by Kendall Duke
I didn’t know why I trusted him. I think… He just wasn’t a liar. He didn’t bother, I guess. I felt it in my bones—he said what he meant to say, and that was that. He just didn’t mince words or maneuver in a way that made me feel like he was lying; in fact, what he did downstairs wasn’t exactly lying either. It felt manipulative and sleazy, kind of, the way everyone stared at him in awe and jumped like chipmunks whenever he even glanced in their direction. But there was also something almost staged about it—something oddly fetishistic. Like everybody there knew the role they’d signed up for, even the gaffers, and this was the little routine they’d all worked out. If he broke down in tears one day or came in singing show-tunes, everything would’ve fallen apart, but I think the same would happen if he came in and started handing out compliments. That’s not what these people signed up for. They wanted to go to culinary boot camp. That’s what they expected: a drill sergeant. A merciless, relentless, ruthless instructor, a dictator, a tyrant.
And he was good with that.
I didn’t feel particularly good about that side of him, though. I was turned on by the person he became behind closed doors, and interestingly, that man wasn’t so different. He was definitely direct, and still had a ruthless air about him, an efficiency that let you know you were an agenda item… Until you suddenly weren’t. Until he gave you a smile you were sure they could see on the moon, and asked to take you to Maine and feed you lobster.
It was… Romantic, actually. Not a word I ever thought would fit with Marshall Grant, no matter how sharp those cheekbones were. But he was actually very… Romantic.
Maybe it was because I could still feel the way his hand cupped my backside before stinging it, his fingers digging into the meat while his tongue teased mine. Maybe it was because I couldn’t believe how he actually became more handsome the longer the day went on—I would’ve thought it impossible, but no. He was even better looking when his stubble started to come in, making that jawline even sharper, his eyes sparkle more. I liked him.
And I hadn’t expected to.
But ten minutes downstairs—before that, actually, and I remembered that I didn’t like the guy from set. That guy was an asshole to everybody, starting with Millicent, the poor beleaguered woman at the front desk. “Millie, book Crenshaw’s—I want a car to take us to the cottage for the weekend.”
“Sir,” she said, her eyes widening; she didn’t dare look at me.
“Builchard, for the seafood—five sharp.” He gave her a dark look. “Sharp, I said.”
“Sir,” she said.
“And Reagan’s for the rest, same time; tell Smith to open her up and pull out the sloe.”
“Sir.”
He started to turn away, but I yanked his arm back, and he stopped short and blinked down at me; I wouldn’t have been surprised if he forgot I was there, he was already so deep into his public—or professional--persona.
“And thank you,” I said, turning towards her. Both of them raised their eyebrows so high they looked like I’d farted instead of speaking. “For helping with the trip, but also for booking the interview.” She nodded at me, unsure of what to say, so I just smiled and left. When we got into the elevator Mr. Grant glanced down at me.
“And what, exactly, was that?”
“That, Mr. Grant, is something people do called ‘showing gratitude.’ It’s this magical moment when you acknowledge that someone else has helped you.” He narrowed his eyes while I gave him a big, sarcastic smile. “It can be as simple as saying thank you—for something small, like scheduling an interview, or arranging a sudden trip to Maine. You might want to learn how to do it, at least for big occasions, like erasing the fact that you’re kind of an asshole from the article I’m writing.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing with this trip? Thanking you?” It wasn’t a thousand kilowatt smile, like the one from before, but I enjoyed the warmth emanating from those chocolate brown eyes as he soaked in my sardonic response. “Sounds coercive. On both our parts.”
“No. Well, a little bit, I’m sure. But maybe one of the things you should know about me, if we’re going to be spending time together, is that I like making jokes.”
“At my expense,” he said softly, a lilt to his smooth black brow; his smile was definitely charging up the heat.
“Little bit.”
“Mmm.”
“You need someone to tease you, I think,” I said to him, and he laughed outright. “You do! I think you’ve been getting away with murder for years. Who calls you on your crap?”
“My crap?”
“Yes! Like the way you treat poor Millicent back there—that woman slaves for you. And you can’t even say thank you?”
“I pay her very handsomely to never have to.”
“You always have to,” I said, frowning up at him. “Gratitude is a reflection of someone’s integrity. You have integrity? You show gratitude.”
“I believe you and my mother would’ve gotten along famously,” he said, glancing away as the elevator doors opened up. Once again, he escorted me down the hall, arm linked in mine until he sat me down in another director’s chair. I pulled out my phone and made notes while he harassed the hell out of the poor contestants, and then he returned. I was starting to get hungry; it was lunchtime. This trip to Maine might need a pit-stop.
“Do you need anything to be picked up, brought with you to the cottage?”
“When you say cottage, do you actually mean ‘cottage?’”
“I mean it in the English sense,” he said, still holding onto my arm as we walked through the lobby and out into the bright lights and endless sound of New York City. “It’s a building I inherited, actually, from my mother.”
“I thought she was an American?”
“Quite. But she did like a cottage. And this one was built outside of Portland, with a lovely view of the sea. I think you’ll enjoy a stay there—many writers might. It has all the moody scenery one might need to find the perfect phrase.” We were settling into a limousine, the transition happening so quickly I didn’t even realize it until I was nestled next to him inside the roomy backseat. As we pulled away from the curb I noticed his arm behind my shoulders and moved to sit opposite him; that was entirely too… Something. He watched me go. “Too intimate?”
“I know we said we were spending time together, but we didn’t specify… The purpose of this weekend, exactly,” I said, swallowing. I’d gotten pretty swept up in the moment, hadn’t I? Just because somebody is rich and handsome doesn’t mean they won’t—
“I hoped it would be obvious,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. “I rather like you, Miss March.”
“Delilah.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, and there was definitely a hint of mischief in his expression. “That name, that dress, that kiss—I’m not calling you Delilah until you let me kiss you again.”
“Welll…” I spluttered while he smiled at me, vulpine features crinkling with amusement. “We’ll just have to see what happens then, Grant.”
“Grant, eh?”
“Grant,” I said firmly. “Marshall is an old man’s name. And I’m tired of calling you Mister.”
“There are other things you could call me,” he said slowly, the cars slipping by as we merged onto the highway. “Sir. Mast—”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not your cup of tea?” He shrugged. “My mistake. I misread your response earlier, I suppose, when I—”
“Okay, buddy,” I said, and he fought to keep the smile off of his face. “Maybe—just maybe—because you are uncommonly handsome and I wasn’t prepared for it at all and maybe, just maybe, it’s been a little longer than I’d like to admit since I had the time or interest in kissing someone… I might have gotten a teensy bit carried away. Maybe.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, watching me from the corner of his eye. “Enjoying spanking. Rather common, really.”
“I did not—”
&nb
sp; “And as for kissing, well, I won’t pretend that that was a common sort of kiss,” he said, turning to face me again. “Not with a mouth like yours.”
“You’re flirting with me again,” I observed. Not that I minded. Not really.
“Yes,” he said, making no apology. “Why did you sit over there? I preferred you over here.”
“Why do you treat your staff so poorly?” The question doused the mischief in his face, and I almost regretted asking it. The truth was that I needed to know. I’d agreed to run off with this man for a weekend—ostensibly, of course, in pursuit of a career… A career I didn’t want. But I did want him. If I was truthful with myself, that certainly hadn’t been a common kiss, not that I’d kissed anyone recently enough to remember, it seemed. But he made me feel things, things I didn’t understand, and it made me nervous to like someone so much who treated other people so badly. I knew first hand what it would be like when he decided I was someone on the other side of the line.
“Do I?”
“I think so,” I said. “There’s definitely nothing collaborative going on in that environment—”
“Do you think that’s the purpose of the exercise? To work together?” He shook his head at me. “You would be horribly naïve to think so, Miss March. There’s no such thing as collaboration in a professional chef’s kitchen.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “You know it’s not—what about Noma? Or El Bulli, or Bonaparte?”
“I’m not sure you could call partnerships between family members ‘collaborative,’” he mused. “Perhaps ‘hostage situations’—certainly in the case of the Brunei brothers, anyway.”
“Fine,” I said, staring him down. “What about Mung Bean?”
“No,” he said, scowling. “Repulsive. They might have brought avant-garde democracy into the arena of fine cuisine, simply through novelty, but have you tasted their food?” Of course I hadn’t; the restaurant was in Spain. It was commonly believed to be one of the best in the world, though. “Garbage.”
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“So they were awarded a Michelin star because…?” I raised my eyebrows at him and he smiled at me.
“Because novelty is rare, Miss March, especially, I would imagine, for those judges. How many variations of boeuf bourguignon can there possibly be?”
“I’d imagine several hundred,” I sniffed, but he raised a lazy shoulder. Another thought struck me, and I stiffened in my seat.
“What?” He missed nothing, his sharp eyes finding mine in the dim light of the cabin, the world swirling away outside the windows as we merged and forged ahead through traffic. “What is it, Miss March?”
“Is that why I’m here?” I don’t know why it bothered me. Of course it was at least part of the reason I was here—there was something about it becoming so suddenly obvious though that made me… I don’t know. Cheap feeling.
Men like the way I look. I’m plump, on a good day, and chubby on others—some days I’m svelte, or voluptuous, or Rubenesque. All nice words. And men like those words, those figures, in certain settings. Settings that rarely have anything to do with an actual date, or actual commitment. So I did not like feeling like a ‘breath of fresh air,’ an experiment, a fetish. I found it to be a really big turn-off, actually.
Novelty is rare, he’d said.
“Partly,” he answered, and I could hear the confusion in his voice. “You’re a very unusual young woman, Miss March. Do you have any idea how long its been since someone ‘called me on my crap?’ Do you think I kiss women very often? Do you think, in the last five years, I have invited someone to an outing of any kind?” He slowly shook his head. “No. I enjoy your unusual company, Miss March. Very much.”
“What about my unusual size?”
“I beg your pardon?” He looked like he really thought he’d misheard me. I swept my hand over my torso, and he tilted his head like I’d just spoken Chinese. “Have I offended you in some way?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then I must wonder if you heard what I said.”
“I’m just preparing to be offended,” I said, and I knew when my voice quivered he wouldn’t interrupt me again. “I haven’t been out with anyone in a long time either, and some of the reasoning isn’t because I dress so flamboyantly and tell the truth. It’s because I’m… Well, I’m plump,” I said, using my least unliked word, the one that managed to be truthful without making me sound like I was in denial.
“Yes?” He said it with his face exactly the same, as if he still wasn’t following me.
“So I wondered… I heard you say petite earlier, when you described Rosie. But if you have a thing for big girls, and this is some elaborate ruse to just—”
“Miss March,” he said, leaning forward again to rest his hands on his knees and bringing his face closer to mine across the narrow space of the cabin, “I do not do ‘ruses.’ As I shared with you earlier in deepest confidence, I find I have very little time to indulge myself with carnal delights of any kind, particularly those that might qualify as ‘a thing.’ And what I like, more specifically, if we are broaching such a tender subject so soon, is to tease women physically to the point of orgasm through what some might call ‘light BDSM.’ I have no other particular penchant in finding a partner, and for you, specifically, I have no ulterior motive than to convince you that I am a man worthy of more of your time. Perhaps, if I am very, very lucky, I will see enough of you to describe your body. If I am very, very lucky, I will be allowed a taste of that mouth, the one I find so very addicting. But my interest in you—though certainly carnal—has much more to do with your beauty, and your ample brains.”
“You’re not going to take me out to dinner and say something about my ‘sexy meat’ or give me some weird phrase to say, or tell me—”
“Dear god, please reveal no more about the American dating scene,” he said, curling his lip. “Who on Earth would feed you phrases? You come up with such delightful ones on your own.”
“Well, that’s where I’m coming from,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “And I have no interest in it either, which is what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t want to be treated like that—and to be fair to American men, which, last I checked, you technically are—sometimes I’m not. But it’s happened. And I’ve been taking a break for a while because I just can’t deal with the disappointment at the moment. I’m busy, and I don’t want to… I don’t know, get all up in my feelings over some dude just to have him turn into an asshole before my very eyes.”
“Well, in the spirit of confession, I can’t turn into something I plainly already am.”
“Fair point,” I said, crossing her arms again, “which leads me back to my original question: why do you treat so many people who work for you like shit?”
“I don’t,” he said, giving me a dark look. “I treat them like employees, and I compensate them very well for their time.”
“Yes, but—”
“And, I would counter that if I do, in fact, seem harsh, it is because it is necessary. Perhaps not in the world at large, and perhaps I might occasionally wish there were interactions and places in my life that didn’t require such a fine touch, but the truth is that honey does attract flies—and then, lovely girl, you’re stuck with fucking flies.”
“Well, what are you stuck with? If you think people are giving you their best under these conditions… I think you’re wrong.”
“I think the kind of people that do the work I do thrive under exactly these conditions,” he argued, and I realized we were both getting a bit… Hot under the collar. “I think the kind of people that want to excel in the most public of platforms have a kind of odd combination of character flaws and virtues that are precisely what is watered, if you will, by the harsh sunlight of my attention.”
“Very poetic,” I said, settling in for a long argument. “But if you’ve done any research on toxic work environments, you know that…” And he had, of course; of
course he had. And then we argued about Malcom Gladwell’s books—I wasn’t entirely sure how that came up, or how he had the time to read—and that lead us down the road of reviewing various novels and eventually films and shows that became novels—we argued for a full fifteen minutes whether The Magicians had warranted a show at all—and then we got back around to food, and by then, I realized, I was having an excellent time.
Top notch.
Best of the best, five stars, write-home-about-it… And I hadn’t felt like this in ages. It wasn’t just the flirtation, which, of course, he never stopped doing—and I liked, if we were being honest, which we obviously were. But it was also the intellectual pairing, which was surprisingly even. I never thought he’d be a reader. He found women to spank through an app on his phone, for god’s sake. And he didn’t know I cared so much about food, which someone might say was silly after feeling my ass. But I don’t think… I don’t think he noticed that I was chubby. Not in the way most people did. He didn’t care. If I’d been thin, I think he would have been fine with that too. I think he just… He liked me.
It was wonderful.
That’s happened before—this is not the first man who just liked me for me and thank goodness for that, because I’m twenty four years old. But he was definitely the hottest, the most outrageously successful, the richest, and by far the most charming. The best kisser. The sexiest.
And that felt really fucking good. I’m just going to own it.
“What are you thinking, Miss March?” Those dark eyes raked over my face and I must have taken too long to respond to his latest salvo. I kind of regretted sitting across from him.
“A lot of things,” I said, and swallowed. “I think I like you, Grant.”
“Really?” He gave me that wonderful smile a second time—the one that made the whole world stop, including the beats of my heart. “I was almost sure you were going to tell me to drop you off at the airport so you could return to peace and quiet as soon as possible.”