by Katie McCoy
“Ella.” Jake made the introductions. “This is Michael. Michael, this is Ella.”
“Hi, Michael.” I shook his hand.
“Hey,” he said, shuffling on his feet a little, the way that most teenage boys did when confronted with adults they didn’t really know.
“Michael is going to be the next great San Francisco chef,” Jake told me. “After me, of course.” He gave the teen a playful jab in the side.
“Naw, man.” Michael kicked the ground.
“You know the first lesson of cooking,” Jake reminded him.
“Clean as you go?” I offered, recalling what Jake had said back in his kitchen.
“You remembered?” Jake looked surprised but pleased. “Okay, then, the second rule of cooking?”
But Michael just shrugged, still looking down at his tennis-shoed feet.
“When someone tells you you’re going to be great, believe them.” Jake gave the kid’s shoulder a squeeze. “Alright, clearly I’ve embarrassed you enough. Can you go get our first course?”
“Yep.” Michael nodded his head and took off before any more praise could be lavished on him.
We settled onto the blanket and Jake poured the wine, passing the glass to me. I took a small sip, remembering what I did to him when I drank too much too quickly. Though, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind a repeat of the other day’s events. Especially when there was less of a chance of the same interruption.
“So,” I couldn’t help asking, “do you know a lot of teen protégés?” I thought of how encouraging he had been with Jeremiah—clearly this guy had a knack with kids.
“Only a few.” Jake gave me a wink. “I sometimes volunteer at a local high school. Cooking lessons, that kind of thing. A lot of the kids seem to enjoy it; some of them think it’s girly stuff so they don’t want to even try. It took a lot of convincing to just get Michael to admit that he liked eating.” He smiled at me over the rim of the wine glass. “Like someone else I know.”
I blushed but said nothing.
Jake took a sip of the wine. “But he’s a natural. Really, really talented. I want him to come intern at the restaurant during the summer, but he’s still resistant.”
“Yet, he’s here, helping you out,” I noticed.
“Yeah, well.” Jake looked a little embarrassed. “A lot of the girls in his class kind of have a crush on me. He gets a lot of girl cred when he does this kind of stuff—and if one of them sees him tonight . . . ” Jake let out a whistle, “Well, that could bode very well for him tomorrow in school.”
I smiled, imaging a whole room full of teen girls swooning while Jake taught them how to bake a cake. “So you help my students learn how to make brownies, you teach high school students how to cook, and you’re also a dating coach? Is there anything you don’t do?”
“I can’t play piano,” he said, and clinked his glass against mine.
Before I could say anything else, Michael returned with his arms full of little baskets of food.
“Round one,” Jake said, taking them from Michael and placing them on the table.
“Round one?” I asked, looking at all the food in front of us. “How many rounds are there going to be?”
“As many as you can stand,” Jake said with a grin. “You say you’re not really a food person, but I bet I can find something here that you like. Something, dare I say it, that brings you pleasure.”
I had no doubt that he would succeed, but at that moment the kind of pleasure I was thinking about had nothing to do with food.
I tried everything. Sushi, kimchi, falafel, banh mi, tacos, pierogis, dumplings, samosas, and then for dessert, Jake insisted on maple butter custard. Even though I thought I could barely eat another bite, I was enticed by the rich scent and ended up eating practically the entire thing.
“So . . . ” Jake leaned back, taking stock at the food we had devoured. “Looks like the winners were falafel, samosas and, of course, the custard.”
I looked down at the empty custard cup in my hands, too full to be embarrassed. I had never enjoyed eating so much in my life. Jake had given me a mini culinary lesson with each dish, telling me about its history and the variety of methods used to make it. On occasion, I had been so distracted by what he was saying that I hadn’t even taken the chance to really notice what I was eating, just how it tasted. And after every different item tried, Jake would ask me a series of questions about what I liked or didn’t like about it. How did I feel about the texture? About the flavor? About the presentation? The combination of spices? Could I taste the ginger? How about the paprika? I began eating with a new awareness, searching for flavors with each bite. It became almost like an adventure.
Michael returned a few times, to help clear the small table or bring us new food, but for the most part we were alone, practically hidden from the crowds by the large tree we were sitting beside. I had never imagined being outside in the city could feel so intimate.
“Thank you,” I told Jake after the mini table had been cleared. “This was really lovely.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said. “It’s always fun to watch people discovering things they enjoy.”
“You were a great teacher,” I told him and leaned forward for my last sip of wine. I wasn’t drunk, but I was feeling very warm and happy. I touched the crystal necklace that felt heavy against my neck and I saw Jake’s eyes automatically go to where it was hanging. When his eyes widened, I realized that the neckline of my dress had probably leaned forward with me, giving him a front row look at my red bra.
“So,” he said, his eyes quickly returning to my face, though I could hear a slight strain in his voice. “What next?”
I felt emboldened by the wine and by his reaction, so I leaned forward further. “Why don’t we go back to my apartment and I can show you something else that I enjoy?”
16
Ella
My hand trembled as I tried to fit the key in the lock. What was with these doors? My brashness had begun to wear off the closer we got to the apartment. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to rip Jake’s clothes off and devour him like the frozen custard, but with each step, my insecurities began to replace the sense of confidence I had begun to feel sitting on the blanket with him. Maybe it was easier to be fun and flirtatious in a public place, but now that we were alone . . .
None of my past boyfriends had ever used words like “sexy” or “hot” to describe me. If anything, I was “nice” or “pretty.” I certainly wasn’t someone who was lusted after. And what if, when it came down to it, I was just as boring in bed as I had found my exes? I knew that I bore part of the responsibility for my dull sex life—but what if all of it was my fault?
It wouldn’t really matter, though, if I couldn’t even get the front door to my apartment open. I guess we’d just have to sit out here until Jake got bored, went home, and left me to wither away because of my incompetence with keys.
Instead, his warm hand wrapped around mine and gently took the keys from me. I was too nervous to look back up at him as he smoothly and quickly slid the key in the lock and opened the door. He handed my keys back, and whispered in my ear.
“I’m in no rush.”
I felt both a thrill from the heat of his breath on my neck and relief in knowing he wasn’t expecting one of those Hollywood, rip-my-clothes-off-and-have-sex-against-the-door type situations. Though when I finally glanced up at him and saw the twinkle in his eye, I started to reconsider my previous reluctance to against-the-door sex. He was gorgeous, no doubt about it, but that insecurity still lingered—what did a guy like him, all sex and food and deliciousness, see in me, with my drab clothes and obsession with classical music? Was I just setting myself up for disappointment?
He followed me into the apartment, and I was thankful I hadn’t made much of a mess when I got dressed a few hours ago, though maybe I should have left some of my lingerie strewn provocatively around the apartment. No, I thought to myself, he’s in no rush. You’re in no rush.
Take it slow. You’re good at slow.
“So here it is.” Jake had moved to the middle of the room, confronting the behemoth that was my piano. “My nemesis.”
“Your nemesis?”
“The beast that wakes me up in the morning,” he clarified, but it was clear he was teasing. “Though, I guess I do owe it some gratitude. After all . . . ” He looked up at me, heat burning in his eyes. “It brought me down here in the first place.”
“Yes, well.” I didn’t really know what to say, though my body was screaming for me to stop messing around with a lifeless instrument and show Jake the kind of music we could make together. But of course, my logical brain won out, as it always did. “It appreciates you being so understanding.”
“Does your piano have a name?” Jake asked, settling himself on the bench, examining the keys.
“A name?”
“You know how some people name their cars, or their electronics, or . . . ” He winked at me. “Other, more personal instruments.”
I blushed.
“Not that I’ve done that,” he clarified quickly with a grin.
I cleared my throat, trying not to think of the unnamed body part he was referring to and how much I had enjoyed feeling it pressing against my stomach, hard and hot, when we had kissed the other night.
“So, no name for the piano?” Jake asked, and I shook my head.
“No name,” I told him.
“What is it you’re practicing for every morning?” he asked, his attention focused back on the keys. He plinked one of them, the sound echoing beautifully in the perfect acoustics of the apartment.
“A competition.” I settled down next to him on the bench. “The winner gets a mentorship with one of the best classical pianists in the city. And money,” I added, though that was always the last thing on my mind when it came to competing.
Jake let out a low whistle. “A good mentorship is worth more than money, in my opinion. Patricia, the former head chef of Grassfed, was my mentor out of culinary school. I would never have gotten to where I am now without her.”
I nodded. “Usually these mentorships lead to positions at the Symphony, or sometimes the opportunity to teach in a more prestigious setting.” I looked down at the keys, recently polished and gleaming. “Though, I would hate it if I didn’t have time for Jeremiah and my other students. It’s almost more fun to teach novices than advanced students.”
“I know what you mean.” Jake plinked out a few more notes. “The cooking program at the school with kids like Michael is way more fun than training some of the recent culinary graduates. Especially those who are like me—already looking to take over the restaurant.” He gave me a sideways grin. “I’m not sure how Patricia dealt with my attitude those first few months. I have no doubt I was a major pain in her ass.”
“Well, you must feel pretty good now that you’ve reached your goal,” I said, thinking of all the articles I had read on Jake and the restaurant—how all of them had commented on how young he was, a Rising Star in the San Francisco culinary world.
But he only shrugged. “I want to have my own place one day,” he told me. “One that I own, that I have complete control over.”
“You don’t have control now?”
He shook his head. “I’m still cooking with Patricia’s recipes. The owner doesn’t trust that people will still come if we try something new.”
I could sense his frustration.
“Then again, if my experiments turn out as well as the soup I served you the other night, I suppose the owner’s fears are justified.”
“I never meant to, I just, I—” I stammered, feeling terrible, but Jake put his hand on my cheek.
“I’m teasing,” he told me gently, his palm warm against my face. I could feel the calluses there too, but I didn’t mind them. In fact, I think I liked them, rough and real against my skin. “Besides, you were right.” He returned his hands to the piano and I hated the loss of his touch. “The soup was too complicated. Sometimes we chefs forget how good simple things can be. We always want to improve upon things that don’t necessarily need improving.”
“That’s sometimes how I feel with music,” I told him. “Everyone always wants to jazz up classical music—to make it more modern or more exciting—when they should appreciate the skill and beauty in the notes. For me, listening to someone truly gifted playing one of Mozart’s concertos is enough to make me cry. It doesn’t need any bells or whistles to make it special.”
Jake tilted his head towards me. “You know, I’ve never really listened to a lot of classical music.”
“What do you like to listen to?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“The Boss.” He gave me half grin. “You know—”
“Bruce Springsteen,” I finished and gave him my own smile. “Just because I like classical music doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate other kinds of music. I like ‘Thunder Road.’”
“He was my mom’s favorite,” he said quietly, but it seemed more like he was saying it to himself rather than me, so I didn’t press the subject.
Instead, I spun on the piano bench so I was facing the keys and played the opening bars of “Thunder Road.” Even though I preferred classical, I still knew a few other songs. Jake’s eyes widened and he laughed.
“That’s amazing.”
He slid out from the bench and stood behind me. I could feel him, over my shoulder, watching my fingers along the keys as I played the rest of “Thunder Road.” When I was done, he applauded. Besides the polite applause of the judges from the competition the other day, I hadn’t heard someone applaud my playing in a long time. Usually it was just silence, and then Mark would start listing all the things I had done wrong. Even though I had messed up a few times just now, Jake either didn’t mind or didn’t care. I was surprised by how happy his applause made me feel.
His hands curved over my shoulders.
“Can you play me your favorite classical piece?”
I froze for a moment. Of course I could, but no date had ever showed interest in my playing, except for Mark, of course—but more and more I was starting to think I could do without his interest.
Jake removed his hands. “I’m sorry, if you don’t want to—”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “I do.”
And then I started playing my favorite piece, Chopin’s “Prelude in E Minor.” I played the first few bars and then I felt Jake’s fingers in my hair and my playing faltered.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just wondering why you wear your hair up all the time?”
I stopped playing and put a hand to the ever-present bun.
“It’s just easier to have it up like this.” I looked back at him.
“Would you mind if I took it down?”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone else had touched my hair, but his fingers felt so nice against the nape of my neck that I nodded. Carefully and expertly, Jake removed the pins and placed them on the surface of the piano. My hair fell heavily to my shoulders.
“That’s better,” Jake said, his fingers sliding into the thick locks.
As his hands began to play with my hair, mine started Chopin’s prelude again. This time, I closed my eyes and focused on the music, the feel of the keys beneath my fingers and the sensation of Jake’s hands in my hair. When I was done, I felt as if I had played better than I had ever played in my life.
I turned back to Jake, my hair escaping his grasp, and he sank down onto the bench next to me.
“That was amazing,” he said.
Then, without thinking, without second-guessing myself, I grasped the front of his shirt and pulled his mouth to mine.
17
Jake
I could get used to this, I thought as Ella pressed her lips against mine. The kiss was eager and sure, her mouth already parting to let my tongue meet hers. Without hesitating, I slid my hands into her hair—that gorgeous, silken curtain of hair—and cupped her face, a
ngling it so I could kiss her more deeply. I couldn’t get enough, the faint taste of frozen custard still on her tongue, and a sweetness that was completely hers.
Her fingers were still fisted in my shirt, her arms trapped between our bodies as I leaned forward, wanting to be closer. One of my hands broke free from the soft tangle of hair and curved over her shoulder and down to the small of her back. The piano bench was narrow but somehow I managed to pull her closer to me, my body wanting nothing more than to be against hers. Every part of me was on high alert—from my mouth to my hands to my cock—especially my cock. That particular body part ached, straining behind my fly.
Then she broke away from our kiss.
“Wait,” she breathed, and even though my entire body seemed to vibrate with desire for her, I stopped.
Slowly she stood and came around the bench, standing in front of me. Her hair was wild, her eyes dark, her mouth red and lush. Fuck. I wanted her so much, I could barely think straight. I reached for her, bringing her mouth against mine, feeling the sweet slide of our tongues meeting.
My hands slid down to her hips, to her ass, and I pulled her onto my lap, her legs on either side of me.
She gasped as we made contact, the most intimate, desirous parts of us coming together. Even through the layers of fabric, I was a hairsbreadth from losing my goddamn control. The sound of her moan in my ear didn’t help one bit. My hands clutched her hips.
“Careful,” I choked, as she pressed against me. My cock was like a rocket, ready to explode. But she didn’t seem to care, as her fingers fisted in my hair, and her mouth, eager and greedy, settled on mine. I grasped her hips, my hands smoothing over the fabric of her dress, discovering her waist, her back, and that perfect round ass. Goddamn, I wanted her. I wanted to tear off that dress and get a clear look at the red lace that had peeked at me during dinner.
After seeing her that first night in her black silk, I knew she was a woman with a penchant for beautiful things, but the glimpse of her bra had nearly been my undoing there in the park. Her skin seemed even more creamy and lush against the bright red of the lace. If she were mine, I would shower her with sexy nothings, gorgeous lingerie only I was allowed to see.