching it without me, still half asleep but annoyed enough to sit up and press him about it.
He tried to play it off like he was letting me sleep in.
I wasn’t letting that slide. I teased him right back, calling out how quick he switched up after talking all that shit the night before.
Because now he couldn’t even wait on me to keep going.
I grabbed the cereal, poured myself a bowl, and sat onto the couch beside him.
Before long, we were right back in it, going back and forth over the movie, him questioning everything, me filling in just enough to keep him hooked.
Time passed without either of us paying attention, one movie rolling into the next, the morning easing into the afternoon until it hit us at the same time that we actually had somewhere to be.
Next thing I knew, we were both up, showering and getting ready for our evening date with the chef.
The chef arrived, and the kitchen suddenly felt alive.
He pulled out pans, cooking utensils, and a slew of ingredients.
The scent of garlic and herbs hit me first, followed by the freshness of the protein that was available.
Chef Laurent navigated the space calmly, super focused and confident.
He acknowledged Kier with a nod, then turned his attention to me.
“So, you’re the one cooking tonight?” He asked.
“I am.”
Kier leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching the interaction because it was clearly entertaining to him. “She’s LEARNING to cook, chef,” he added, not helping. “Instead of learning how to cook, she learned how to build torture chambers and-”
“Oh, stop it, I can cook,” I whined, popping him on his abs. “But I didn’t say I was a professional.”
“That’s alright. We’ll see what you can do.” He smiled, encouraging me.
“We’re going to do a pan-seared Chilean sea bass with a lemon butter sauce, on a bed of microgreens. Now I’ll let you choose the side. Asparagus, risotto, or a parmesan mash. What are you thinking?”
Thinking wasn’t necessary, I knew what I wanted. “Let’s go with the parmesan mash. I’ve seen cooking shows enough to know how easy it is to mess up risotto. And asparagus makes your pee stink.”
They both laughed. I stepped closer to the island, tying my hair back as I looked over the ingredients.
I searched for seasonings, but that was the difference between regular people and chefs.
We layered on the normal, onion powder, garlic powder, Tonys , and maybe some sazon.
But Chef Laurent had nothing but herbs and oil.
Guess I really was learning something new today.
“Alright,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “Let’s start simple.”
Kier pushed off the counter and came closer, not too close, but close enough that I felt it. His attention wasn’t on the chef; it was on me.
“Simple?” He repeated. “You sure that’s the route you wanna go?”
“Yes, Kier. Simple is how you don’t mess things up.”
“Or,” he said, stepping just behind me, his voice lowering near my ear, “it’s how you play it safe.”
“He’s not wrong.” Chef Laurent joined in, clearly amused.
“I’m not listening to either of you,” I said, but there was a smile sitting in my voice now.
“So, the key to the sea bass is to keep it crispy and golden on top, but soft on the inside. You have to control your temperature when cooking. And just like with most fish, you don’t have to cook it too long.”
“So that means we need to start on the potatoes first?”
“Exactly.”
“Um, so you do know something.” Kier teased me.
“Told you!” I smiled.
I gathered about four red potatoes and began chopping. The knife tapped steadily against the cutting board. Kier stayed close, occasionally reaching past me to grab something before I asked.
“You cut like you’re thinking,” he said.
“I am thinking,” I replied, not looking up. “I want the cubes to be perfect.”
“But they’re getting mashed after boiling them, right?”
“So?”
“So, no matter how perfect you think something is, it can always change with the right amount of pressure. It can turn into something more beautiful. Stop overthinking, Si.”
Somehow, I knew he wasn’t just talking about the potatoes. Chef Laurent glanced between us, shaking his head. “You two cook together often?”
“This is our first time,” I answered.
“That explains a lot,” he remarked.
I laughed under my breath as I went to the stove, placing the pan down and adding a bit of oil.
Then I filled a pot with water, adding the potatoes to it.
After bringing them to a boil, Chef Laurent reminded me not to cook them too long if we wanted some texture to it. I noticed Kier watching me again.
“Lemme fix you a drink while you enjoy the show. Any recommendations, Chef? What pairs well with sea bass?”
“Sauvignon Blanc, and I brought a bottle.”
I poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Kier before lifting mine in the air. We toasted, and he sipped while sitting on the counter, continuing to observe me.
The potatoes were tender enough, so I drained them, mashed them, and mixed my ingredients in.
Chef Laurent didn’t give me any tutorial on that because I knew what I was doing.
I added heavy whipping cream and my own assortment of herbs.
Kier was locked in now, amazed and respectful at the same time.
Once the potatoes were done, I started on the fish.
Turning the stove up, the pan sizzled softly, giving me a quick ASMR feel.
Kier joined me at the island, and his hand came to rest lightly at my lower back.
“You’re hovering,” I said quietly.
“I’m observing, making sure you’re not cheating.”
“Cheating is crazy. You’ve watched me cook solo this whole time. You just be wanting to rile me up!”
“And it works every time.” He added, placing a quick but soft kiss on my collarbone.
“If you wanted to be close to me, Kier,” I turned to him, “that’s all you had to say.”
“Touché,” he replied, stunned and proud at the same time.
Chef Laurent stayed close as I worked through the fish, offering small corrections here and there but mostly letting me take the lead. I spooned the oil over the top, watching as it turned crisp before my eyes. Before long, I plated it, then garnished it with thin slices of lemon.
“Alright,” I said after a moment, stepping back a bit. “I think I did okay.”
Chef Laurent stepped forward, taking in the plate, nodding once. “You did more than okay.”
“I told you,” I said, glancing at Kier.
“Yeah, yeah, the taste is the real test.” He added, teasing me again.
I took a spoonful of the lemon-garlic sauce and held it up to his lips. Tasting it, he nodded. “It tastes almost as good as you.” Kier leaned down and kissed my lips. My arms found his neck as we both enjoyed the moment.
The chef cleared his throat, beginning to clean up. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy.”
I nodded in thanks, barely noticing when he dipped out of the house. Since Kier hadn’t moved—if anything, he’d stepped closer—I pulled away, either startling or offending him.
“Are you still nervous around me Si?”
“No,” I said, but it came out softer this time. “But I want you to eat before it gets cold.”
“Good,” he said.
We carried our plates out to the patio. Somewhere in between teasing and watching me cook, he managed to set up a beautiful candlelight table setting.
The small square table was covered in tan linen, and a single rose sat in the middle, with a candle on each side.
Kier sat close enough that our knees brushed every now and then, neither of us adjusting, neither of us making it a thing.
We ate, talked a little, and laughed in between bites.
Kier was hilarious. Looking at him, one wouldn’t think his sense of humor was so big. This man was something.
After dinner, Kier and I made ourselves comfortable in his cabana. I’d been wondering about the softness of the couch since we got here. It definitely did not disappoint. I rested my back against his chest while he played with my fingers.
“This was good, Si. Real talk.”
“Better than noodles,” I teased, turning my head a fraction toward him.
“Yeah. But you know what, I don’t mind the noodles. It’s comfort and reminds me of home. After my dad died, my mama struggled to take care of me and Jarrell.”
“Jarrell?”
“Legacee.” He laughed at the look on my face. “Si, how’s he your favorite artist and you don’t know his real name?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Forget all of that and finish the story.”
He let out a small chuckle. “But yeah, it was just us. Jarrell’s mama had been strung out our whole life, but my mama took him in when we were seven.”
I turned gently on the cushion, angling toward him without making it obvious.
“If you don’t mind me asking… how did your father die?”
“My dad died from an accident on the job. We were ten and he was the breadwinner.” He paused briefly while clenching his jaw.
Immediately I felt bad for bringing up a tough memory.
“After he died, my mama got a job working as a school bus attendant. That wasn’t real money, especially raising two boys.
She was never home and all she did was work doubles.
And she took on a late shift at some nursing home. We had to feed ourselves.”
“Noodles,” I said softly, watching him stare straight ahead. He nodded once clenching his jaw again. I rubbed his arm without thinking. I wasn’t trying to interrupt him, I just wanted to be there for him.