by Jae
I caressed the microwave, my most trusted kitchen utensil. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Remy grimaced. “No, thanks. So let’s see…” She checked my fridge. “You can do macaroni and cheese, right?”
“Of course.” On a good day, at least.
“Good. Then we’ll do that.”
“Uh, I don’t think that will impress Alexandra.”
Remy patted my hand. “Don’t worry. My version will. We’re making zucchini pasta alla panna.” Familiar with where I kept things in my kitchen, she opened one of the cupboards and took out my kiss-the-cook apron. When she turned toward the counter and tied the apron strings around her waist, I couldn’t help noticing what a fine behind she had.
Overweight, my ass. Or rather, her ass. I tore my gaze away. Christ, what was wrong with me? I hadn’t ogled her ass—or any other of her body parts—for a long time. When I first met her, I’d felt an instant spark of attraction, but we’d both been in relationships back then, and as time went by, I’d learned to see her as Remy, the most loyal friend in the world, not a potential flavor of the month, as Remy called my usually short-lived relationships.
I didn’t want to ruin the best friendship I’d ever had, so I had to remind myself that Remy wasn’t on the menu today. Or on any other day, for that matter.
She took the lone zucchini that led a miserable existence in my refrigerator and washed it. With a flick of her wrist, she unrolled her knife kit and pulled out one of the knives.
The familiar rat-a-tat-tat echoed through my kitchen as Remy made fast work of the zucchini, slicing it into thin ribbons, each piece exactly the same size. Her hands moved like those of a pianist, not one wrong move.
Poetry in motion.
I found myself unable to look away from her hands. They were a chef’s hands, strong and nimble and covered in a familiar pattern of scars, burn marks, and calluses.
As if she could sense my gaze on her, Remy stopped slicing and dicing and turned toward me. “Something wrong?”
“Uh…” I wrenched my gaze away from her hands and blindly pointed at a red welt running across one of her knuckles. “What happened there?”
Remy rubbed her knuckle. “A little run-in with a cheese grater who had it in for me.” She went back to cutting the zucchini, and I went back to watching her hands.
“You should really have your own cooking show too.”
“Nah,” Remy said without looking up. “I belong in the kitchen, not in front of a camera. Besides, I didn’t even go to culinary school.”
“You learned from Nonna and my parents. That beats culinary school.”
Remy chuckled. “I call it the School of Hard Knocks.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “I thought you wanted to learn and not just watch. Come on, you can be my sous chef.”
I took the mallet she handed me and pounded the two chicken breasts she had pulled from the fridge, taking out my sexual frustration on the poor fowl. Yeah, sexual frustration. That had to be why I couldn’t keep my eyes off my best friend today. It had merely been too long. That was all.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
I was just beginning to enjoy cooking when Remy grabbed my arm. “No need to kill it. It’s already dead.”
Her touch made my arm tingle. What the fuck? Quickly, I pulled away and busied myself with seasoning the chicken.
“Careful on the salt.” Remy stopped me with a touch to my hand, causing another tingle to shoot down to my toes—and all the places in between.
Christ. I had to clear my throat twice before I could speak. “What now?”
“Now you sauté the chicken breasts.” Remy handed me a pan.
Remembering something about chicken having to be well cooked for safety reasons, I cranked the heat on the stove up as far as it would go, poured in a bit of olive oil, and turned to the sink, glad that I could turn my back to Remy while washing my hands. What I really needed was a cold shower. My skin felt overheated from a simple touch between friends. How could that be? I let the water run for a minute, hoping to wash off the feeling.
No such luck.
When I turned back around, Remy was mincing garlic. Wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail and curled charmingly at her neck and cheeks that were flushed with the heat from the stove.
Heat? Shit! I remembered the pan and hurried back to the stove.
The oil in the pan hissed and spat at me like an angry cat, challenging me.
I took a step back and craned my neck to peer into the pan from a safe distance.
Smoky steam curled up.
“Uh, Remy.”
When she turned around, her eyes widened. She jumped toward the stove and reached out to put a lid on the pan.
With a flash, the overheated oil burst into flame.
Remy dropped the lid on the pan and reared back, clutching her face.
My blood ran cold despite the heat in the kitchen. “Remy! Remy, are you okay?” Please, please, please, be okay. I rushed over, nearly stumbling over my own feet in my haste to get to Remy, and gently pried her hands off her face.
“I’m fine.” She peered up at me from under singed bangs. Red dots marred her cheeks.
With trembling hands, I reached out and trailed one finger across her cheekbone. “Oh, God, Remy. I—”
Her eyes fluttered shut. She swayed softly.
Or was I the one swaying? I wasn’t sure. “Are you really okay?” I took her face between both of my hands, careful not to press too hard on the tiny burn marks.
She opened her eyes. Emotions swirled through the blue depth too fast for me to identify. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Behind her, smoke from the smothered fire filled the kitchen, but I couldn’t care less. All I could think of was Remy, safe in my arms. For a moment, I nearly pulled her close and kissed her, giddy with relief. I stopped myself before I could actually do it. I’d made enough of a mess already. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said, not sure what I was apologizing for—nearly blowing her up or nearly blowing her mind by kissing her.
If she would have thought it mind-blowing, which was doubtful. Just because we were both gay didn’t mean we were attracted to each other.
I repeated it to myself a few times. Nope, no attraction there, just friendship.
“Don’t worry.” Remy ran a hand through her bangs and smiled crookedly. “I needed a haircut.”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing, the strange tension between us gone.
At least for the moment.
Finally, I let go of her and went to open the window while Remy checked on the blackened pan. I needed some fresh air.
I was back to watching Remy instead of helping with the cooking. With a glance up at the black stain on the ceiling above the stove, I told myself it was safer that way. But as I admired the way Remy tossed the zucchini in the pan with a practiced flip of her wrist, it felt anything but safe.
She added a generous amount of cream and let it simmer for a few minutes before seasoning it with basil and lemon juice. As she stirred the mix, her hips swayed softly. Her nose wriggled like that of the animated rat from the Disney movie that had earned her the nickname Remy.
Clouds of steam and the aroma of garlic and fresh herbs rose from the pan, making my mouth water. I leaned closer to breathe in the enticing smell—and realized I was inhaling the scent of Remy’s perfume, not that of the pasta alla something.
Jesus. I clutched the counter next to me, feeling light-headed. Had to be low blood pressure, right?
That hypothesis bit the dust as Remy dipped a spoon into the pan, raised it to her mouth, and slowly slid it between her full lips. Her tongue flicked out and licked a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth.
Heat shot through me, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in my tiny kitchen.
Remy hummed and reached for the cream. “Good. Might be a bit too hot, though.”
I tore at the collar of my shirt. Yes, it was hot for sure.
After stirring in a bit more cream, she tried the sauce again and let out a moan that made my body tingle in a way it never had around her before. She took a new spoon, dipped it into the pan, and held it out toward me. “Taste this.”
I hesitated as if she were holding out an apple from the Garden of Eden, but something in her eyes beckoned me forward. Slowly, I shuffled closer.
Remy held still, barely even breathing, except that her hand with the spoon was trembling a bit. Her eyes darkened to azure.
From just inches away, I could see the tiny red marks dotting her flushed face. Why did it suddenly feel so natural to want to kiss them all better?
Without looking away from Remy, I leaned forward, drawn in by her scent and her heat. My gaze darted from the burn marks to her lips.
They were moving. Whispering something. My name.
Lured by that siren call, I leaned in.
Something between us stopped my forward movement.
I blinked down at the forgotten spoon Remy still held. Afraid to glance up and see a look of confusion—or, worse, dismay—on her face, I bent and closed my lips around the spoon.
A harmony of flavors exploded on my tongue, making my taste buds dance a tango. I moaned and barely resisted the urge to lick the spoon—or Remy’s neck. “It’s…” I cleared my throat. “Delicious.” Slowly, I glanced up.
The look in her darkened eyes made something inside of me burst into flames.
I surged forward, pinned her against the center island, and kissed her.
The spoon clattered to the floor as her hands came up and threaded in my hair, pulling me closer. She nipped my bottom lip and teased the corner of my mouth with her tongue.
Not that I needed much convincing to open my mouth to her.
Our tongues slid hotly against each other as we tumbled against the counter.
It took a few moments for me to realize that the ringing in my ears had nothing to do with the effect her kiss had on me. Groaning, I pulled back and hurled a glare at the egg timer that Remy had set for the pasta before turning back to her.
We stared at each other.
“Oh, wow. It’s… You… I…” Great. Here I was, one of LA’s most sought-after book publicists, reduced to helpless stammering by a mere kiss. All right. Maybe it had been much more than just a mere kiss. I touched my lips, seared by her passion. “What the hell was in that sauce?”
A tiny smile quirked Remy’s lips, then spread over her whole face when I didn’t pull out of her embrace. She looked into my eyes, swallowed, and said, “Love.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it before opening it again. “You…? You mean…?”
Remy nodded, looking just as dazed as I felt. “I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, sneaking into the kitchen to steal some of your grandmother’s dessert, but you never noticed me. At least not that way.”
No, I sure didn’t, at least not after we had become friends. God, how could I have been so blind? I rubbed my good-for-nothing eyes. “Why didn’t you ever say something?”
“After you rejected that amorous sous chef, telling her you’d never date someone who works in the food business?” She shook her head. “Our friendship means too much to me to ever risk it on something that is hopeless anyway.”
I cupped her red-dotted cheek in my palm. “Looks like it’s not so hopeless after all.”
“When did you…?”
“Today. I don’t know why, but as soon as we started cooking, I suddenly noticed you in a way that I never had before.”
We stared at each other, then leaned in simultaneously. Our mouths met, this time much gentler, but not an ounce less passionate.
“It’s like your grandmother always said,” Remy whispered against my lips between kisses. “Cooking is magic.”
I hummed my agreement but didn’t answer, too busy kissing her.
Remy pressed her hands against my shoulders and pushed.
I drew back with a groan of protest, hoping like hell that she hadn’t changed her mind about me. About us.
“What about Alexandra Beaumont?” she asked, breathing heavily.
“Alexandra who?” I shook my head. Compared to that mix of warm familiarity and brand-new excitement I felt for Remy, my interest in Alexandra seemed lukewarm at best. “It seems I’ll have to cancel our dinner plans. I already have a chef in my life after all, and you know what they say about too many cooks spoiling the broth. Plus, I don’t think she’d be too impressed with my cooking skills, seeing as this is the second pot of pasta I managed to ruin today.” I pointed toward the stove.
Cursing, Remy let go of me and rushed over to the stove to rescue the pasta.
Too late. I had spoiled enough dishes to know when a pot of pasta was beyond hope.
With a crestfallen expression on her face, Remy returned to my embrace. “I never ruined dinner before in my life.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I murmured and kissed her again. Who knew that her kisses were as addictive as her cooking?
Minutes later, Remy pulled back and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. Both of your parents are still out sick, so I have to open the restaurant tonight.”
Nothing like mentioning a girl’s parents to cool her ardor. I leaned against the counter and watched Remy take off the apron and roll up her knife case. This time, I let myself admire her ass without qualms. “Let my sister take over tomorrow and come spend the evening with me.”
With the knife roll tucked under her arm, she turned and regarded me. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
I nodded. “You still need to teach me how to make dessert, after all.” Visions of licking warm chocolate and whipped cream off her skin danced through my head.
The kiss she gave me nearly brought me to my knees. She might have answered my request for dessert-making lessons, but if she did, I didn’t hear her over the buzzing in my ears. Then she was gone, leaving me to stare at the black spot on the ceiling.
My kitchen might never be the same again, and neither would I. Grinning, I set out to clean up the mess and tidy the apartment. After all, I had a hot date with a pint of chocolate sauce and my very own domestic goddess tomorrow.
###
The Midnight Couch
Paula always felt like Cinderella when midnight approached; only in her case, the magic didn’t wear off at the stroke of midnight—that’s when it began.
And today, she had a front-row seat since she was working in the deserted reception area of the radio station. As she took the coffee machine apart, she kept an eye on the automatic doors.
Finally, they swept open. A gust of cool night air rushed in, followed by her—Dr. Christine Graham, clinical psychologist, host of the popular late-night radio show The Midnight Couch, and the woman of Paula’s dreams.
Christine crossed the station’s lobby, her heels clicking over the fake marble floor.
From the cover of the coffee machine, Paula trailed her gaze upward over shapely calves and trim hips. Her gaze didn’t have far to go. Even in heels, Christine barely topped five feet, but what she lacked in height, she made up in looks. She didn’t fit the description of someone who had “a face for radio,” a person who wasn’t attractive enough to make it in television. A few raindrops clung to her honey-blonde hair, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Her luscious lips parted into a warm smile when she stopped in front of the reception desk.
“Good evenin’, Paula,” Christine said with her slight Scottish lilt.
Paula held on to the coffee machine as Christine’s voice made her knees turn into wobbly goo. “Evening, Christine.”
“Are you manning the front desk tonight?” Christine asked, grinning.
Paula glanced down at her jeans, polo shirt, and tool belt. “Looking like this? I don’t think the station manager would appreciate it.”
“Oh, who knows?” Christine winked. “He might have a thing for women with a tool belt.”
Yeah. But t
he real question is: do you? “Nah, I don’t think so,” Paula said.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Can’t you tell?” Paula said, keeping her expression deadpan. “I’m fixing a piece of highly complex equipment that is essential to the working of the station—the coffee machine.”
Christine laughed. “Please proceed, then.”
Paula didn’t want to return to work and let Christine go so soon. She enjoyed every second of talking to her. “How did the rest of the show go yesterday?”
Christine had stayed an hour longer to fill in for Dave, the DJ of their music show Nightlife, who was out sick, so Paula’s shift had ended before Christine wrapped up the show.
“Any interesting calls?” Paula asked.
An impish grin lit Christine’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Aye. A bloke called and confessed his passionate love for his rubber plant.”
“No way!” Paula squinted at her. Even after two years, she sometimes couldn’t tell when Christine was pulling her leg.
“I swear. It’s called object sexuality.”
Paula shook her head. Compared to that, her secret infatuation with Christine was harmless. Speaking of secret… You’re supposed to be changing that, remember?
Her New Year’s resolution was to ask Christine out on a date, but it was already February and she hadn’t found the courage to talk about anything personal with her. Whenever she was about to ask Christine if she wanted to have coffee or dinner on Sunday, her only day off, doubts began to creep in. Why would a successful psychologist and radio personality like Christine be interested in a broadcast technician? Besides, she wasn’t even sure Christine was gay. Nothing indicated that she was interested in women—but then again, in the two years Paula had known her, Christine hadn’t shown any interest in men either. Even Dave, who made every other female employee of the station swoon, didn’t seem to have the same effect on her.
You’ll never know if you don’t try. Wasn’t that what Christine always told her listeners?