Chapter 3
THREE
NOELLE
Sherlock was the worst sous chef I had ever had.
That included the sous chef I hired, who looked perfect on paper and then decided the walk-in freezer was a good place to do fentanyl, which led to the cops being suspicious because I was more worried about my launch date and the cost of having to restock my entire inventory than the fact that someone died in my freezer.
They didn't understand I didn't have time to deal with my emotions.
If I didn't hustle, my entire gamble in opening my restaurant would collapse.
That part of my life was pure stress… but so was every moment after.
I was lucky enough to get a biological hazard cleanup company in at the last minute and a reinspection from the health department, and the whole thing was absolute hell, but also the reason my launch was so successful.
Murder mystery influencers flocked to my opening, and the whole thing was a massive success. Then… covid.
Then I up and vanished, leaving the business I’d been desperate to keep afloat to crumble.
A lot like the vegetable on that cutting board.
I stared at the mangled chunks in front of Sherlock.
"Did you use your hands to chop that?" I asked him.
"Yes!" he said, with that big smile on his face that appeared any time I paid any attention to him. "Like Garlithian did when he cooked a traditional Scraingre meal to attempt to cheer up the sad widow of the recently murdered ambassador to the Noscaryn homeworld."
He lifted one of his hands, his fingers tight together, then brought it down on a large chunk of the vegetable, partially smashing it as it cracked in half, the two pieces flying out only to rebound off of the air on either side of the cutting board and land back down in the middle.
He was a terrible sous chef, but the tools he came up with more than made up for it.
A cutting board that had a force field that could be engaged to restricted specific items while letting hands and knives through was amazing.
He was creative, strange, and his non stop quips about his favorite show had become endearing to me over the last few days in space.
Our expedition to the planet had a time limit that was over before I knew it existed, but I had a large quantity of strange new plants to play with.
The turf we harvested was leached of the non-digestible elements and turned into a fine flour that worked wonderfully as a bread or pie crust, but fell apart entirely when boiled as noodles for reasons Sherlock was quick to explain.
He was adorkable, and I was growing more and more interested in seeing what would happen if I invited him back to my room, especially since every so often he declared it was time for dance practice, and would strip off his shirt, pour oil on himself, and practice gyrating around the corner of the kitchen that I had to allocate to that purpose.
It was delightful to watch, especially because he was so thorough about cleaning up after himself.
The smoldering looks he threw my way were intense, and I got glimpses of his bare back.
There were two large scars there, by his shoulder blades.
He never started his 'dance practice' when anyone else was in the kitchen, just in moments like these, where it was just the two of us alone together.
I hadn't invited him over yet.
At first, I thought he'd just show up at my door after the first time he mentioned coming over to watch his favorite show with me, but he never did.
He was there when I went to experiment in the kitchen, and then he was always smiling at me from a distance when I went into my room for the night.
I knew he spent time socializing with anyone even remotely friendly with him.
Apparently, me taking him on as an assistant was enough of a push to get him started, but once he had that push, he was now out and about and ready to chit-chat, especially if it was about that show.
Saoirse had started watching it, and the two of them had become thick as thieves.
It made me happy to see that he had made a friend, and also had the secondary effect of making me much less interested in accepting his flirtations.
I had never been interested in anyone unless they were completely and utterly clear they were only interested in me.
But even with that, the only thing was that I had overheard a part of their conversation the other day, and it was bothering me.
I tapped my fingernails on the counter next to the cutting board.
The vegetable was now ruined for what I wanted to try, but my favorite thing about cooking was how flexible it was.
Yes, there were basic rules of science that couldn't be ignored, but they were guidelines to flavor, not hard rules that must be obeyed.
No matter what any celebrity chef thought, there wasn't a right way for any of it, with the sole exception of food safety.
Banning Andrea from the kitchen solved my main food safety issue; now it was just a matter of what that vegetable wanted to become.
I didn't have customers here, just my friends, so there was no one who would leave me a bad review if I let my sous chef frolic about causing mischief.
"Do you think this vegetable will work for that traditional Scraingre recipe?" I asked. "Do you think you can recreate it from what you remember of the show and what we have here?"
"Yes!" Sherlock made a fist and thrust it up into the air. "I can do it!"
He whirled around the kitchen, grabbing a pot, several utensils, and other ingredients.
I watched him, delighted at his enthusiasm.
He was just so excited about everything; it was a joy to be around.
Yes, he was a bit obsessed with one particular show, but that didn't appear to be a bad thing in the slightest, even if the main character was a tragic Lothario, doomed to endlessly wander the universe pining for a mate who rejected him.
"Sherlock, about The Adventures of Garlithian the Space Pirate," I said, getting another brilliant flash of a smile as I said the title of it.
He didn't get distracted from his task, though, continuing to work through my commentary.
No matter how excited he got, he always focused on what he was doing.
"I heard Saoirse invite you back to her room to watch it.
I know you've mentioned wanting to do that, and I was wondering why you told her no? "
He slid the pot onto the heating element and put one of the thicker cooking oils we had made into it, the one suitable for working at a high heat.
"Because I think I would die," he said as he stuck his hands under the hand cleaners.
He was a terrible sous chef, but he followed my hygiene requirements perfectly, washing his hands in between touching food and touching other surfaces.
I didn't care that much about it in my personal space, but if I was serving anything to other people, I wanted to be absolutely confident in the cleanliness of my space.
"What?" I asked, startled. "Why?"
"Big Guy has given me detailed descriptions of human anatomy," he said as he picked up chunks of vegetables and crushed them in his hands into the pot. They began to sizzle. "Mating with Saoirse would lead to my death."
My many thoughts about the future fluttered out the window into outer space.
"She invited you to watch a show together, not mate," I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
I didn't know why I felt so disappointed.
If he was able to mate with a human, he just made it clear it would have been Saoirse.
He only turned her down because of something Big Guy told him.
When I saw them hanging out together in the public spaces, it made me happy he was connecting with others.
Shouldn't I have felt jealous to see them together if I was going to feel disappointed by the fact that he couldn't hook up with humans at all?
"My origin species has a mating rut that is triggered by accepting an invitation into a potential mate's nest," he said as he continued to add things to the pot. "I am fairly certain going into a personal space like a room would trigger it."
"But you made several comments about wanting to watch your show with me in my room," I said, trying to work through my confusion. "Why would you do that if mating with me would kill you?"
"Mating with you would cause me minor injury," he said, flashing me a smile as he poured the coconut-like cream we made out of the attack vine's venom.
"I have looked up the scans, and mating with Saoirse would kill me, whereas mating with you wouldn't. Even if it wouldn't, I am not attracted to Saoirse the way I am to you.
Your scents are different, and even if it were safe to do so, I would never accept her invitation to mate when I had a stronger attraction to you. "
His words caused a flutter of excitement to clench my core, my anticipation and arousal adding to my confusion about what he was saying.
"Garlithian would," I said. "From what you've said of your show, Garlithian accepts any female who expresses interest at all."
I didn't know why I was arguing with him about this, if what I was doing was even arguing. I just wanted to understand him better. Not only that, but I wanted to understand my emotional and physical reactions to what he was saying.
"Garlithian is not a role model," he said as he picked up a small round metal ball, tapped it on the side, and dropped it into the bubbling pot. The sound of whirring filled the air.
"You quote him all the time," I said. "You sure have made it sound like you consider him to be a role model."
"Not for mating," he said. "Garlithian is a character to be pitied when it comes to mating, not emulated."
As it often was with him, I found my mental image of him shifting around, realigning as he showed that his thoughts went deeper, that he wasn't going to worship a male role model unilaterally without seeing the flaws.
"I think I need to watch this show," I said.
The whirring sound faded as Sherlock's smile grew.
"I would love to watch it with you in your room," he said, again asking for an invitation without directly asking.
He said it that way because he needed that direct invitation. That was why he didn't just knock on my door with snacks in hand, ready to go.
I remained silent, not taking the bait.
"Try this," he said, dipping a clean spoon in the pot and holding it out to me. I let him feed me the spoonful, mulling over the flavor even as I mulled over everything he had told me.
"It's good," I said, and he dished up two bowls for us.
I dug into the soup, enjoying it while we stood alone in the kitchen.
It was getting close to dinner time, and soon others would begin to congregate, to find out if I had made anything or to play around with recipes of their own.
The kitchen was big enough for everyone, and these moments alone with Sherlock were rare.
I still needed to know so much more.
"What is a mating rut?" I asked.