by Tawna Fenske
She blinks. “I—uh—sorry?”
“Beef, pork, chicken?”
Spotting one that’s landed neatly in a teacup beside me, I pick it up and study it. “Chicken,” I say. “Fresh sage, rosemary, maybe a little bit of thyme.”
“Sean is a chef,” Amber announces when the mother of the bride stares like I’ve just announced I eat human ears as snacks.
“That’s right,” the mother of the bride says slowly. “We got chicken because the groom’s mom is a pesco pollo vegetarian.” She twists her hands together in front of her and looks helplessly at the mess. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”
I clear my throat, conscious of Amber’s hand on my arm, and the fact that the guy in a white chef’s hat rarely gets to play the hero.
“You don’t always have to save the day,” Sarah chides in the back of my head.
But goddamn it, sometimes I do.
I rest my hand on Amber’s back and nod to the mother of the bride. “I’ve got it covered,” I say. “Here’s the plan.”
* * *
The facility turns out to have a surprisingly nice kitchen, and one of the catering kids is dispatched to the gourmet grocery store down the street with a list of ingredients.
I ditch my tie and jacket and don a full-length chef’s apron pillaged from a hook behind the door. Then I get to work assembling the tools I’ll need. The pantry holds a huge stockpile of D.O.P. Certified San Marzano’s tomatoes, which seems like a sign from heaven. There’s also a net bag of fresh garlic, so I drag a big chef’s knife from the block on the stainless steel counter and start chopping.
Amber pushes through the door as I’m peeling and dicing like a madman, and she stands watching for a moment. “Wow. You’re good at that.”
“I’ve had some practice.”
Her eyes stay fixed on my hands for a moment before she shakes her head and clears her throat. “The mother of the bride is stalling the newlyweds at their photo shoot,” she reports. “The groom’s mom rounded up a cleaning crew and is cracking the whip as we speak.”
“Perfect.” I shove a pile of freshly-chopped garlic to the side and reach for more.
Amber takes a few steps closer and gives one of my apron strings a soft tug. “So this is what a Superman cape looks like in real life.”
I smile and use the flat edge of my knife to crush the garlic. “I haven’t saved the day yet.”
“No, but you will.” She smiles and lets go of my apron, boob-grazing my arm in a way I’m pretty sure was deliberate. “Have I mentioned I’m damn glad I brought you as my date?”
“Have I mentioned you look fucking amazing in that dress?” I grin. “Even covered with meatball.”
A subtle flush spreads from her chest to her neck, and I have the sudden urge to lick marinara off her cleavage. But there’s work to do.
“Any chance I could give you a task?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “That’s what I came in here for.”
“How comfortable would you be grabbing that immersion blender and crushing up the tomatoes?”
“Very comfortable.” She picks it up off the counter and turns it around in her hands. “We use one sometimes to make rolled corn cakes as treats for the reindeer. Have you spotted a can opener anywhere?”
“I’m crossing my fingers there’s one in the drawer behind you.”
She turns and rummages through it, and I order myself to keep my eyes on my knife instead of the lovely view of her ass. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the ER with my severed finger in a cup of ice.
A door swings open and the catering kid comes in lugging four massive bags of groceries. He’s breathless as he plunks them down on the closest counter. “I found everything on your list, even the gluten-free breadcrumbs.”
“Awesome.” I grab one of the bags from him, trying to remember his name. He mentioned earlier that he’s a culinary student, and I’m pretty sure it’s Josh. “Normally we’d make our own breadcrumbs, but we’re a little short on time.”
“No kidding,” the kid says as he starts to unpack the food.
Amber’s busy plugging in the immersion blender, and I try not to notice how much it looks like a vibrator. I tear my eyes off her and focus on the culinary kid, who’s watching me like he’s planning to take notes on everything I say. “We’d ordinarily want to skip the immersion blender and hand-crush the tomatoes, but that’s another time saver.”
Amber looks up. “I don’t mind using my hands if that’s how you’d like me to do it.”
My mind veers into the gutter again, but I yank it back and shake my head. “The blender is fine.”
She shrugs and flicks the switch, kicking the buzzing device to life. How have I never noticed the phallic shape of a goddamn hand blender?
I force my attention off Amber and turn back to the catering kid, who’s unpacking the last of the groceries. “Thanks for grabbing these. Josh, right?”
“Right. Yes, sir. And you’re—you’re Sean Bracelyn, right? The Sean Bracelyn who won the James Beard Award for Best Chef in the northeast region. And isn’t your mother the—”
“Just Sean is good,” I interrupt, not wanting to head down that path. “You found the dried porcini mushrooms.”
He nods a little shyly and pushes the bag across the counter. “They had fresh ones, too, but—”
“No, dried is what you want here,” I tell him. “You’ve gotta grind them yourself for optimal flavor.”
“Really?” The kid steps closer, intrigued, and I remember what it felt like to be a wide-eyed newbie in culinary school. “Do you use a mortar and pestle or what?”
“Sure, or a spice grinder will do,” I tell him. “The main thing is to get them nice and fine so they add an earthy depth.”
“Cool.” He offers a hopeful smile. “Can I help?”
“How are your herb chopping skills?” I ask.
“Good.” He grins. “I just finished an entry-level knife skills class.”
“Then you can rinse off that chef’s knife and get to work on those. Parsley, sage, basil, thyme, rosemary—cutting board is over there, and we want them nice and fine.”
“I’m on it.” Josh sets to work, while Amber continues whirring away with the blender in a giant bowl of tomatoes. She glances up and sees me watching her, and gives a little finger flutter and smile.
You rock, she mouths, and keeps blending.
I feel those words all the way from my chest to my cock.
But those aren’t the body parts I need to save this wedding reception, so I concentrate on unwrapping the chicken breast and packing it into the food processor.
The next thirty minutes whiz by in a blur of chopping and dicing and sautéing and trying not to notice how well that apron hugs Amber’s curves. By the time we carry the food out to the dining room, the volunteer cleaning crew has managed to mop up most evidence of the great meatball massacre.
There are still marinara stains on the curtains, and some of the pretty pastel tablecloths have been swapped out for a garish orange I can only guess were left from some Halloween bash.
But all things considered, it could be worse.
I busy myself dishing up food and making myself useful. By the time I sit down to eat, I’m wiped. Wiped, but satisfied.
“These are fantastic.” Amber gives me her own satisfied smile and bites into another meatball.
Is it wrong that I feel absurdly gratified at being the one to put that look on her face?
“The sauce turned out better than I expected,” I tell her. “You’ve got mad blending skills.”
She laughs and swirls another meatball around in a puddle of sauce. “That was pretty much the best wedding gift ever. I have no idea how you pulled that off.”
“Practice,” I tell her. “And good assistants. This isn’t my first rodeo.” I stab a meatball of my own and frown. “Actually, I’ve never been to a rodeo.”
“Maybe I should take you to the Sister’s Rod
eo in June. It’s a Central Oregon rite of passage.”
“And maybe I should make my famous lamb meatballs with lemon-cumin yogurt for you sometime. They’ll blow these out of the water.”
Amber grins. “I’d love that.”
And I love that we’re talking like we’ll still be hanging out together months from now. I don’t know what this is between us—hopeful flirtation? Sexually-charged friendship? Something else entirely?
I only care that we keep doing it. I like the version of me that I get to be with Amber, and I don’t want to stop anytime soon.
Our happy little interlude is interrupted by the mother of the groom pushing through the crowd to make her way to our table. “There you are.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and stoops down between Amber and me. “I just want to thank you one more time for everything you did. The meatballs were outstanding. And the sauce—”
“I’ll email you the recipe,” I promise, folding my napkin and setting it aside.
Amber leans across me, and I suck in a breath as her breast grazes my forearm. “The wedding was beautiful, Mrs. Lucas.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
Amber squeezes my hand. “If you like the meatballs, make sure you tell everyone you know to make dinner reservations at Juniper Fine Dining after they open,” she says. “They’re in the main lodge out at Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort.”
“I certainly will. And thank you for all your help, Amber.” She lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorially. “You know, I have to confess, I always hoped he’d marry you.”
Amber’s face goes blank. “Who?”
“Greg, of course.” She shoots me a fond smile and touches my shoulder. “Obviously, you snatched her up, and that’s wonderful for both of you.”
“I—uh—thanks?” I’m not sure what else to say, so I settle for keeping my mouth shut and looking to Amber for guidance.
My date looks as befuddled as I feel. “But Greg and I never even dated.”
“Oh, I know that.” Mrs. Lucas waves a hand as though dismissing the act of dating as an unnecessary precursor to wedded bliss. “It’s just that all the moms wanted you for our sons. Who wouldn’t?” She seems to direct this question at me, so I nod numbly. “Always the prettiest and friendliest little girl, and so smart.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I glance at Amber, who looks like she’s hoping for another chafing dish explosion to get her out of this. What would Greg’s new wife think of this weird line of conversation?
“Thank you for your sweet words, Mrs. Lucas,” Amber says carefully. “I think Greg did well for himself with Aline.”
“Oh, I love Aline.” The older woman pats Amber’s hand, and I wonder how many trips she’s made to the champagne fountain. Maybe that’s why she’s acting so nutty. “Aline’s just perfect for Greg, and I’m so glad they found each other. You know how it is, though.”
“Um—”
Mrs. Lucas turns to me, ready to inform me how it is. “Everyone loves Amber. Always the prettiest and smartest and kindest—”
“She is pretty great,” I agree, slinging an arm around my date’s shoulder. She’s poking a meatball around her plate, not looking at either of us. “You must be very proud of your son. Seems like he chose a great girl to marry.”
Amber still looks uncomfortable, and I’m trying to think of how to extract us from this conversation when the bride herself comes rushing over. Her mother is five steps behind her, gamely holding up the back of Aline’s wedding dress.
“Thank God you’re still here,” the bride gushes, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “I hadn’t gotten the chance to thank you yet.”
“It was no trouble at all,” I assure her. “Happy to pitch in.”
“I saw pictures on my mom’s phone.” Aline grimaces. “What this place looked like before you all got it cleaned? That wasn’t ‘nothing.’ You saved the day. And these meatballs, my God—” she lowers her voice. “So much better than the ones we sampled from the caterer.”
“It’s a family recipe,” I tell her. “My mom’s actually.”
I rarely mention my mother in public, and I have no idea why I just said “mom” instead of “mother.” Maybe something about being surrounded by all this maternal energy.
The bride shudders. “And your beautiful dress!” She fingers the fabric of Amber’s tomato-stained sleeve. “Please let me pay to have this cleaned. Both of you, please. My treat.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I assure her.
“No, I insist,” Aline says. “I’ve already spoken with the dry-cleaner across the street, and they promised a super-fast turnaround if you’d like to do it right now.”
“Uh, now?” I have a sudden mental picture of waiting naked in my car with Amber in the passenger seat beside me wearing nothing but her bra and panties.
I tug at my shirt collar and try to focus on what Amber is saying.
“There’s no rush,” Amber says. “We’re fine, really.”
“Besides, it’s not like we have a change of clothes with us,” I add.
“I’m sure we could find something temporary for you.” The mother of the bride makes a tsk-tsk sound. “You don’t want those stains to set.”
“Tell you what,” Aline says. “We have a couple extra suites in the block of rooms we reserved for wedding guests. What if we set you up in one of those, and you spend a couple hours soaking in the Jacuzzi and hanging out in the hotel robes while your clothes get cleaned.”
“Or you could stay the night,” adds the bride’s mother. “The room is all yours.”
Aline smiles at me, then Amber. “What do you say?”
I turn to Amber, trying my damnedest to read her expression. “I—uh—we—”
“We’d love to spend the night.” She clears her throat and puts a hand on my knee. “Thank you so much for your generosity.”
What?
There’s a little more chit chat after that, but I barely hear a word of it. I’m only conscious of Amber’s hand on my leg, on the ring of her words in my head. Did she just say what I think she did?
We’d love to spend the night.
The wedding party wanders away, and Amber watches them go. When her gaze swings back to mine, her brown eyes have deepened to a hue that’s almost black. She bites her lip, and my heart slams to a stop in my chest cavity.
“We don’t have to do anything.” Her voice is breathy, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “We can just put on our robes and eat wedding cake and wait for our clothes to be done. Or we can skip the whole thing and you can drive me home and—”
“No.” I shake my head, too dazed to get the words out right. “I mean yes. Yes, I want to spend the night with you. Alone. With a door that has a lock on it.”
She smiles. “And a Jacuzzi?”
“Right. And—uh—no clothes.”
I wait for her to tell me I’ve misunderstood. That I’m being a presumptuous prick and all she really wants is to hang out eating pizza and watching cable TV in our hotel robes.
But her face breaks into a smile that’s like the sun coming out, and her hand glides from my knee to my thigh.
“Well then,” she says. “Want to get out of here?”
Chapter 11
AMBER
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Those words loop through my brain in a sing-song cartoon soundtrack as Sean and I stride together down the hotel hallway. In one palm I grip the keys to a private suite. In the other I’m clutching his hand like I’m afraid he’s going to take off running.
Maybe I am.
We reach the doorway to room 106. Sean looks down and smiles. “Here we are.”
“Yep. Here we are!” I’m trying for cool and breezy, but the tremble in my voice gives me away. I try to cram the key in the lock, but I’m too amped to make it work.
After my t
hird failed attempt, Sean holds out his hand. “Want me to see if I can get it in?”
“Uh, yep.” My cheeks go hot, and I thank God Sean’s looking at the doorknob and not at me.
God, I’m so out of practice.
“Here we go.” He pushes open the door, then gestures inside to let me go first. I step over the threshold and survey the room. Aline wasn’t kidding; it’s gorgeous.
Double French doors open to sweeping views of the mountains. To my left, a set of slate-tiled steps leads to a raised double Jacuzzi that’s perfect for two. A bottle of champagne nestles in a bucket of ice on the accent table by the window, and I pick up the card next to it.
“Compliments of Comey Catering,” I read aloud. “Thanks for saving our butts.”
I turn to see Sean’s gaze flick from my butt to my face, and the gesture sends twirly little confetti bits through my belly. Of course, the confetti is warring with the butterflies, so the result makes me queasy.
I set down the card and continue my survey of the space. There’s a humongous four-poster bed piled with more pillows than I can count. I have no idea if there’s something a size up from a king bed, but if there is, this bed is it.
I reach out and grab the headboard, giving it a firm shake. I don’t realize I’m doing it until Sean busts out laughing.
“Checking to see if it bangs against the wall?” he asks.
“Wha—I—no!”
Oh, shit. I was, wasn’t I?
I take a deep breath and turn to face him, hands clasped in front of me. “Look Sean,” I start. “I know I sounded all brave and in control back at the reception, but actually, I’m kind of nervous.”
“Amber?”
“What?”
He takes a step closer, close enough to touch me. When he does, it’s the gentlest skim of his fingers under my chin. I can’t tell if he’s soothing me like a cat or urging me to meet his eyes, but it works either way. Tension eases from my shoulders as I lose myself in those green-glass irises.