I lost my breath. There was definitely not enough air in my apartment. Not with him in it. Did he mean . . . ?
“You mean, when you see her again? At Christmas.”
“Jo.” His voice was deep, a vibration along my nerves. “I am there for Christmas with the boys. Nothing more. I am with you now.”
The words wrapped around me like a blanket.
“With me,” I repeated, testing the idea. I waited for the familiar stifling panic to envelop me but . . . Nope. Nothing. Only that odd, lovely warmth.
I grinned. “Then I guess we’re going to your place.”
“Good.” He smiled.
For a minute, we just sat there, looking and smiling at each other over the breakfast dishes, and it was . . . pretty great, actually.
Eric swore. “Scheisse.”
“What?”
“I have to meet the liquor distributor today.”
“Okay.”
“And”—he shot me a guilty look—“I need to go in and talk to Ray about the specials.”
Like he had to apologize for being . . . Chef. I widened my eyes in mock horror. “On your day off? I’m shocked.”
“There are no days off when you own a restaurant,” he said a little grumpily. “Ray can handle the service, no problem. But it isn’t his name on the menu.”
My name was on my blog. Well, my pseudonym, actually, but the principle was the same. I couldn’t take the day off, either. “It’s fine. I’m used to having my own space.”
His brow wrinkled.
“Really,” I assured him. “Actually, this will be great.”
Maybe me being myself gave him the freedom to be himself, too. Or was it the other way around?
He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“No. Kind of. I just . . . I have work to do, too. You can do your thing and I’ll do mine.”
“Your thing?”
I opened my mouth. Shut it again. He thought I was honest. “You speak your mind,” he’d said. But I wasn’t prepared to tell him about Hungry yet. Everything between us felt too new. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, the day, his good opinion, by confessing I was an idiot hipster food blogger.
He was waiting for an answer, watching me with interest. Paying attention, damn it. I had to say something.
“I’m a writer. Was a writer. Before I was let go.”
He nodded. “From the newspaper. I know.”
I looked at him, surprised.
“I read your job application,” he said. “You were a reporter.”
“Lifestyle journalist. Weddings, science fairs, parades.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Restaurant openings.”
His eyes lit with amusement. “So, maybe you are glad to get fired, yeah? What are you writing now?”
For some reason, for no reason at all, I thought of my abandoned master’s project, all those finished files going nowhere. My writing was “quite competent,” my adviser had said kindly, sticking a knife in my dreams. If only I could overcome my insistence on sentiment, my dependence on plot.
I cleared my throat. “I want to write a book. Eventually. When I have enough material.”
“I would like to read it.”
A chasm yawned at my feet. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because. Even my own mother doesn’t read my . . .” Blog. Don’t say blog. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d be interested in.”
Fucking critics.
“Jo.” My name, in his deep, slightly accented voice. “I am interested in you. You wrote it, put your heart on the page, the way I put my heart on a plate every night. I want to know your heart.”
My breath went. It was so unfair. Who talked like that? Besides poets and heroes in romance novels. I could feel myself teetering closer to the edge. So close. So far to fall. My heart pounded in panic. How was I supposed to answer him?
“It’s not, er, ready.” I’m not ready. “Anyway, don’t you have to go buy booze? See Ray about a menu?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He stood, carrying his plate. I followed him into the kitchen and trailed after him to the door. He turned.
I folded my arms, hugging myself tight. “So, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes,” he said again.
He kissed me, hard, hot, and deep, and I kissed him back, rising on tiptoe to meet him, clutching him for balance. Giving him everything I had. When it ended, my lips were tingling and my brain was numb.
His breath was warm against my mouth. “Enjoy your space.”
My head wobbled up and down. Yes.
“Come early. Five o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sure. Five.” I turned, staggered, and walked into the wall. Oops.
Eric grabbed my elbow, keeping me upright. “Careful,” he said mildly. “Don’t fall.”
Too late, I thought as I locked up behind him.
I’d fallen already, fathoms deep. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever climb back out again. Or if I even wanted to.
* * *
That night, Eric pulled back from our hello kiss to look down at the pie dish in my arms. His eyebrow raised in the way I was coming to love. “What is this?”
“I brought dessert.” I thrust it at him.
He took the plastic-wrapped plate. “You made this?”
“Hey, I can cook.”
“I know you can cook. But . . .” He regarded the plate in his hands, seemingly at a loss.
“What?” I asked. “You don’t like apple pie?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Jo. I love that you made pie. Baking is different, yeah? Special. I just . . . Nobody ever cooks for me.”
Of course not. He was Chef. Nominated for best 30 Under 30 chef the year he came to America, winner of a James Beard Award. The best cook, the best butcher, the best baker at Gusto.
“Because you intimidate everybody,” I said.
His gaze met mine. “But not you.”
His look warmed me to the soles of my feet. My toes tingled. “Oh, I’m intimidated,” I said airily. “But I figured you might like a home-cooked dessert for a change.”
“You are good to me.”
I snorted. Bethie was good, and Meg was nurturing, and Amy knew how to get along with everyone but me. I was stubborn and bad-tempered. Selfish, according to Aunt Phee. Heartless, Trey had said.
I wasn’t like Momma, that was for sure, needing to take care of everybody all the time. But this afternoon, after I’d finished writing my blog (Low and Slow: How to Make the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever!), I’d wanted to do something for Eric. He made me feel bigger somehow. More generous. Like I could give a little of myself and still have something left over.
“You haven’t tasted it yet,” I pointed out.
“I can’t wait.”
He hung my coat on a hook in the hall. His gaze warmed as he looked at me. “You look beautiful, Jo.”
I managed not to squirm. Because, yeah, I had gone to extra effort tonight. Fixed my face, left my hair out of its ponytail, dug a soft blue cashmere sweater—a castoff from Amy, actually—from the back of my closet. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”
Very adult, right? Date-like. Date-ish.
He guided me forward, one hand at the small of my back.
“Wow,” I said. “You have a fireplace.”
A working fireplace with burning gas logs.
His building was a few blocks and a world away from mine, a renovated co-op with a doorman and an elevator and a view. Through the windows, I could see bare tree branches and the Christmas lights in the apartment across the street. Not a lot of furniture, but what there was looked sturdy and comfortable—an oversize leather couch, a big new TV. High-end g
uy stuff. A granite bar top separated the living area from the kitchen. He seated me at the counter, gave me a glass of wine, and went back to stirring something on the stove. A Viking range. Six burners. And a dishwasher.
I sniffed appreciatively. Butter, sage . . . “What are you making?”
“Duck breast with tart cherry confit.” He lifted the lid off a pot of boiling water. “And my mother’s pierogi.”
I watched his muscled forearms as he fished out dumplings with a slotted spoon, fighting the itch to take notes. Or pictures. Pictures would be good. I cleared my throat. “I haven’t seen those on the menu at Gusto. Pierogi, I mean.”
“Not yet. I am playing with the filling. Sweet potatoes instead of white, a little red cabbage.” He swirled the pierogi in the pan of browned butter, plated one, and slid it across the bar in one smooth move. “What do you think?”
Like my opinion mattered. I picked up the fork that appeared with the plate. The tender dough gave easily, the insides spilling like a sunset, red and orange and caramelized gold. The first forkful melted in my mouth with a kiss of butter and a bite of something savory.
“Yum,” I said. “I thought it would be sweet, but it’s not. Onion?”
He nodded, looking as pleased as if I’d left him a five-star review. My stomach hollowed. I really needed to tell him about my blog. Later. Tonight. Maybe.
I swallowed. “What does Ray think?”
“Ray.” A huff of amusement or acceptance. “He wants to elevate everything. Until you can’t taste the heart anymore.”
“He does have kind of a stick up his butt,” I said around another mouthful of pierogi.
“Ray’s a good guy. A good cook,” Eric said. Defending his sous. That was the kind of boss he was, seeing the best, encouraging the best, in everybody.
“So why hasn’t he left to become executive chef somewhere?”
“He has the résumé. He is ready for the responsibility. But he is afraid to take the risk, yeah? He holds back from putting himself on the plate. He wants too much to impress, I think.”
I thought of the pie. The sweater. The extra fifteen minutes I’d spent flat-ironing my hair, trying to get it smooth and straight. Right there with you, Ray.
I took another sip of wine. “I guess I get his point. I mean, that’s why people go out. Because they want something they can’t find at home.”
Were we still talking about food?
“Sure,” Eric agreed easily. “But not every dish has to amaze. Sometimes you simply want to eat. To be fed.” He looked up, that little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To be satisfied.”
A great wave of lust and longing shook me to my knees. Good thing I was sitting. He could satisfy me, I thought. He could hoist me up on the counter. I could wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist. We could . . .
He cracked the oven door to check the duck. “Almost ready,” he promised with another smile.
Definitely talking about the food this time.
I swallowed my disappointment along with another gulp of wine and slid off my stool. “Right. I just need to . . .” Don’t say pee, Aunt Phee instructed in my head. Southern ladies did not have bodily functions. “Wash my hands.”
“Second door on the right,” Eric said.
“Thanks.”
I used the bathroom (which was pretty amazing. No tub—this was New York, after all—but lots of granite and a bunch of high-tech water jets in the shower) and then, unable to resist, peeked in his open bedroom door. His bed was as big as the rest of his furniture, his nightstand and dresser top as neat and organized as the kitchen before service. Next door, another room with a dormitory-size twin and a futon. The price of a two-bedroom in Chelsea must be over the moon. I guessed Gusto was doing well.
There were pictures on the wall. I stepped closer to see them. A younger, beardless Eric holding a scrunch-faced newborn in a stocking cap. A standard beach shot, two little boys playing at the edge of the water. A more recent photo of Eric and both boys, squinting into the sunlight against the background of an unfamiliar city. In Germany, maybe? I didn’t know. I’d never been to Europe. Something about the last pose tugged at my heart, the easy way Eric hooked his arm around his older son’s shoulders, the way the younger one leaned into his side. My father the minister had rarely touched his adolescent daughters.
“Do they ever visit?” I’d asked.
“Not often. It is difficult to find time,” Eric had replied.
But here was their room, kept in readiness, just in case.
And here . . . Another photo. Their mother, Eric’s ex-wife, smiling into the camera, the boys—maybe seven and ten?—beside her. She was dark eyed, dark skinned, and very beautiful. I felt oddly . . . jealous. Depressed. Which was stupid. I knew he’d been married before.
I whisked myself out of the room, my heart pounding. Served me right for snooping.
Eric was plating in the kitchen.
“Can I do anything?” I asked.
He shook his head, smiling. “It’s all done.”
He’d pulled a small, square table in front of the fire. There were place mats. Candles. Everything soigné. Very romantic. I stared down at my plate arranged like an artist’s palette, pink slices of crispy skinned duck with maroon cherries, golden pierogi, haricots verts, and wondered what the hell I was doing here.
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Everything all right?”
“Great. Thanks.” I pulled myself together and dug in. “So. This is your idea of home cooking, huh?”
His eyes crinkled. “My heart on a plate. For you.”
I almost choked. Swallowed hard. He ought to be careful about saying stuff like that. If I were somebody else—somebody pretty and sweet, somebody like Meg—I might take him seriously. “The napkins are a nice touch.”
He laughed. “It is all just stuff, yeah? That’s what my father would say.”
“Mine, too.”
“Military families. Every time my father was transferred, my mother would have a yard sale.”
I chewed, relaxing. “We didn’t move so much. My dad didn’t join the army until after 9/11. But he’s a minister. You know, ‘Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things’?”
“And your mother?” Eric asked.
“She’s not exactly a material girl, either. But . . .” I swallowed, thinking of the farmhouse. Of Great-grandmother’s quilts and Granny’s china and Amy’s craft projects, all lovingly preserved. “She likes to hold on to stuff.”
“It falls to her to make the home,” Eric said. “It is important for the children to have their things around them.”
I remembered the photos in his sons’ room, and my heart melted a little more.
We ate. The wine went to my head, or maybe it was Eric’s attention. I found myself talking about everything and nothing: about my sisters and the goats; about running in the city; about my AP English teacher, Mrs. Ferguson. He was a good listener. His eyes never once glazed over the way a guy’s do when they wish you’d shut up and have sex. Like I was interesting enough simply being myself. Well. Mostly myself. I didn’t tell him about my blog. I asked about his family. His father had retired from the military. His parents still lived in Germany, near his mother’s family. His older sister was a vice president for international relationship management at some bank.
“My sister works in a bank, too. Worked in a bank,” I corrected myself. “Before the twins came along. She’s an awesome mother. And daughter. And sister. And wife. I don’t know how she does it all, honestly.”
“She is happy, your sister?”
I hesitated. “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Meg had said. Living for others, that was Meg. Except . . . She didn’t seem so happy lately. I’d texted her on my way over, asking if I could call, and she messaged me back. Sorry. Really busy. Maybe later?
“She’s a better person than I am,” I said, dodging the question.
“You seem like a good daughter to me,” Eric said. “A good sister.”
“I mean, I couldn’t give up my career to have a family.”
“You could have both.”
My heart stumbled. “That’s not what you said before. Cooking is your passion, you said.”
“I love to cook,” he said promptly. “When I was starting out, I worked twelve, fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. But I don’t have to make every plate anymore. I don’t need to be on fire, in the heat, on the line, all the time.” He reached out, his hand covering mine, clutching the fork. “Maybe I can learn to love more than one thing now, yeah?”
Warmth flooded my cheeks from his touch or the wine or the fire. I jabbed randomly at my plate, ridiculously happy.
After dinner, we did the dishes together. While he made coffee, I studied the shelves above the wine rack, where his cookbooks stood side by side like old friends. Alice Waters, The Art of Simple Food. Ferran Adrià’s El Bulli. Dornenburg and Page’s The Flavor Bible.
Eric came up behind me and dropped a kiss on the back of my neck, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. “See any of your favorites?”
“Hm. No Charlotte Brontë. No Jane Austen.” I grinned at him over my shoulder. “And where’s your Harry Potter collection?”
“In the boys’ room,” he said.
That did it. Or it would have, if I hadn’t fallen for him already.
My fingers skimmed the spines. “Oh, look, Bill Neal’s Southern Cooking. I used to eat at his restaurant all the time when I was in college! Well, when I could afford it. Crook’s, in Chapel Hill.” Unable to resist the feel of a book in my hands, I took down The French Laundry Cookbook and flipped to the title page. Signed by the author. “Thomas Keller,” I said reverently. “You met him?”
“I worked for him at Per Se.” Keller’s New York restaurant. He said it so casually, as if he rubbed elbows with legends all the time. “I learned a lot from him.”
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