Chapter 7 Private Lessons
Chef For A Day
Oliver was halfway through preparing lunch when Ethan Blackwood walked into the kitchen carrying a laptop, a coffee, and an expression that suggested he hadn't slept nearly enough.
The sight had become surprisingly familiar.
Most mornings followed a predictable rhythm now.
Breakfast.
Meetings.
Conference calls.
More meetings.
Occasionally, Ethan would stop by the kitchen between obligations long enough to grab coffee or exchange a few words.
The interactions were brief.
Comfortable.
Dangerously normal.
Oliver had stopped being intimidated by him weeks ago.
That realization alone probably should have worried him.
"Morning."
Ethan looked up from his screen.
"Morning."
Oliver continued chopping vegetables.
"Rough night?"
"Investor conference."
That explained everything.
Investor conferences seemed responsible for at least half of Ethan's bad moods.
Oliver pointed toward the coffee.
"Second cup?"
"Third."
"Impressive."
"Necessary."
The exchange earned a faint smile.
Small victories.
Oliver considered them one of his greatest achievements.
The billionaire's smiles remained rare enough to feel valuable.
For several moments, silence settled comfortably between them.
Then Ethan surprised him.
Again.
"I have a question."
Oliver looked up.
"That sounds dangerous."
"It probably is."
Now he was curious.
Ethan closed the laptop.
A very unusual move.
Whatever question he wanted to ask apparently required full attention.
The realization immediately intrigued Oliver.
"What kind of question?"
A pause followed.
Then Ethan sighed.
The sound carried a surprising amount of resignation.
"How difficult is cooking?"
Oliver blinked.
Of all the questions he expected, that certainly wasn't one of them.
"Cooking?"
"Yes."
"You mean professionally?"
"No."
Another pause.
Then Ethan looked mildly annoyed with himself.
"I mean in general."
Oliver stared.
The billionaire actually seemed embarrassed.
The sight felt so unexpected that laughter immediately threatened.
"Ethan."
His expression darkened slightly.
"Don't."
"Oh, no."
The laughter escaped.
"You absolutely brought this on yourself."
"Evidently."
Oliver shook his head.
The situation felt absurd.
The man could negotiate billion-dollar acquisitions.
Manage thousands of employees.
Run one of the largest companies in America.
Yet apparently cooking remained beyond him.
"How bad are we talking?"
Ethan considered the question.
Then answered with alarming honesty.
"I once burned soup."
Oliver stopped chopping entirely.
"You burned soup."
"Yes."
"Liquid."
"I understand how soup works."
That only made it worse.
Oliver laughed harder.
The billionaire looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"Are you finished?"
"Not even slightly."
Several moments passed before Oliver regained control.
Mostly.
"So you can't cook."
"I can order food."
"That's not cooking."
"It's a survival skill."
Oliver wiped tears from his eyes.
"Your poor mother."
Something softened briefly in Ethan's expression.
"She tried."
"I believe it."
"She eventually gave up."
The mental image nearly started another round of laughter.
Ethan apparently recognized the danger.
"Careful."
"What?"
"I sign your paycheck."
That only made Oliver grin.
"You wouldn't fire me."
The confidence slipped out before he could stop it.
Immediately, silence followed.
Not awkward.
Just unexpected.
Ethan looked at him.
Really looked at him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then something unreadable flickered through the billionaire's eyes.
"No."
His voice sounded quieter.
"I wouldn't."
The response landed strangely.
Neither man seemed entirely sure what to do with it.
Eventually Oliver cleared his throat.
"So why the sudden interest in cooking?"
The moment passed.
Mostly.
Ethan leaned against the counter.
"My mother used to complain about it."
"Your inability to cook?"
"Constantly."
Oliver smiled.
"I imagine she had strong opinions."
"Very."
A brief fondness entered Ethan's expression.
Gone almost immediately.
Yet visible.
"She always said every adult should know how to prepare at least one decent meal."
"Smart woman."
"That's what she told me."
Oliver returned to chopping vegetables.
"So learn."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"Just like that?"
"Pretty much."
"It's not that simple."
Oliver gestured toward the kitchen.
"This is literally my entire profession."
A dangerous smile appeared.
"You could teach me."
The knife nearly slipped from Oliver's hand.
Teach him.
The words sounded innocent enough.
Perfectly reasonable.
Yet something about the suggestion immediately felt dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Probably because it involved spending additional time alone together.
Probably because Oliver liked that idea far more than he should.
"I don't know."
Ethan folded his arms.
"Why not?"
"Because you're Ethan Blackwood."
The billionaire frowned.
"And?"
"You schedule meetings six weeks in advance."
"Accurate."
"You answer emails at three in the morning."
"Sometimes."
"You think weekends are a suggestion."
A reluctant smile appeared.
"Occasionally."
Oliver pointed the knife toward him.
"You'd never actually do it."
The challenge lingered between them.
Then Ethan surprised him.
Once again.
"Tonight."
"What?"
"A lesson."
Oliver blinked.
"You mean that?"
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Unless you're busy."
The question sounded entirely too casual.
As though Ethan wasn't one of the busiest people on the planet.
Oliver stared for several moments.
Then laughed softly.
"Fine."
Something warm settled unexpectedly in his chest.
Excitement.
The realization should have concerned him.
Instead, he focused on work.
The rest of the day passed surprisingly slowly.
Several times Oliver caught himself thinking about the lesson.
Then immediately pretending he wasn't.
Professional behavior clearly wasn't at its strongest.
By seven-thirty that evening, everything was ready.
Ingredients waited neatly arranged across the counter.
Cutting boards.
Mixing bowls.
Aprons.
The sight felt strangely intimate.
Cooking lessons belonged to families.
Friends.
Couples.
Not employers and employees.
Oliver pushed the thought away immediately.
Dangerous territory.
Very dangerous.
At exactly eight o'clock, Ethan arrived.
To Oliver's complete shock, the billionaire was wearing jeans.
Actual jeans.
Not designer trousers.
Not business attire.
Jeans.
And a dark grey sweater.
The outfit somehow made him look younger.
More approachable.
Far less intimidating.
Unfortunately, it also made him significantly more attractive.
A development Oliver absolutely didn't need.
"You own casual clothes."
Ethan looked down.
"I've been informed."
Oliver laughed.
The billionaire rolled his eyes.
Then noticed the apron waiting nearby.
His expression immediately became suspicious.
"No."
"Oh yes."
"No."
"Absolutely."
Several minutes later, Ethan stood in the middle of the kitchen wearing an apron.
The sight nearly destroyed Oliver's composure.
"This is humiliating."
"It's beautiful."
"I hate you."
"That's fair."
The lesson began with something simple.
Pasta.
Not complicated.
Not intimidating.
Just enough technique to teach fundamentals.
Or at least that was the plan.
The actual lesson quickly became chaos.
Because Ethan approached cooking the same way he approached business.
Aggressively.
Confidently.
Incorrectly.
"No."
Oliver grabbed his wrist before disaster occurred.
"The knife goes like this."
Ethan looked down at their hands.
Then toward Oliver.
The contact lasted only a second.
Maybe two.
Yet awareness immediately sparked.
Sharp.
Unexpected.
Oliver released him instantly.
Probably a little too quickly.
"Right."
His voice sounded strange.
Excellent.
Very professional.
Ethan cleared his throat.
"Like this?"
"Better."
The lesson continued.
Mostly.
Several onions suffered tragic fates.
One tomato launched itself across the room.
A measuring cup nearly fell victim to corporate overconfidence.
By the halfway point, both men were laughing.
Actually laughing.
The kind that left shoulders shaking.
The kind impossible to fake.
"I cannot believe you run a company."
Oliver wiped his eyes.
"I'm beginning to understand your board's concerns."
Ethan pointed a wooden spoon at him.
"Careful."
"What?"
"I know where you sleep."
The threat sounded remarkably ineffective.
Especially coming from a man currently covered in flour.
Oliver looked down.
Then laughed harder.
Because somehow flour decorated Ethan's sweater.
His hair.
Possibly his face.
The billionaire followed his gaze.
"What now?"
"You have flour on your nose."
Silence.
Then confusion.
"My what?"
Oliver stepped closer before thinking.
Far closer.
Close enough to see faint stubble along Ethan's jaw.
Close enough to notice how dark his eyes really were.
The realization arrived a fraction too late.
Because Ethan wasn't moving.
Neither was he.
For one strange moment, the entire kitchen seemed to still.
Oliver reached up automatically.
Brushed away the flour.
The touch lasted less than a second.
Yet awareness exploded instantly.
Electric.
Dangerous.
Real.
Their eyes met.
The laughter faded.
Something else remained.
Something heavier.
More complicated.
Oliver's pulse accelerated.
Ethan's expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
The warmth remained.
Yet something sharper existed beneath it now.
The same thing Oliver had been trying very hard not to notice for weeks.
Attraction.
The realization hung between them.
Silent.
Undeniable.
Neither man looked away.
Neither moved.
The distance suddenly felt far too small.
And not nearly small enough.
Then the timer beeped.
Both jumped slightly.
Reality returned.
The spell shattered.
Oliver immediately stepped backward.
Probably too fast.
The kitchen felt strangely warm.
"Right."
Brilliant.
Another excellent contribution.