by Mika Jolie
You guessed it, brains and brawn. My mind is a machine. I can process cryptic crosswords in mere minutes. Surprised my noggin upstairs actually works, too? Let’s put it this way, I earned my MBA with the second-highest GPA at Wharton. Lucas earned the top spot by a small margin. Cam is the Stanford guy.
“From what I remember, you’re the crazy one who took the plunge once upon a time and got married.”
Lucas rubs his chin as he nods in agreement. Once upon a time, my buddy was married to the biggest bitch to have ever walked the earth. Eventually he regained his common sense and joined us back in Manwhoreville. No hard feelings toward her though. Together they managed to have the most beautiful daughter. At least one good thing came out of that mayhem.
“And I’ll never do it again,” Lucas says with serious conviction. “By the way, she still hates you guys.”
Cam and I nod, point noted. Since we’re on the topic of Lucas’ ex-wife, her animosity towards us is not completely unwarranted. We planned Lucas’ bachelor party . . . in Zermatt, Switzerland.
Before any judgment is passed, let me say this. If you’re over the age of twelve, you know that the traditional bachelor party involves strippers, booze, and then more strippers. Yawn. That’s all fine. And I’d never discourage lap dances and liquor.
Believe me when I say this, there are better options. Get more creative. In addition to the ho-hum routine of pole dancing and beer, consider mixing it up a bit. For Lucas’ plunge into marriage, Cam and I incorporated both rugged outdoors and drunken revelry. Skiing fits the bill—a few runs on the slopes, a few bourbons in the lodge. Bonus? Ski bunnies.
For the record, Lucas didn’t participate in any of the après—ski activities with the snow bunnies. The guy is loyal as fuck when he’s committed to a woman. “You were a good boy.”
Lucas circles an imaginary halo on top of his head. Trust me, he’s no angel.
“Seriously, what are you thinking?” Cam says with a slight shake of his head, his green eyes fixed on me. “Committing to a woman whose name you don’t even know.”
“I’m not committed to anyone.”
Lucas and Cam snicker.
“You’re bringing her along on our trip,” Lucas points out. “Sounds like—”
“Commitment,” Cam finishes.
Lucas shrugs. “I was going to say hope, but yeah, that, too.”
I glance over my computer screen, and quickly skim over an incoming email. Grabbing a notepad, I jot down a reminder to contact a client after these two knuckleheads leave my office, then say, “Unlike you assholes, I don’t mind riding the same roller coaster twice.”
Cam shakes his head, the idea of sleeping with the same woman twice appalls the guy. “Yeah, I don’t get that.”
“It’s not like you’ve never brought a woman with you on our trip, so shut the fuck up.” I shoot Lucas a death stare. He’s the only one I’ve confided in about my momentary lapse of sanity. It’s a given my brother from another mother spilled the beans to Cam. Fucker.
Lucas chuckles. “You don’t even know her name.”
I grab Dogbert and give the squishy, pliable polyfoam a squeeze. “So?” The truth is, the thought has crossed my mind, and I have about two weeks to resolve that little glitch.
Lucas’ dark eyes study my face for a minute, then a you’re so fucked smile spills on his lips. “When are you going to tell the others?”
“Cori,” Cam adds.
“Why should it matter to her?” I ask to no one in particular.
The assholes look at each other and shake their heads. “Let’s put it this way,” Cam answers as he snatches a kopiko from the jar on my desk. Anyone who has been to Thailand or Indonesia will know what that is. “The two of you act like a couple. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re not fucking yet.”
“Ra ra ra. Funny, asshole.” I flip Cam my middle finger.
“You’re an idiot,” Cam says. “Just tell her.”
“Don’t see the big deal.” I shrug. “But to get both of you off my back, I’ll tell her tonight.”
Lucas stands up and glances at his Rolex. “Lunch?”
“Yeah, meet you at Larry’s in ten.”
After the two stooges leave my office, I pick up my phone, scroll down my contact list to Cori, and press SEND. I know her schedule. Today, she’s teaching. This is when her group of seven-year-olds goes to the cafeteria for lunch.
She answers on the first ring. “What’s up, stranger?”
Immediately, I smile. My gaze shifts to the list of questions I’ve compiled on the computer screen. “Our usual time?”
“You got it. I need to go to bed a bit early tonight.”
“I’m sending you something.” Already, I’m composing the email. Subject: Cori’s Quest for Love. I type a short note: Read them. I love you! Dean, then hit SEND. “It’s a work-in-progress.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see. Gotta go. See you tonight.”
“See you later. I’m still making your fave.”
A small smile plays on my lips. “Ah, a girl after my own heart.”
Cori laughs. “Your heart is not available, remember?”
“True. True,” I confirm. “I’ll bring the wine, Cakebread Merlot.” That’s Cori’s favorite wine.
“Perfect. See you in a bit.”
“Good friends. Good food. Good times.”
A SCENT THAT HAS ALWAYS comforted me is the smell of breadcrumbs sizzling. It reminds me of my childhood, with my father preparing one of his favorite dishes for my mother.
The aroma of hot oil floods the air and teases my nostrils the minute I step inside Cori’s modest Cape Cod-style house. My stomach immediately rumbles in response, beckoning me down the hall toward the kitchen. Chicken cutlets signify, to me, the ultimate home-cooked dinner. No one is going to go out to a restaurant and order something so simple, but when cooking at home, it’s an evergreen.
Other than making pizza together as a family, chicken cutlet was the first complete meal my dad taught me how to make. The first official meal I ever prepared for a woman, even if the woman was Cori, it’s one of those eighteen-year-old moments that will always have a special place in my heart.
I can’t resist the delightful sensations that whip up inside my memory. The pride in my chest that night, as we sat on the kitchen floor of my dorm with our plates of the chicken cutlets I'd prepared, a loaf of bread, and salad, is still recognizable today. The look of delight on her face, as she delved her teeth deep and fast into one of my favorite meals, has always stayed with me.
With a small smile on my lips, I enter the galley-style kitchen, brightened with white paint. Cori is moving around from one end of the granite counter to another. Her hair is in a messy bun. Fitted jeans, with holes in the knees, cover her legs, an old faded Metallica tank clads her torso. Her casual beauty, as always, catches me off guard, switching on my brain circuit, as if all this time, I am a machine not fully powered up until I’m in her presence.
A smile of delight lights up her face when she sees me. “Howdy!” she greets over the whir of the fan over the stove top.
“Have I told you how hot you look when you cook for me?” I step in front of her long enough to brush my lips across her forehead, before placing the wine on the counter by the wooden salad bowl. Then I amble over behind her, and grab two wineglasses from the top cabinet. As I do so, my chest touches her back. The light friction causes heat to pool in my gut and spread.
This isn’t the first time my body betrays me around Cori. But it’s not something I ever dwell on. Brushing my reaction aside, I move to the other side of the room, unscrew the cork, and pour us each a glass of wine.
“Thanks,” she says as she takes her glass from me.
For no reason, my gaze follows her lips as they curl around the glass. I stare at them, wanting to trace my finger along the sweet outline where skin meets mouth. Before I know it, my mind is sliding down the slippery slope, where we’re kissing, soft and s
weet at first, before switching gears to hard and passionate.
Desire prickles my skin. My nerve endings tingle. My dick stirs.
Whoa!
I step on the mental brake and pull myself back into Friendtopia. This sexual urge towards my best friend is uncharted territory. I’ve seen Cori in bed in a pair of too-short shorts and a tank top. We’ve gone away together. Never been tempted.
Okay, time to confess. Once in a while, my mind does skitter to the no-fly zone and wonder what it would be like if Cori and I were to blur the line and fuck for, say, a night or two. But those thoughts never linger for too long. Eventually, logic wrests control.
Nothing to dwell on. That’s just the way a healthy heterosexual male’s mind works, especially one with a hot-as-fuck woman for a friend.
Just to be safe, I drag my gaze away and clear my throat. “What can I do?”
“Wanna make the salad?”
“You got it.” I unfasten the cuffs of my black button down, roll the sleeves to my elbows, and wash my hands. With a few long strides, I am in front of the refrigerator, pulling out the necessary vegetables for our salad.
Cori’s kitchen is a unique blend of eclectic farmhouse that gives the space a modern-vintage style. Nothing superfluous—minimalist and uncluttered. The chalkboard framed on the wall above where she keeps her coffeemaker is covered with one of her drawings. The flowers are white and the yellow nectar looks sweet. The petals fan widely over the canvas, and as I slide the drawer open for the wine opener, I think I can almost detect a fragrance.
“Smells good,” I say, motioning to the chicken cutlets draining on a paper towel-lined plate as I chop the romaine lettuce.
“The one thing I can cook.” She places two breaded cutlets in the frying pan after dipping them in the shallow white bowls, which hold the key to perfect chicken cutlets: beaten eggs in one, breadcrumbs, oregano, basil, red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper in the other.
“You have something on . . . ” I swipe my thumb over her cheek. “Flour.” Our gazes meet and hold. And, for the first time in a long time around Cori, I feel a different kind of warmth spreading through me.
My hormones are going crazy.
God help me. If I don’t control myself, there’s going to be a tent in my pants. Talk about awkward.
In desperate need to fight these urges, I refocus my attention to the assorted vegetables in front of me and mentally recite the Periodic Table of Elements—Be. Beryllium. I’ve never been a fan of chemistry, and my chemistry teacher’s kind, timeworn face calms my dick down.
Definitely need to whack one off later tonight. It’s a healthy thing to do. I just can’t think about the woman standing a few feet away from me while yanking one out.
She starts to reach for the pair of stainless steel tongs. Since I’m closer, I grab them and pass them to her. She mouths a ‘thank you’ as she flips the cutlets to brown the other side.
“We forgot to make a toast.” She picks up her wineglass, tucks a few errant strands of hair behind her ear, and smiles at me. “What should we toast to?”
Toasting is an expression of honor and goodwill that Cori takes seriously. “How about to you?”
She arches a brow. “Me?”
“For perfecting my favorite meal?”
“Of course.” Her lips spread into a smile. “That’s my secret dish.”
“Here. Here.” We raise our glasses and clink to a toast. Our gazes meet and hold for a second too long. The connection sends a startling jolt through my limbs and inspires an excruciating desire to kiss her until we are both panting for more.
What the hell is that about?
Twice, in the span of ten minutes, my mind has swerved out of Friendtopia into HornyTown, USA. Cooking for each other is nothing new. Once a week, we fall into this domesticated routine. Maybe it’s because she’s referencing the list of questions I sent to her earlier. Question number three is the one about how every man should have a secret dish to cook for a woman. While Cori can bake anything, she’s not a fan of cooking. But she does make one hell of a chicken cutlet.
Well, shit, that makes sense.
That has to be the reason for this intense ache spreading to every corner of my body. Nothing worth losing sleep over. Nothing to dwell upon. Friends or not, I’m still a man, and I still have an ego. It’s flattering and sexy as fuck that a hot chick has perfected the one dish that fills my stomach with joy.
Relieved to know my mind hasn’t wandered too far down the path, I take a sip of my wine and put my wineglass on the counter.
“Dean.”
“Yeah?”
“I like when we cook together.”
“Ditto.” I grab three heirloom tomatoes from the mango bark bowl and slice them. “So you read my list?”
She nods. “I’ll be sure to ask Trevor what’s in his fridge.”
I freeze. “As in Trevor Bendover?” I ask, praying she’s referring to another Trevor.
She removes the remaining cutlets from the frying pan onto the plate, turns off the stove, then takes a sip of her wine. “The one and only,” she confirms.
A heavy feeling, which can be described as an elephant, sits on my chest. The dude is a slime ball. “He has no respect for women.”
“The pot calling the kettle black.”
“I respect women.”
Cori lets out a low laugh.
“For fuck’s sake, his name is Bendover.” No way am I going to let her become Trevor’s latest conquest or have little Bendover babies. Nope. Not as long as I’m alive.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s just a date.”
“Trevor is a prick.” We live in a small town, she’s familiar with his game, which is, he doesn’t fuck a woman more than once.
Don’t even fucking go there. I said I don’t mind riding the same roller coaster twice. Especially if it’s a fucking toe curling, mind-blowing ride. Take Red for example.
Shit. I’m supposed to tell Cori about Red joining us for our ski trip. My stomach flips, and not in a good way.
Not yet, I tell myself. We have all night.
“That’s the prick you dumped me for.” I add the diced vegetables to the wooden salad bowl. I open the pantry, filled to the brim with her home-canned preserves, pickles, and vegetables, all prepared by Cori. Grabbing one of the canned pickles, I pour it into a small bowl. We’re standing side by side, finishing the last touch of our meal. “Trevor is a player, only after one thing.”
She juts out a hip and gives me a gentle bump. “Don’t be the overly protective big brother.”
That’s the thing. As close as we are, I’ve never put Cori in the un-biological sister category. To me, she’s always been a woman with the sweet ass body who just happens to be one of my closest friends.
“What time is your date?” The unspoken questions were location, what are you wearing, don’t let him touch you. But even I know that would be a bit much.
“Seven thirty.”
“Why so late?”
“Seven-thirty is not late.” She shocks me by letting loose an unrestrained, blissful laugh. “By the way, last I checked, I’m an adult without a curfew.”
Right, an attractive woman on the prowl for love. “I don’t like this.”
“Do you do this to Katharine?”
Since Kate called off the engagement, she hasn’t dated much. As far as I know she’s a born-again virgin. “Katharine doesn’t date.”
That garners a soft chuckle from Cori as if she knows all of Katharine’s little dirty secrets. Yeah, let’s not go there.
“His name is Bendover,” I say. “You’re not having little Bendover babies with him.”
“First date, remember?” She opens a cabinet, tiptoes and pulls out two dinner plates. She heads over to the dining area adjacent to her kitchen and sets the table.
“I thought you were going to do the internet dating thing?” I ask when she re-enters the kitchen.
“I did. He was my first contact.” Sh
e picks up her phone from the counter, taps in her code, and hands it to me. “What do you think of my profile?”
The first thing I notice is Coriander’s profile picture. A picture I’ve taken of her from my cell phone—wavy dark-brown hair, feather dusting of freckles against her honey skin. The corners of her eyes are crinkling, her soft, full lips upturn. I remember exactly when the picture was taken. The night we saw Hamilton and stopped at one of our favorite restaurants for dinner. We were both stoked about seeing the play.
Her eyes, her lips, and her spirit all at once smiling at me. She looked so stunning that night, I couldn’t tear my eyes away, had to grab my phone and freeze that moment forever.
Something pinches in my heart. For some reason, I’m not happy she used a picture of how I view her to attract men.
You’re jealous, man.
No fucking way. She’s dated and has had boyfriends in the past, never bothered me one bit. Okay, maybe just a little tiny bit. But that’s only because, out of respect to her relationship, nights like this always come to a halt.
Totally not jealous in that me man, you woman sort of thing. Shoving the notion out of my brain, I read Cori’s description of herself.
Birth place: Earth.
Race: Human
Politics: Freedom
Religion: Love
I’m an artist who’d rather wear flowers on my head than diamonds around my neck. I make a mean chicken cutlet, and I’m a firm believer of handwritten notes.
To understand this description of herself is to know Cori is of mixed race. Her mother is white and her father is African-American. Her skin is a pale brown that strays from light to golden, depending on the season, giving her a look of an indiscernible background. And as much as society attempts to label her, she never picks a box. In her view, that would be choosing one parent over another and disregarding the fact she’s a fluid product of many influences, like all of us.