Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Honesty was nervous, she cooked.
Which was probably why nutrition had appealed to her in the first place.
She’d always liked keeping busy, so pursuing her Master’s in Functional & Integrative Nutrition had fit the bill.
She’d planned ahead for cooking tonight and had ordered what she needed, going as far as having her groceries delivered.
Everything had arrived except for one crucial ingredient.
The lemons for her olive oil lemon tart.
The recipe called for three of them, and substituting another citrus or vinegar simply wouldn’t do.
An inconvenience to be sure, but not the cause of her frazzled nerves. Dante would be here any moment, a plan that had sounded well and fine while she had been snuggled next to him in his bed. Now, looking around her humble and spotless apartment, she wasn’t as confident.
Her living room wasn’t huge, but sizable enough to suit her needs.
A sofa, rug, and an artful iron-and-wood coffee table sat in front of her television.
The TV stood on a secondhand wooden stand.
Two lamps, one on the floor, the other on a side table, were off.
There was still enough daylight coming in through the windows.
On either side of the window were pastel paintings of plants.
She’d painted them in a college art class.
They were good, not great, but she was proud of them.
A real-life version was full and thriving, its vines draped over a small bookshelf in the corner.
She liked to think of her style as minimalist but homey. She loved neutrals, but a pop of green that reminded her of the outdoors was a requirement.
She lit candles in the room for ambiance while she waited for Dante to arrive: one each on the windowsill and TV stand, and one nestled in a decorative tea light holder shaped like a koi fish on the tiny dining table for two.
She peeked in at her bedroom, satisfied with how it looked. Inspired by the cashmere throw at Dante’s penthouse, she’d tossed an olive green blanket over the corner of her bed. It…wasn’t cashmere, but chenille. Not fancy, but she loved the texture.
Butterflies took wing in her stomach as she pictured him in her cramped apartment. If the living and bedroom areas were the size of a sardine tin, that made the kitchen one of the sardines. Once they were sharing the space, she wondered how she’d concentrate on anything except how great he looked.
Cooking over a hot range, or brushing up against each other’s arms while they chopped vegetables or measured ingredients, suddenly seemed very sexy.
In the kitchen, she fidgeted between lining up the cutting board with the edge of the butcher block countertop and folding and refolding the dishtowels while she waited. She was about to sharpen a knife that didn’t need sharpening, when there was a knock at the door.
Dante.
Her heart buoyed in her throat before sinking into her stomach—the same way it used to when he would come to her dorm room and ravish her the second she opened the door.
She wiped her damp hands down the apron she’d put on and reminded herself that she was no longer the besotted twenty-something that worshipped the ground he walked on.
She’d simply treat tonight like a private lesson. Granted, she hadn’t done one in years, but she remembered how it went. She would share the plan, help execute it, and, in this case, ask Dante’s opinion on changes since he knew Eli’s preferences.
Easy-peasy.
Desperate for something to do with her hands, she carried in a dish towel with her when she opened the door.
Dante was standing at the threshold, tall and solid, and damned sexy in dark jeans and a fitted navy-blue T-shirt.
He didn’t make a move to ravish her, though he did present her with a bouquet that he’d hidden behind his back.
A cheery bunch of white daisies with yellow centers peered up at her. “For the chef.” He smiled around a day’s worth of stubble, which woke up every feminine part of her.
“Thank you. I love daisies.”
“I remember.”
She accepted the bouquet, wrapped in brown kraft paper and tied with twine. That they weren’t smothering behind colorful, non-recyclable cellophane was a detail she appreciated.
“Welcome to my home.” She invited him in by sweeping her free hand toward the room.
As she shut the door behind him, he took in her space. He slid his hands into his pockets, glanced at the bedroom, and then the bookshelf. He paused at her window and admired the view, or rather, lack thereof.
“It’s no penthouse.” She approached him, suddenly nervous.
“It doesn’t have to be.” He finally kissed her hello. “I like your place. It’s very you.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
He gave her another kiss, lingering this time. When they parted, she was a little breathless. He took the bouquet from her grip. “I’ll put these into a vase for you. Presuming you have one?”
“In those hard-to-reach cabinets above the refrigerator.” She pointed to the kitchen. “I have an apron for you, too, by the way. Wouldn’t want to ruin your wardrobe.”
He pulled down the vase. He hadn’t even needed a stepladder.
“It’s not an emasculating floral design or anything like that,” she continued as he arranged the flowers. “It’s a respectable blue-and-white pinstripe.”
“Thank you.” He accepted the apron, slipping it over his head.
She moved the candle to one side and set the vase of daisies next to it.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Salmon and scallops. Salad. That Greek yogurt sauce with fresh herbs I bragged about. And for dessert… Well, we can talk about that later.”
Heat darkened his gaze, and she realized she’d intimated that dessert was sex. “No, I mean actual dessert.”
“I thought that was actual dessert where we are concerned,” he mumbled against her ear as she pulled the seafood, wrapped in butcher paper, from the fridge.
“You chop. We have work to do.” She piled cucumber, red onion, cherry tomatoes, and the aforementioned herbs into his arms.
This wasn’t only a rehearsal for Eli anymore. She was planning for her first real clients. Everything she tested tonight she would be teaching them to cook in their kitchens next. And each of them would have different mobility challenges and personalities to navigate around.
“I want it to be upscale but approachable,” she said, more to herself than to Dante.
“I took into consideration the availability of ingredients and the possible limited energy of the person making it. I also considered mobility and price. If an ingredient can do double duty it won’t just cost less, but can also be chopped once and used twice. ”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
He was watching her with what might be admiration before picking up a knife and getting to work. “What was your brother like? After his injury?”
“He was despondent at first. But he was in a lot of pain after his first surgery. And then, when he healed, he was frustrated that he wasn’t making progress fast enough.
By the way, he was.” She paused to smile.
“Christian was one of the most impatient people I’ve ever known.
Not always a bad thing. But in this case, he needed to be patient and let his body heal. ”
“Not easy. I broke my collarbone shortly after going to LA, and I was a miserable bastard for a long while.”
“You did?” The idea of him in pain, and her not knowing about it, bothered her more than it should have.
“I didn’t want to be coddled or taken care of, either,” he added. “I bet he felt the same way.”
“You’re right about that.” She plucked basil leaves for the pesto and dropped them into the food processor while she talked.
“Finding Eli’s charity helped a lot. He was suddenly around men and women who were going through similar struggles.
And when he was able to purchase an apartment that he could live in by himself, he was ecstatic. ”
“I can’t imagine losing my independence. It’s paramount to being an adult.”
She let out a small grunt of agreement. Given the choice, Dante had chosen his independence over her years ago. But that wasn’t what they were talking about.
“After he lived on his own, and his mobility was better, he became more like his old self.” She snapped the lid onto the food processor.
“This is going to be noisy for a minute.” She buzzed together the pine nuts, parmesan, basil, and seasoning and then streamed in the olive oil.
After the pesto had come together, she shut off the machine.
“I know you only met him once, but I think you two would’ve gotten along really well. ”
“As highly as you spoke of him when we dated, I have no doubt we would’ve been mates.”
That was the first time he had used a phrase that hinted he’d lived somewhere other than California or Chicago. She wondered if it happened often or if those colloquialisms made the rarest of appearances.
“Hand me that roll of parchment paper?” she asked.
He held onto the other end of the roll rather than let her take it right away. “This is big, Honesty. It’s going to be an incredible service to offer this community.”
“Thank you.” She lined a pan with the paper and slid the salmon onto it. As she dolloped a thick layer of pesto sauce onto the salmon fillets, a wave of sadness mixed with gratitude washed over her. Same as it always did when she thought of her brother.
“Okay, now what?” Dante asked, having finished prepping the ingredients for the salad.
She unfolded the other butcher paper to reveal thick, pillowy scallops.
“Nice,” he said. “I’m doing these my way and you can’t stop me.”
“I have no lemons.”
“Criminal.”
“I know. I had to add vinegar to the pesto. Desperate times.”
“Leave it to me. These will be so good, your eyes will roll back into your head.” Leaving the pan to heat, he came to her and tucked his fingers into the front of her apron. “You’re familiar with that sensation, aren’t you?”
She refused to give him the satisfaction of agreeing.