Yes, Chef

Chapter 42 Hibiscus

Hibiscus

Poppy

The rest of the event goes off without a hitch.

The guests loved the food. The dessert was a huge hit. Floating around the dining room, I get pulled into so many conversations,

they blur together. When I finally manage to check my phone during the clean-up, I see story after story tagging Fable, me,

and Jack.

And Jack, despite everything, came out of the kitchen again around dessert, making everyone give me a round of applause for

the dish. I know it was a success, I could see people savoring it—but I couldn’t find it in me to enjoy the praise. We pose

for photos, we take reservations for opening night, and throughout it all, I smile as wide as I can.

Inside, though, I feel like a collapsing star. I want to tear off this dress and these heels and throw them in the lagoon.

I want to run until my lungs burn, and then burrow myself into blankets with Gator in tow. I want Jack to smile at me, and

to feel like we did this together.

It was amazing, for that brief moment, watching him move in the kitchen. I could practically taste the air, dozens of flavors

melding together in the activation of heat. Jack was effortlessly in command, expediting orders and finishing plates while

at the same time handling three steaming pans and a grill. He was focused, face shining with perspiration, hair curling over

his forehead from the heat.

He was doing what he loves again, finally, after it all came crashing down for him. And as I watched, it hit me with perfect clarity: he belongs here. Not just in any kitchen. This kitchen.

I should’ve gone back to the dining room without a word.

When the last guests leave, we clean up, sticking to our respective spheres. Jack and the crew work on the kitchen until it’s

spotless. I bring the dining room back into order with the servers, Chester, and Kiara, wiping down every surface and sweeping

the floors.

It’s early morning by the time we stumble to the houseboat. Jack disappears into the shower. I strip off my dress and shoes

and lay across the bed in my underwear.

Eventually, the shower turns off. I don’t feel like dealing with my hair, so I throw on a pair of pajamas and head above-deck.

It’s not time for sunrise yet, but I can feel the world slowly coming to life again. The moon, a mere sliver, hangs low in

the sky. A bird wings over my head. It’s odd to think of Jack having nights like this all the time. Getting to work when other

people are just winding down for the evening. Working well into the night, and then morning, and finding enough quiet to sleep

while the rest of the world starts the day.

It must be lonely.

I think he’s always been lonely, and he feels like he deserves it.

I braid my hair to give my hands something to do. Then I unbraid it, and start all over again. I should feel elated right

now. We both should. Aside from the hiccup of Jessica and getting backed up during service, nothing went wrong. We already

have three interview requests and rumors that Bret Whittaker, the reviewer who skewered Jack’s food his last night at Pastiche,

will be coming to Fable’s opening night.

And Jack called me his girlfriend.

“Hey,” I hear him say.

I sit up, letting go of my hair. He looks refreshed from the shower, or at least as fresh as a man can be while also half-dead

on his feet. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweats. A trail of dark hair leads beneath the waistband.

I bite my lip. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry.” He sits beside me with a tired groan, hand dragging over his jaw. “I acted like a jackass.”

My heart softens slightly. “And I was way too stubborn.”

“Seeing Jessica was . . .”

“Yeah.” I scoot closer. “That’s why I was trying to get rid of her without you knowing. I didn’t want to ruin your flow.”

I laugh shortly, without humor. “Although I managed that anyway.”

“What did she tell you?”

“We don’t have to . . .” At Jack’s expression, I trail off, shrugging. “She said what she did to you wasn’t that bad because

you were using her, too. To get her to put in a good word with her parents.”

His eyes shut briefly. “That’s true. I didn’t hesitate to get a sense of what could be next for my career.”

“Jack, I like how driven you are.”

He shakes his head. “You say that now.”

“I mean it. You ask so much of yourself. You ask it of me, too. No one ever has before you, and it means . . .” I break off,

giving in to the urge to kiss him. “It means everything, Jack. I swear.”

His arms come around my waist, and I sigh with relief against his lips. “But I thought we were a team,” I continue. “‘Your

friends’? None of those people were my friends. Not really.”

“I know,” he says with a grimace.

“What were things like with her?” I can’t help but ask.

“What do you mean?”

“It was good, right? Before you realized what she was doing? You said it felt serious to you.”

He nods reluctantly.

“You’d have stayed with her? If she didn’t . . .”

“I don’t know.”

“You worked for her dad,” I say carefully. I saw the look on his face when he noticed us side by side, and I can’t not ask.

It’s been gnawing at me all night. “You were stuck on a different kind of desert island with her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, gaze flickering over me. “I know what it looks like. But you’re nothing like her.”

“No?”

“Not at all.” He leans in for another kiss, teasing the seam of my lips until they part on a gasp. “Understand me?”

“Heard.”

He buries his face in my shoulder. His damp hair tickles my bare skin. I inhale the scent of his shampoo, melting into his warmth, trembling as he breathes in once, sharply. He mumbles something, but cuts himself off.

“Let’s go downstairs,” I whisper. I rub his back. “Celebrate with your girlfriend.”

He scoops me into his arms. I cling to him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms clasped around his neck. He balances carefully

on the narrow staircase, holding me firm in his grip.

And then he brings me to bed.

“You’re the quiet one now,” I tease as we undress. He takes his time sliding his sweats off his hips. I ease my shirt over

my head, feeling my pulse in every inch of my body: throat, fingertips, core.

We make out messily, naked bodies sliding against each other. He kneads my bottom with firm hands. I run my nails down the

sensitive part of his back. He kisses a path from my mouth to my tits, pausing to nuzzle at the hollow of my throat. His weight

pushes me against the mattress. My toes curl, and I let out a whimper when his clever tongue catches one of my nipples between

his teeth. The burn of his beard on the underside of my breast has me arching my hips.

He strokes a hand down my side. “You were brilliant tonight.”

“So were you.” I sink my hands into his thick hair, petting it.

Whatever else he wants to say hangs in the air, nearly palpable. He continues to tease my nipples, instead, and drags his

hand between my legs, fingertips tugging on my curls. At the nudge of his thumb against my clit, I wiggle out from underneath

him, needing to feel his length in my hand. He’s half-stiff already and grows harder as I stroke. I circle the sensitive tip,

first with my finger, then with my tongue, and he hisses as if in pain, fingers tangling in my hair. I shut my eyes, reveling

in the feel of him in my mouth and the weight of his hand. There’s a hint of his taste on my tongue, rich and slightly salty.

I take him deeper. My thighs press together, my body wanting him there, but I continue to tease and lick and suck.

“Fuck.” His voice is all ragged edges. “Fuck, Princess—” Abruptly, he groans, pulling me off him. “I’m gonna fucking come

if you keep that up.”

“Do it.” I reach for him again, knowing my mouth is messy with spit, wanting to see how far I can take him. “Let me taste you.”

He kisses me instead, harshly, his tongue stroking into my mouth. I feel tight, tingly, throbbing with awareness and need.

“That’s not where I want to mark you,” he murmurs finally. The tip of his nose skims my cheek. He breathes against my ear,

sending flutters of sensation down my body. “I want . . .”

“Tell me,” I urge.

He doesn’t seem capable of getting the words out. He rolls us around so I’m on my back again, bracketed inside his solid warmth,

and curls an arm around each of my thighs. He spreads me slowly, lovingly, as if I’m the rarest of ingredients, deserving

all of his focus and respect.

The way he devours me, though, is as filthy as it comes.

I cry out, body jerking instinctively, as he runs his tongue down my slit. He spreads me with his thumbs, tongue and lips

and teeth roaming everywhere, tasting everything. He teases my clit until I pant, clawing for him everywhere I can reach,

only to pull away, pressing his face against my slick flesh. I feel his smile like a brand, his teeth like a tattoo. He leaves

delicate nips on the insides of my thighs, as if signing his name. When he finally, finally lets me wobble off the edge, he

looks up from the cradle of my hips, lips slick, beard wet, eyes shining like chips of rare jade.

His grin undoes me.

I claw at him until he settles over me. He slides a hand around the back of my head, cradling my neck as we kiss. I moan,

tasting myself on his lips, desperate for him to claim me in the deep, unique way I know only he can accomplish. When we break

for air, there’s a question in his eyes. Vulnerability that makes it clear he has more in mind than just making me come on

his tongue.

“Tell me,” I say again, cupping his jaw, stroking my thumb just underneath his eye. “What are you thinking?”

His free hand strokes over my breasts, my ribs. He palms my belly, fingers spreading as wide as they can go, pressing in with

just enough force that my eyes widen.

“Fuck, Poppy.” His voice is tender, a little hesitant. My heart thuds. “I want to fill you with me. Knock you up. You’d be so fucking beautiful, carrying my baby. Everyone would look at you and know I made you that way.”

I breathe in sharply. I might cry if he doesn’t get inside me right this second. I yank him into another kiss, open-mouthed,

sharing his breath. I’d never thought much about having a baby, but the sudden image of it has me close to the edge again.

I want it with brutal, breathtaking force. The thought of him coming deep inside me, again and again until I catch, and knowing

I’m carrying his child . . . it’s irresistible.

My heart takes flight, high on an emotion I don’t dare name.

“Take me.” I whisper it against his lips. “Now, Jack. Claim me.”

His fingertips stroke my belly. “Need to get a condom.”

“We both tested negative for STIs.” I rub my cheek against his beard. “And I’m on the pill.”

“I know.” He groans, pressing our foreheads together. “I’ve been checking to see if you take it and your other meds.”

“Like you don’t forget too.”

He laughs helplessly. “I’ve been remembering because of you.”

“Me too.”

“We’re good influences on each other, then.” He strokes my hair tenderly. I hook a leg around his waist, heel digging into

his lower back.

I’ve never felt so grounded, so present, in an intimate moment. The rest of the world has melted away, leaving us on our desert

island. The only two people in existence, now and ever.

“Please,” I whisper. “I took it.”

That seems to soften the rest of his resolve. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “You make me want so much, sweetheart.”

I glow at his praise, urging him closer, gasping at the press of his cock against my opening.

He takes his time, inch by perfect inch, generous with his kisses and lavish with his compliments.

I tremble at the closeness of it. This is something I’ve never done before, with anyone.

He rolls his hips, seeking the right angle, dropping his head with a groan when I squeeze around him tight.

I urge him into a kiss, and he takes my nudge and runs with it, pressing his lips to mine with fierce possessiveness.

He cups my bottom, lifting it just enough to deepen our connection.

He thrusts into me like he wants to make a home in my body.

“Jack.” My lip trembles. My heart pounds so loudly, I feel it in my ears. “Jack,” I whine again, voice cracking, splintering.

I’m wild with need, moving against him frantically. His teasing fingers find my clit, working me to the peak with precision.

I drag him down and bite a tattoo on his shoulder, hard enough he hisses. I want him running on instinct with me, flung out

into the ocean to swim by my side. He must see something in my eyes, a wordless plea, because he thrusts harder, rougher,

letting his weight sink against me. The back of my throat burns. A tear escapes down my cheek.

I’ve never been so thoroughly, joyfully, caught in this kind of moment.

He licks the tear, making me laugh. He laughs too, a low rumble, and finds it in himself to freeze, buried in me to the hilt.

I stroke the hair away from his forehead. He lets me taste his salty lips. I look into his eyes and can’t decide what shade

of green they are. I love them all the same.

He traces over my lips, then hooks my mouth open with his thumb. Slowly, reverently, he spits into it. I shiver, struck by

the magnitude of it, the wordless intimacy. He massages my throat as I swallow.

“I need you to be mine.” He whispers it, near desperate, a man washed ashore after a storm. “Mine, Poppy. Only mine.”

“I am.” I repeat it half a dozen times, full to bursting with emotion. “Only yours.”

He gives in to his release. I come from that alone, a deeper kind of climax. Our bodies slide together wetly; not his seed,

but more slick from me, enough to soak the coarse hair at the base of his length. In any other circumstance, I’d blush, I’d

deflect, I’d wait for it to be too fucking much—but not Jack. He looks at me with near awe, as if I’ve given him a gift.

We seal it with a kiss.