by Katie McCoy
I hadn’t really minded then, but more and more I was starting to think that Mark had been a far worse boyfriend than I had given him credit for during those few months we were together. He always had an excuse for why he wouldn’t do something that required any extra effort or romance. Flowers were a waste because they only lasted a few days. Chocolate was a cliché. Going to the movies was futile since it was so hard to find something we could both agree on; we could go separately to the movies we wanted to see. And he never made me brownies.
Looking at the website for Jake’s restaurant and the rave reviews from people who had gone there with their significant other made me really angry that Mark had never made any kind of gesture like that. It also made me feel pretty guilty that I had judged Jake so harshly and so quickly.
Grassfed was closed on Mondays, so that meant that Jake worked until at least midnight, maybe even later, every other night. No wonder he looked so exhausted. And according to the articles I had found, he had only recently become head chef, taking over from a woman who seemed very well known and well loved in culinary circles. I could only imagine the kind of pressure he was under to live up to her reputation.
Realizing I wasn’t going to get any real practicing out of Jeremiah, I let him tell his Jake stories and do a few simple exercises for the rest of our time together.
Just as our lesson was ending, there was a knock at the door.
“Come on, Jeremiah.” I grabbed his backpack. “That’s probably your mom.”
But when I opened the door, Jake was standing there with a grin and a box that smelled suspiciously like chocolate. My mouth watered, but it wasn’t because of the brownies. Did this guy only own T-shirts so thin I could just make out the outline of his tattoos? Then I remembered the name inked there—Lucy—and told myself to stop lusting over a guy who wasn’t even single. Yeah, he was delicious to look at, but he had a girlfriend. And even then, he wasn’t my type at all.
“Couldn’t let my sous chef leave without the fruits of his labor,” he said.
“My brownies!” Jeremiah took the box and hugged it to his chest.
“I think they’re the best ones I’ve ever made,” Jake told him, and even though I was pretty sure that wasn’t the truth, I couldn’t help smiling at how happy it made Jeremiah. “You’ve got a future in the kitchen, my friend.”
“Wow.” Jeremiah stared at the brownies as if Jake just told him he could do magic.
“If you get here again early, just come up and knock on my door,” Jake said, tugging gently on the brim of Jeremiah’s baseball cap. “I’ll teach you how to make cookies next time. The best chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever tasted.”
“Cool!” Jeremiah grinned just as his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it. “My mom’s here,” he told me.
“Okay.” I gave him a smile. “See you next week?”
“Yep!” he told me. “Thanks for my lesson today.” The thank you was polite but I could already tell that his excitement was about his other potential lessons with Jake. I bit back a sigh. If I wasn’t careful I’d lose all my piano students to a handsome chef with a skill for baking sweets.
“Bye!” I waved at Jeremiah as he headed out the double glass doors to the street. I watched him until he got into his mom’s car, his hands already gesticulating wildly. I turned back to Jake, who was also watching the car.
“Looks like you have a fan,” I told him.
“He’s a good kid.” Jake gave me a shrug, as if all this was a regular occurrence in his life. “He likes to bake.”
“I’m sure he does now,” I said, thinking of how happy Jeremiah had been. That poor kid had just been sitting in my hallway waiting for the other lesson to be over. Back at my parents’ house, there was a whole other room for him to hang out in, and my parents and sister to talk to. I hadn’t even thought about what was going to happen to students like him when I moved into my new place. If Jake hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I would have done.
“I really appreciate you watching after him while I finished up my other lesson. I owe you,” I told Jake. It was becoming pretty clear that I had misjudged him and that we had gotten off on the wrong foot. “And I’m sorry if I was harsh with you last night.”
But he shook his head. “You had every right to come upstairs and yell at me,” he said. “We were being really rude and I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t expecting that and didn’t know how to respond, so we both just stood there, me looking down at my feet. I already had enough images of Jake’s chest and arms to power my inappropriate, still-kind-of-in-denial-because-he’s-not-my-type fantasies for at least the next fifteen years if not longer.
“There are a few leftovers in my apartment,” Jake finally said, and I glanced up to find him rubbing the back of his neck, his thick hair rumpled and totally touchable. “If you want to come up for a brownie and some milk?” It was an innocent enough offer, but nothing about this guy said innocence.
“I’m not really a brownie person,” I lied, hoping it was a good enough excuse to end this conversation and go back into my apartment and practice until I stopped thinking about how soft his hair might feel against my fingers.
“You sure seemed like a brownie person last night,” Jake teased, clearly referencing my “better than sex” comment. Oh god, I was never going to live that one down. “Okay, well, I can make something else. Like I told Jeremiah, I make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies.” He grinned at me and I got a good look at his perfectly straight teeth and movie star dimple in his left cheek. No wonder he had a girlfriend as beautiful as Lucy. He probably had women throwing themselves at him left and right.
“I don’t really like sweets,” I tried again. Mark was big on promoting a minimalist lifestyle—one that allowed a performer to focus completely on the music. When we first started working together, he had encouraged me to cut out anything unnecessary in my life. He also encouraged me to cut out sugar, most carbs, and all caffeine. I didn’t find it to be much of a sacrifice. After all, I couldn’t remember the last time I had a brownie before last night—my parents weren’t really known for their home cooking, especially not in terms of baking. Unless, of course, they were making “special brownies.” But I had never really gotten what made people so crazy for sweets. Until last night.
And Jake clearly didn’t believe me. He was looking at me like I was an alien.
“You don’t like sweets?” he asked.
“Not really,” I told him, backing into my apartment—hoping he’d take the hint. But instead he just followed me in. The apartment felt even smaller with him in it, more intimate. Warmer.
“Are you more of a savory person?” he asked, and I turned back to him and shrugged.
“I guess.” I felt exposed in his stare. “I’m just not that into food.”
“What?” He placed his hand to his chest as if I had mortally wounded him. “How can someone not be into food? You need it to survive!”
“I didn’t say I didn’t eat,” I explained, even though I really didn’t feel like I should have to. What did he care what I ate or didn’t eat? “I eat.”
“What do you eat?”
“Soup,” I told him hesitantly, but his eyes lit up.
“Oh, soup is great! I make an amazing butternut and ginger soup, pair that with crusty sourdough bread—homemade, of course—and a bottle of wine.” He touched his fingers to his lips and kissed them, looking a lot like a cheesy television chef. “Delicious!”
But I could only shrug.
“Really?” He asked. “Nothing? No stomach rumble? Nothing?”
“I like Campbell’s chicken noodle soup,” I told him.
He shook his head. “That’s not soup,” he responded. “That’s salt in a can.”
“Have you tried it?” I asked.
“Nope,” he told me. “Don’t need to. Prepackaged food is never as good as the real thing.”
“I disagree.”
“Well, I�
�m happy to prove you wrong.” He gave me that smile again. It was time to end this flirtation—I was pretty sure Lucy would be annoyed to find out her boyfriend was trying to lure his neighbor into his apartment on the guise of making her soup. From the look in his eyes, I knew exactly what he was hoping to heat up and it wasn’t anything resembling a can of soup. And the last thing I needed right now was to be tempted by a sexy chef who wore his shirts too tight and his smile too big.
“I hardly think your girlfriend would appreciate you offering to cook for me,” I told him bluntly.
His eyebrows furrowed. “My girlfriend?”
“The brunette from last night?”
He burst out laughing. “Dakota? She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my sous chef at the restaurant.”
“Oh,” was the only thing I could think of to say. Then who was the Lucy that was special enough to have her name tattooed on his chest? On his heart, even? But I couldn’t ask, because that would mean I was confessing to staring at his naked chest long enough to get a good look at his tattoos.
“Though, I guess you’re right,” Jake said, looking a little sheepish. “Your boyfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate my offer either.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “My boyfriend?”
“The guy who helped you move your piano?”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Mark’s my teacher.”
“A piano teacher with her own teacher,” Jake teased. “So he must be pretty good.”
“He’s the best,” I said sincerely.
Jake shrugged. “I guess I’m just not that into classical music.”
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before.
“Most people don’t understand how rich and interesting classical music is,” I told him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” he asked, sounding way too inviting.
Usually I would just end the conversation there, accepting that most people would never understand what was so special about classical music, but I heard my thoughts tumble out of my mouth in a long, passionate rant.
“Maybe it’s not as cool or exciting as pop music or rock and roll or even jazz, but it has an incredible history and remains just as vibrant and affecting as it did hundreds of years ago. You can find classical music in the roots of every single form of music that exists today, so really, if you like any kind of music, you like classical music, you just haven’t bothered to listen to it without all the bells and whistles that we like to add to our music today. In fact, classical music is completely pure, completely without ego. When you play, you are connecting to the person who wrote the music and everyone else who has played it before. You are part of history and that is an extraordinary thing.”
When I finished I was completely out of breath. Jake didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared down at me, and the intensity of his gaze made me blush. I felt totally exposed, as if I had just taken off my clothes in front of a stranger instead of telling my neighbor the reasons I loved playing the classics.
“I—” I started to say, but before I could get the sentence out, Jake pulled me into his arms and slanted his gorgeous mouth against mine.
9
Jake
Fucking hell. Every single word out of Ella’s mouth seemed to turn me on, but watching her get fired up, well, damn. I was near ready to go off. And when I pressed her lips against mine? I was nearly out of my mind. There was a good chance I wasn’t ever going to be able to think about classical music again without getting a raging erection.
Her body was flush against my chest, and though the kiss was soft, my body was anything but. My hands were curved around her arms but longed to explore the figure I had seen that first night, clad in that black satin that seemed to haunt my goddamn dreams. Her lips fit perfectly, her top lip cushioned between mine, and every single nerve in my body seemed to fire like a rocket ship.
My hands smoothed down her back to the top of her ass, and I felt her moan against my mouth as I lifted her closer. Goddamn she felt good.
But it wasn’t enough. I angled my mouth, my tongue seeking hers, tangling together. A moan vibrated through me and I slid a hand up her side, just near her breast where her nipple was already straining against the material of her shirt. Oh fuck.
I felt her hands against my chest, those long fingers burning through my thin shirt and I realized that I had just grabbed her and kissed her. Some rational thought began breaking through the overload of sensation that had hit me hard. What was I doing? You can’t just grab women and kiss them, I scolded myself. Unless you know without any doubt that being kissed is exactly what they want at that moment. And even though I had been thinking about it since the moment I realized she was single, it had probably come out of nowhere for her.
I let my hands drop away and stepped back, breaking the kiss, already missing the hot press of her lips against mine.
I felt drunk, but in the best possible way. Dizzy and hot and fan-fucking-tastic.
Looking down at Ella, I searched her face, hoping to find that same elation, but her eyes were closed, her fingers against her lips. There was a faint smile there, or so I hoped. She didn’t move and for a moment I didn’t know what to do.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said, and her eyes flew open.
“Sorry?” she asked, and the smile quickly faded. Shit. No, that’s not what I meant to imply. I was such an idiot. Never say you’re sorry after a kiss, Jake, what are you? A complete moron?
“I just—I should have—” Goddamn it, what was I trying to say?
Unfortunately, she found her words first. “It’s fine,” she said, though it was clearly not fine. “I really don’t have time for anything like . . . ” She seemed to be searching for the right word. “ . . . This right now.” She made a vague gesture between us.
“But—” I started to say but she was already backing into her apartment.
“Goodbye Jake,” she said. “Thanks again for your help with Jeremiah.”
And then she shut the door in my face. Fuck.
Usually work gave me a sense of calm and control. The hostesses always said coming back to the kitchen was like walking into pure chaos, but to me, it was a finely run machine, everyone doing exactly what was necessary to keep everything running. Usually I knew exactly what needed to be done and how to make things work. It was my version of Zen—orders came in, food came out. Each action had a reaction, each act a result.
But tonight was a disaster. Somehow my capable kitchen staff had been replaced by a bunch of amateurs.
“Fuck!” I swore as the kitchen filled with the horrible, acrid scent of smoke. “Wake up!” I yelled at my cooks. “Pay attention or get the hell out of my kitchen.”
“Chef?” Dakota came over towards me as I fanned away the plume of smoke rising above the ruined dish. I could only hope there were no critics dining with us tonight. That was the last thing I needed—a food critic doing their first write-up on the new chef at Grassfed on the day when the food was something I wouldn’t feed to my worst enemy.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you need to work on the menu for next week?” Dakota asked, a strained smile on her face. It was the most diplomatic way for her to say “get the fuck out of the kitchen.” I could see in her eyes that I had crossed a line and once my anger faded, I knew she was right. The last thing I should be doing is yelling at my staff, even if they had been making mistakes. I was usually more constructive with my criticism. Tonight I was being a picky asshole. No one wanted to work for a tyrant, and that’s what my bad mood had turned me into tonight. Once again I thanked my lucky stars that I had Dakota as my sous chef and not some upstart chef looking to usurp me. No, Dakota was thinking about me just as much as she was thinking about the kitchen, and I made a mental note to get her a nice bottle of wine or something.
I spent the rest of the night in my office, not doing menus as Dakota had suggested, but trying to figure out exactly how to make amends to Ella in a completely altruistic way. A
fter that kiss, as innocent and simple as it had been, I was hooked. There was a serious spark there and I was not a man who ignored a spark. And there was no doubt in my mind that Ella had felt it too. The flush of her cheeks, the smile on her lips (fuck, those lips)—there had been serious sparks flying. The problem, of course, was how skittish she was. Yes, I had royally fucked up when I opened my mouth and apologized (yeah, good going Jake, you colossal moron), but she hadn’t even given me a chance to explain.
But I had gotten myself out of worse misunderstandings than this. Hadn’t I? Yes, yes I had. But the way I usually did it—with food—was probably not going to work this time. I couldn’t understand it. I had met women who were afraid of food, sure (fuck the diet industry) and women who had incredibly specific palates, but never someone who just didn’t seem to see the point of food.
There came a gentle knock at the door.
“Come in,” I called out and Dakota entered.
“Hey,” she said and without needing to be invited, came and sat down on the edge of my desk. “So, what happened?”
“I kissed Ella,” I told her and her eyes lit up.
“I knew you two had potential,” she crowed and gave herself a little pat on the back.
“Well, you might have to convince her of that.” I tossed my pen onto the desktop. “She is not interested.”
“I can’t believe that.” Dakota crossed her arms. “Has there ever been a woman who could say no to you?”