Chapter 14
Okay,I’m totally and perfectly fine. I ignore Ethan and concentrate on Marco.
“Everyone!” Marco’s voice booms across the room, slicing through the hum of excited chatter, his presence commanding and magnetic. “Please, gather around!”
We join the semi-circle forming around Marco at the front of the kitchen. His eyes scan the crowd, piercing and intense, and pause momentarily when they meet mine. There’s a flicker of recognition, a subtle arch of his eyebrow, but he moves on smoothly, not missing a beat. “I’m Chef Marco,” he says with a charismatic smile that could melt butter. “And today, I’ll be guiding you through a culinary experience that will tantalize your taste buds and maybe even challenge your cooking prowess.”
The room erupts in polite applause, and I find myself clapping along, my hands moving of their own accord, caught up in the infectious energy.
“Let’s forget about following recipes to the letter,” Marco continues, gesturing broadly with hands that have undoubtedly mastered every chop, slice, and dice imaginable. His movements are fluid and graceful, like a dance choreographed to the rhythm of the kitchen. “Cooking is about joy, creativity, and . . .” He pauses for effect, his gaze sweeping over us once more, lingering just a moment longer on me, “. . . a little bit of flair.”
“Sounds like my kind of thing,” Ethan whispers, his shoulder brushing against mine in a moment of easy camaraderie, his breath warm on my ear. I suppress a shiver, the heat of his presence is both comforting and electrifying.
“Liar,” I mouth, my eyes narrowing playfully. This man doesn’t move two steps without a plan. His every action is calculated and precise.
But Ethan ignores me and glances at Marco, pretending he’s paying attention to him.
“By the end of this evening,” Marco declares, his voice ringing out like a bell, clear and commanding, “you’ll not only leave here with full stomachs but also with fuller hearts. Cooking, after all, is love made edible.”
Slipping into the crisp white apron, I can’t contain the grin spreading across my face, the fabric smooth and cool against my skin. I tie it snugly around my waist, the knot a promise of the culinary adventure ahead, and spin to face Ethan, who’s already sporting his own apron, looking every bit the part of a seasoned chef despite the uncertainty in his eyes.
“Look at us,” I chuckle, giving him a once-over, my eyes lingering on the way the apron accentuates his broad shoulders and trim waist. “We could totally pass for culinary pros.”
Ethan smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief as he reaches out to adjust my hair net, his fingers brushing against my forehead in a fleeting moment of intimacy. “Speak for yourself,” he teases, his voice low and husky. “I’ve been told I have a natural talent for making things sizzle.”
I roll my eyes, fighting back a grin as I swat his hand away playfully. “We’ll see about that,” I counter, my heart fluttering in my chest as we sidle up to our designated cooking station, the countertop gleaming under the bright overhead lights. I can feel the warmth radiating from Ethan’s body, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him, to let his presence calm my nerves.
The ingredients for tonight’s menu sit colorfully arranged in little bowls, a rainbow of possibility waiting to be transformed by our novice hands. I stare at them, my brow furrowed in concentration, trying to mentally map out the steps to culinary success.
“Okay, so what’s first?” I murmur, poring over the recipe card that Marco has provided, my fingers tracing the elegant scrawl. But before I can even decipher the first line, disaster strikes. My hand slips, and a too-generous helping of salt cascades into the mixing bowl where sugar should have been. I gasp, my eyes widening in horror. “Ethan, I think I’ve started an impromptu science experiment,” I groan, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
He leans over, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder as he peers into the bowl with a bemused expression, his breath tickling my ear. “Well, if we’re aiming for a salted caramel effect, you’re on the right track,” he chuckles, his voice warm and teasing.
“Ha, let’s go with that.” I try to fish out the offending crystals with a spoon, my tongue poking out between my teeth in concentration, but it’s like trying to sift the beach through a tennis racket—futile and slightly ridiculous. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.
“Here, let me help.” Ethan reaches past me, his arm brushing mine, sending a strange little current zipping up my spine. I tremble, my skin tingling where we touched. Together, we attempt to salvage what we can, our hands bumping and grazing as we work, but it’s clear this mixture is destined for the trash.
“Next one will be better,” he assures me, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back, a gesture of comfort and support. I can’t help but admire his confidence. Or is it optimism? Either way, I’m grateful for it, his presence a steadying force in the chaos of the kitchen.
“Right, next one,” I repeat, already scooping flour into another bowl, my confidence renewed. But as I reach for what I think is baking powder, my hand closes around the jar of chili flakes instead. It isn’t until I’ve shaken a generous amount into the mix that I realize my mistake, the pungent aroma hitting me like a slap in the face.
“Uh, Ethan?” I say slowly, my voice wavering as I watch tiny red specks dot the flour like poppy seeds gone rogue. “How do you feel about spicy desserts?” I turn to him, my expression a mixture of sheepishness and barely contained laughter, my eyes watering from the spicy scent wafting up from the bowl.
Ethan’s eyes widen, a look of mock terror crossing his face as he takes in the chili-infused concoction. “We could fix it,” he suggests, his hand brushing against the small of my back, a gentle caress that I feel throughout my body.
“Let’s just . . . start from scratch, again,” I manage to say, my voice breathy and unsteady as I reach for new ingredients with a determination that feels almost like defiance. We’re going to get this right, mishaps or not. Ethan nods, his eyes locking with mine for a moment, a silent understanding passing between us, and we set to work once more, a pair of undaunted chefs on a quest for edible redemption.
Eggs crack, one after another, their contents meeting the bowl with an almost musical plop. Beside me, Ethan’s chuckle harmonizes with the rhythm, low and infectious, the sound sending a pleasant tingle down my spine. I glance over just in time to see his egg somehow missing the bowl entirely, its gooey insides sliding down the side of our workstation.
“Looks like your egg had a different plan,” I tease, biting back a full-blown belly laugh.
“Definitely staging a break for it,” he says, scooping up the runaway with a sheepish grin, his cheeks flushing adorably. “Maybe it knew we were about to turn it into something . . . unconventional.”
“Unconventional” is one way to put it. One look at our station—flour dusting every surface, including us, and bowls filled with questionable mixtures—is enough to send anyone running for the hills. Yet here we are, both of us covered in smudges and splatters, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this exhilarated, this alive.
Ethan reaches out, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek, wiping away a smudge of flour. My breath catches in my throat, my heart racing at his touch, and for a moment, the world around us fades away, leaving only the two of us, lost in each other’s gaze.
“You’ve got a little something . . .” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his eyes darkening with an emotion I can’t quite place.
I swallow hard, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips, and I can see Ethan’s eyes following the movement, his own lips parting slightly. The tension between us is palpable, electric, and I can feel myself leaning in, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
But before anything can happen, a loud clatter from across the room breaks the spell, and we spring apart, both of us flushed and breathless. We turn back to our work, determination in our movements, but the memory of that moment lingers, a promise of what could be.
“Okay, what’s next on the list?” I ask, peering at the recipe through eyes narrowed against the threat of more airborne ingredients. My brow furrows in concentration as I try to decipher the handwritten instructions, the ink smudged from our earlier mishaps.
“Uh, that would be milk. But maybe double-check it’s not vinegar this time?” Ethan playfully nudges my shoulder, his touch sending a flicker of heat through my body.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” I retort, rolling my eyes dramatically. “My taste buds have officially gone on strike after that mix-up.” I grab the milk carton, double-checking the label with exaggerated care before adding it to the bowl, my tongue poking out between my teeth in concentration. Ethan nods approvingly, a mock-serious glint in his eyes.
“See? You’re a natural at this,” he encourages, his voice laced with humor, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back, a gesture of support.
“Natural disaster, maybe,” I shoot back, but I’m grinning from ear to ear. There’s something about this mess that feels right, like it’s painting a story of who we are: perfectly imperfect and unapologetically us.
“Ready for the mixer?” I ask, already reaching for the appliance, my fingers trembling slightly with anticipation.
As the beaters whir into action, flinging batter in a dramatic arc across the counter, we erupt into laughter once again, our voices mingling in a symphony of mirth. The kitchen may be a disaster zone, but it’s our disaster zone, a testament to the bond we share.
“Who needs a cooking class when you’ve got our special brand of slapstick comedy?” I quip, dodging a splatter of rogue dough, my heart racing with exhilaration. It’s a moment straight out of a sitcom, but there’s no canned laughter here—just genuine, unabated joy.
“Exactly,” Ethan agrees, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And hey, if all else fails, we can always start a food fight. It’s about the only thing we haven’t done yet.”
“Challenge accepted.” Winking, I swipe a dollop of batter from the edge of the bowl and feign a throwing stance, my muscles coiled and ready for action.
“Easy there, tiger.” He holds up his hands in surrender, but the twinkle in his eye tells me he’s ready for whatever comes next. And so am I, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, something I’m not quite ready to name.
We stand there for a moment, facing each other, our chests heaving with laughter and unspoken emotions. The air between us crackles with tension, a delicious anticipation that makes my skin tingle and my blood sing.
The rest of the time, Marco ignores us, his attention focused solely on the other participants, and we continue working, our earlier mishaps forgotten as we find our rhythm in the kitchen.
The class winds down, and I’m still basking in the glow of our culinary adventure gone awry when Marco’s voice suddenly cuts through the buzz of the kitchen. It’s sharp, derisive—a tone that clashes with the one he used earlier when he was all smiles and flirtatious winks.
“Really, Janet?” he exclaims, his words dripping with condescension as he holds up a charred excuse for a soufflé, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “This is what you call cooking? My two-year-old nephew could make more appealing goop than this shit.”
I freeze, spatula in hand, as does everyone else, my heart plummeting to the pit of my stomach. The energy in the room shifts, and it feels like someone popped our bubble of fun, the air suddenly thick with tension. Poor Janet’s face crumples, the blush on her cheeks a stark contrast to the white of her chef’s hat, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“I . . . I thought—” she stammers, her voice trembling as she tries to defend herself, but Marco waves off her explanation with a flick of his wrist, his eyes cold and unforgiving.
“Save it. You’re not getting a refund for this. Some people just don’t have what it takes,” he says, tossing the burnt dish into the sink with a clatter that echoes my racing heart, the sound making me flinch.
A heavy silence follows, and I can’t help but glance at Ethan, my eyes seeking his for comfort and reassurance. His brow furrows slightly, eyes darkening with disapproval, his jaw clenched tight with barely contained anger.
“Hey, come on, Marco,” I interject, my voice steadier than I feel, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “Everyone has an off day in the kitchen, right? Even you must’ve burned a dish or two in your time.”
“Poor Lily, na?ve as ever I see,” Marco says, his lips twisting into a condescending smirk, but some of the tension dissolves, the room collectively exhaling as people resume their tasks, though the air is tainted now, thick with discomfort.
As I help Janet clean up her station, offering a sympathetic smile and a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, I can’t shake the cold realization creeping over me, my stomach churning with a mixture of anger and disappointment. This is why we broke up. He wanted everything done his way and perfectly, his need for control overshadowing any semblance of compassion or understanding. I couldn’t be with someone so controlling and manipulative, my heart constricting at the thought of the emotional toll it would take.
He’s charming and lovely, but there are two different personas living in that man, a Jekyll and a Hyde, that I can’t reconcile. And as I catch Ethan’s gaze across the room, his eyes filled with concern and a silent question, I know that I’ve made the right decision. My heart is finally free from the grip of a man who could never truly love me for who I am.
“Charming guy,” Ethan comments dryly once Marco is out of earshot, his lips twisting into a wry smile.
“Charm’s overrated,” I reply, tossing my apron onto the counter with more force than necessary, the fabric crumpling under the weight of my frustration. The image of Marco’s sneer lingers, burning in my mind like a brand. “We should go,” I mutter, my voice tight with barely contained emotion.
“I take it you know what happened between the two of you?” Ethan asks, his eyes searching mine for answers.
I give him a sharp nod, my jaw clenching as I untie his apron strings with trembling fingers. I turn on my heel, my footsteps echoing on the tile floor as I walk away, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Hey, I’m not the asshole here,” Ethan calls out, his footsteps quickening behind me as he tries to keep pace.
“Which I appreciate,” I reply, my voice softening slightly as I glance over my shoulder at him. “Maybe Zoe is right, and I didn’t miss anything when I let them go.”
“This is why we’re searching for them, to get answers—to find your future,” Ethan reminds me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder, a comforting warmth that seeps through my shirt and to my skin.
“Tonight was . . .” I search for the right word, wanting to capture the whirlwind of emotions that have taken hold of me.
“An epic saga of culinary misadventure?” Ethan offers, his lips quirking into a playful grin.
I laugh, nodding in agreement, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. “Exactly that. But also . . .” I hesitate, trying to articulate the shift I’m feeling—the realization that what’s real is right here beside me, my heart fluttering in my chest.
“Positive thoughts, Lily,” Ethan encourages, his voice gentle and reassuring.
“You’re right. It was an experience that also reminded me of another one,” I murmur, my eyes locking with his, a silent understanding passing between us.
“Thanks, by the way,” I say, glancing at Ethan, my heart swelling with gratitude. “For being the best cooking partner a girl could ask for, even if we did almost set the kitchen on fire.”
“Anytime,” he replies, his voice warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Although next time, maybe we stick to takeout?”
“Deal.” I link my arm through his, feeling the steady pulse of his laughter mingle with mine, our bodies swaying slightly as we walk out of the restaurant and into the night, the stars twinkling above us like a promise of things to come.