by Katie McCoy
But watching the concentration with which Jake cooked, the deft movements of his hands—which I had noticed had lots of scars on them—was certainly enough to get me to reconsider my previous belief that food and cooking wasn’t sexy at all. Or maybe it was just Jake. Whatever he did would be sexy, probably. Like his own symphony, with his kitchen as the instrument and the food as the melody.
“So . . . ” I didn’t want to interrupt his process, causing him to cut off a finger or something, but I felt a little weird just sitting there with my now half empty wine glass. Was it warm in here? I pressed a hand to my throat. “What are you making?”
He gave me a grin over his shoulder. “Chicken soup,” he said. “Your favorite, right?”
Oh. He had been listening. That was good, right?
“How long have you been a chef?” I didn’t really know much about the cooking world—was that a weird question? If someone asked me how long I had been a musician, I wouldn’t really know how to answer. Forever, I supposed. Was it the same with chefs?
“I graduated from culinary school about five years ago,” Jake told me. “But I’ve always liked to cook.”
“Oh,” I took another sip of wine and found that my glass was now empty. Before I could do anything, Jake was already pouring me another glass. A large pot was sitting on the stove and the rest of the kitchen seemed as spotless as when I had entered.
“How is everything clean already?” I asked, thinking of the mess my sister always made when she tried to cook at my parents’ house.
“Habit.” Jake wiped his hands on a rag and took a swig of his own glass of wine. “That’s one of the first things they teach you—the importance of a clear work station. You clean as you go, basically.”
“Is that why your apartment is so clean?” I asked and he grinned.
“I guess.” He peered into the pot bubbling and steaming on the stove. Then he glanced up and gave me a wicked grin. “So,” he started, “are you ready to lend me your tongue?”
I took a long drink of wine. This was a terrible idea.
“Ready,” I said.
12
Jake
Ella kept surprising me. I had fully expected my thinly veiled attempt to spend time with her to be rebuked. I even thought about using the favor I had earned watching over Jeremiah to convince her to “help” me, but here she was, in my apartment, drinking wine and looking like every wet dream I never knew I’d had.
God, that mouth. It was stained purple from the wine, and I wanted nothing more than to get drunk from licking it. Right now, it was offering to taste my soup, and sadly that wasn’t a euphemism.
I had half lied when I told her I was testing recipes. I had been making chicken soup since I was a kid—one of the first things my mom had taught me—but I had been making adjustments to it ever since. I was never fully satisfied, so I was always looking to improve it. This was just the latest adaptation of an old standby, and most of it had already been prepped and ready to go. It wasn’t the usual elaborate meal I would usually make for a woman, but from what I could tell, that wasn’t likely to impress Ella.
The broth, handmade of course, I kept handy in my freezer, and was packed with spices. The chicken that had been marinating in the fridge was seasoned with my own blend of spices as well. I also sautéed the vegetables before throwing them in, adding another layer of flavor. This time I was adding coconut milk and bay leaves, giving it a Thai-inspired flourish. Everything came together quickly, merely needing to be added to the large stock pot and cooked until the chicken was done. My mother’s original recipe had been a simple one, but one that would never fly in a professional kitchen. Customers always wanted something new, something fresh and exciting. This was my latest attempt to give it to them.
I prepped two bowls and took a seat at the counter next to Ella. This was usually the moment. I would pretend to eat, but really, I was always watching the face of my (usually female) guest. The same thing always happened. She would take a bite or spoonful and her eyes would close, her lips curling upwards into a smile as she lost herself in the food. And I would lose myself in that expression, in the knowledge that I had given someone a moment of pure enjoyment. It was always a rush for me. But I had never wanted to please someone as much as I wanted to please Ella in that moment. I didn’t even bother pretending to taste my own bowl, I just watched her.
I could tell she was a little drunk—after all, she had drank nearly half a bottle of wine—but it seemed to relax her in a way I hadn’t seen before. Her hair, though still constricted in that tight, complicated bun, was beginning to come loose, especially at her temples, and I felt the urge to sweep the wayward strands back, to run my fingers along her cheek, to tilt her chin up so her mouth could meet mine and then . . .
I heard her take a sip of her soup. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I had missed the moment!
But there was no smile. No closing of the eyes. No enjoyment.
Instead, Ella actually wrinkled her nose.
This had never happened to me before. My cooking was my silver bullet—the one thing I could always count on to seduce, to invoke pleasure. But Ella took only a few bites before she pushed the bowl away and picked up her wine glass again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at me with those big brown eyes. And she did look sorry.
What the fuck? I stared down at my own soup. Was it that bad? I took a bite. The flavors were all there, intense and vibrant. I didn’t understand.
“It’s just not what I like,” she confessed and took another sip of wine. “It’s too . . . complicated. I guess I just like things simple.”
I found myself speechless. Was it too complicated? I took another sip and suddenly all the flavors that I had been so proud of seemed to overwhelm my senses. It was different, that was for sure, but was it actually good? It didn’t taste anything like my mother’s recipe anymore, and I was no longer pleased with it.
“I’m really sorry.” She reached out and placed her hand on my arm. The warmth of it suddenly erased my disappointment. Okay, so food wasn’t going to be the way I seduced her. Fine, that was fine, I had other tools in my arsenal.
“I understand,” I told her, gathering up the bowls and putting them in the sink.
“I feel terrible.” She took another sip of wine. “You worked so hard.”
But I was already reconsidering my tactic with both my soup and with Ella.
“I think you’re right,” I told her. “About the soup. About it being too complicated.”
“Oh no, Jake.” She looked downward. “I don’t know anything about food. I’m not the person you should be asking.”
“But you know what you like,” I reminded her. “That’s all that matters.”
“I like canned soup.” She glanced up at me, and through her embarrassment, I could see a tiny glimmer of humor. “I distinctly remember you being completely horrified by that fact.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted, pleased that she wasn’t upset. “But I’m a snob when it comes to food.”
“I understand.” She gave me a small smile. “I think you remember my monologue about classical music.”
“It was a very informative monologue,” I told her.
This time her smile stopped my breath. God, she was gorgeous.
“Go out with me,” I said. Surely she couldn’t ignore this attraction between us. It was undeniable and, in my opinion, well worth exploring. In bed, preferably, but to my surprise, I realized that I could wait for that.
But she looked startled at the suggestion and her eyes dropped back to her wine glass. She took another sip. A long one.
“I’m sorry.” I mentally cursed myself for not listening to Dakota. I should have let this breathe. I should have waited. But before I could chastise myself too much, I heard Ella put down the wine glass. I looked up just as she stood. On unsteady feet, she stepped forward, maneuvering herself between my knees, and before I could say anything, brought her wine stained lips do
wn on mine.
13
Ella
I was drunk in the afternoon and kissing some guy I barely knew and I had never felt more alive. If my forwardness surprised Jake, he recovered quickly, his hand cupping my cheek, holding me in place, my lips against his. God, he had great lips. Firm and warm and perfect. I sighed against them and could feel him smile.
Then he pulled away, but only a few inches, his forehead pressing against mine.
“Go out with me,” he whispered again.
I opened my mouth to say no, but before a single word could escape my lips, he claimed them again.
This time, it was his tongue, hot and slick, sliding into my mouth, finding my tongue and coaxing it into a primal dance I had nearly forgotten. But it had never been like this before. Kissing other guys, kissing Mark, had been enjoyable, but I knew I had been missing something. I had always assumed it was me. That something was wrong with me. But with Jake’s tongue tangling with mine, my entire body tingling with the most glorious anticipation, I realized that I wasn’t the thing that had been wrong in my past romantic equations—it had been the guy and me together. This pairing worked. Jake’s other hand curled around my hip, pulling me closer to him, flush against his body, my hips braced by his legs. And against my stomach I felt the long, hard length of him, and I wanted nothing more than to free him, to feel him hot and smooth against my hand, between my legs, inside me.
The intensity of my desire shocked and thrilled me. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the memory of the brownies he had made, or even lingering adrenaline from that afternoon’s competition, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was Jake.
This time when we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily.
“Go out with me,” Jake asked for a third time.
I didn’t answer, only kissed him again. I couldn’t get enough. I could taste the salt and spices from the soup, which took on a completely new flavor in his mouth, and I wanted to lap him up. His fingers were tight on my hip, almost holding me in place when I wanted to be closer. I leaned my upper body against him, pressing my breasts against his chest, against the thin cotton of his shirt, and wished that my dress wasn’t so heavy and draped. I wanted to feel my skin against his.
Then he pulled away, his hands now keeping me at a distance. In my wine haze, I didn’t understand. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to collect himself. When he opened them, though, they still burned with the same desire I felt boiling inside of me.
“Go out with me,” he asked once more, his voice husky. “Come on, Ella,” he whispered, lifting my hand and placing a soft kiss on my palm. I shuddered at the sensation. “Just”—he kissed the inside of my wrist—“one”—he leaned forward and kissed the side of my neck—“little”—then the line of my jaw—“tiny”—then my cheek—“itty-bitty”—then the corner of my mouth—“date.”
I knew he wouldn’t kiss me where I wanted to be kissed until I agreed. And for a moment I thought of saying no. Mark had always said sex and relationships got in the way of great music. But I looked at Jake, at the earnest look in his eyes, and the heat simmering there, and thought, fuck you, Mark.
“Okay,” I said. “One date.”
His lips came back down on mine and my knees went weak as his tongue plundered my mouth, my entire body screaming for attention. My hands went straight for his chest, the heat from his skin nearly burning my palms, but I didn’t care. The T-shirt was thin, surely it wouldn’t take much, just one strong tear . . .
But before I could relieve Jake of his well-worn shirt, I felt a buzzing against my thigh. I was more than happy to ignore it, or even lean into it if necessary, but Jake pulled away, frowning.
“Fuck,” he muttered, extracting his phone from his pocket. “I have to go to work,” he told me, looking as disappointed as I felt.
“Oh,” was all I could say, and suddenly I was sober again and realizing that not only had I agreed to go out with my neighbor who I barely knew, but I had also spent the last fifteen minutes tongue wrestling with him. That was not like me at all. But, maybe that was a good thing.
I didn’t have much more time to think about it, as Jake and I untangled ourselves from the enticing position we had gotten ourselves into. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there awkwardly, smoothing back the hair that had come loose during our lip lock.
Jake shot me a sympathetic look.
“I wish I could stay.” He took my hand and I tried really hard not to be disappointed. Then I remembered that it was Saturday and I also had somewhere to be.
“I understand.” I gave his hand a little squeeze and he smiled.
“I don’t have to work Monday night.” He looked almost a little nervous which was ridiculously adorable. “Can I pick you up at six?”
“Okay.” I pushed away Mark’s lecture about getting involved during a time like this. I was an adult and he wasn’t my boyfriend or my parents. It was time I stopped letting him be in charge of anything outside of our lessons, and time to have a life outside of music for once. Especially if I didn’t win this competition. I quickly pushed that thought away, though. I wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not until I was officially out.
Jake grabbed a jacket and his keys.
“Let me walk you to your door.” He grabbed my hand again and I loved how warm and big it was.
“It’s just downstairs.” I didn’t know why I was objecting.
He grinned. “Yeah, but this way I get to give you one more kiss.”
My cheeks heated up and I followed him out of his apartment, my heart racing as if we hadn’t been kissing only a few minutes before.
When we got to my door, he made good on his promise, pulling me into his arms, my body flush against his and giving me the kind of kiss a sailor gave to his lady before shipping off to sea for months on end. My toes curled in my shoes and I clung to his shoulders, wishing that I could just drag him inside my apartment, make quick work of that ratty tee and pull him down onto my mattress.
But his phone buzzed again, this time against my hip.
“Sorry,” Jake said, breaking away from me, a dazed look on his face. I’m sure I looked the same, my fingers going to my lips which felt wonderfully tingly and swollen. “I have to go,” he told me.
“Okay.” I seemed unable to form sentences longer than a single word.
Jake dropped a kiss onto my forehead.
“See you tomorrow.” He gave me a wink and then headed out the double doors to the street. I watched him walk away, really, really enjoying the view, his broad shoulders stretching the thin fabric of his shirt, the muscles in his back something I was looking forward to exploring. Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
Music was already blasting by the time I got to my parents’ house. This could only mean one thing: someone was arguing with someone else about jazz. For the most part, my family listened to their music of choice slightly louder than most, but at a volume still respectful of their neighbors. When it got turned up to eleven, so to speak, one of them was trying to prove a point.
“It’s the trumpet,” my sister was yelling when I let myself in. “The trumpet is the glue of the whole piece.”
My eardrums felt like they were going to explode—the entire house seemed to shake with the intensity of the state of the art sound system. My parents didn’t spend money on much, but a good speaker system? They’d blow their life savings to hear the music “the way it was meant to be heard.” They had every single type of listening device—record players, 8 track tape players, CD players, mp3 players—everything so they could listen to it no matter how it was released. There was even a gramophone in my mother’s office—though none of us were allowed to touch it.
“You’re out of your mind,” my father hollered back. “If anything, the trumpet is aggressively taking over the piece. A jazz group is about balance and this player is all about their instrument, their solo, their sound! It’s selfish playing and you can hear it in the music.”
<
br /> “I don’t even know what you are listening to.” I saw Nina throw up her hands in exasperation. “Clearly I got my musical ear from my MO-THER!”
“Don’t you dare speak about your mother like that,” my dad shot back. I could hear the smile in his words.
Somehow I managed to sneak past the den where they were arguing, going straight to the kitchen where my mother—decked out in her favorite crystals—was unpacking Chinese take-out. If you couldn’t heat it up in the microwave, we didn’t even bother. I had no doubt that Jake would be horrified with the eating habits I had grown up with.
Surprisingly, I was starving. I was never hungry, but my mouth watered at the smell of orange chicken and beef and broccoli. Usually I just ate sautéed vegetables and some rice—as Mark’s dietary plan dictated—and had never craved anything else, but tonight, I was ravenous for more.
“Hi, Mom.” I came around the counter to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Ella!” She put down the food and gave me a tight hug. “Nina! Frank!” she called out for my dad and sister. “We’ve missed you so much.” My mom hugged me again.
“I’ve only been gone a few days,” I reminded her.
“It feels like ages.” She put a hand on my cheek. “How are you doing? How’s the apartment?”
“It’s good,” I told her, as my sister and dad came into the kitchen finishing up another conversation.
“They would absolutely die over the gramophone at Burning Man,” Nina was saying. “I could put it on top of one of the sculptures and it would be a huge hit.”