In Time to Love

by Gloria Martin

  *****

  It’s my first night as Denver’s personal chef and I’m expected to plan and prepare for a party of fifty. Normally I would be sweating right now, but Denver has made it perfectly clear that there is no cap on the budget. This is the kind of opportunity most chefs dream of. His kitchen is already fully staffed, which only makes me wonder what happened to the previous one.

  “You think you can handle this?” he asks. I look over to Jill who rolls her eyes, returning to her cleaning duties.

  “I’m already brainstorming,” I say, trying to pull any kind of theme or recipe I can imagine out of nowhere. “This may sound tacky but I could literally make everything heart-shaped.”

  I haven’t had an idea this bad since grade school, and when Jill lets out a snort I want to hide my eyes from Denver for suggesting something so dumb.

  “It is tacky,” he says, nodding. “But I think people will love it. By ‘everything’, what are you thinking?”

  Okay, Tara—improvise: “Heart-shaped pizza, macaroons, red velvet crepes, ravioli, and with certain exceptions, specialty cocktails.”

  “Sounds perfect. Make it happen.” Denver gives me a cheesy thumb’s up and turns sharply to exit the kitchen.

  “Is he always that awkward?” I ask Jill.

  “Only when he wants something,” she says, stretching the blue gloves off her fingers to follow him.

  Left alone in the kitchen I can’t help but feel like I’m being left out of a bad joke. Don’t worry about them, I think, your job is to cook.

  ***

  The party is in full swing and so far I am keeping up with the guests’ rapid consumption of gourmet heart-shaped food. With my hands busy I cannot keep my mind off the way Denver caressed me when we were tangled on the library couch. Yesterday seems like a blur but I am enjoying every second of freedom in this lush environment.

  I spent the day learning the ins and outs of the mansion while Denver attended to business. As I slide another round of pizzas into the oven I am surprised by how familiar this kitchen already feels to me. I go to put icing on the red velvet cupcakes when Mae Lin approaches me from behind, wrapping her arms around my waist. I have only spent but a few hours with her but the smell of tequila on her breath explains how touchy-feely she is.

  “This is the most amazing food that I have ever tasted,” she says spooning a dollop of icing into her mouth with her finger. “I’m so excited for you to be a part of this family!” Her sorority-like demeanor is the complete opposite of the guise she displayed earlier.

  “Ladies,” a voice bellows from the kitchen doorway, “look how acquainted you two have become.” It’s Denver walking toward Mae Lin and me with his arms stretched open.

  “Denny!” Mae Lin squeals at the sight of him. She releases me and gravitates towards him like she hasn’t seen him in years.

  “Mae,” he says, hesitantly putting an arm around her, “I was wondering if you could run to my office and type up that memo I was telling you about.”

  “Oh,” she says, her entire posture deflating. “You want me to type up the memo now?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” he smiles.

  “Right, sir,” Mae Lin says, forcing a smile back. “I wouldn’t want to make you unsatisfied with my employment situation.” She swallows hard then hugs me goodbye before exiting the kitchen.

  “Tara, things are going great but I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”

  “Sure, Denver,” I say obediently, since this is still day one.

  He waves his hand for me to follow him into the closet. Once we’re inside, he locks the door behind us and pins me against the wall, my wrists above my head, and presses his soft lips to mine.

  *****

  “If we’re going to do this we have to leave Los Angeles, and we have to leave separately,” Denver says, his lips against my ears. “We can’t be seen together leaving, traveling, arriving, or departing. We will both use false names. Do you understand, Tara?”

  My lips quiver in the darkness of the closet. All of these clothes smell of lavender and I just want to fall asleep in his arms. “I don’t understand why it has to be such a secret,” I whisper. I really I wouldn’t have gotten us trapped in here. “What are you trying to hide from me?”

  “I have nothing to hide. If you want me, that is the only way you can have me,” his teeth clench my earlobe as his fingers massage my neck.

  I feel him growing harder through both our pants, his hips rubbing against me slowly. I do want him, and I’m not going to play his games. My hand dips into his pants, searching for his shaft through the briefs.

  Before I can unlock the button, his hand is around my wrist, pulling me away from him. “No,” he laughs. “The fact that I’m even here right now is riskier than you realize. You’re lucky that you turn me on.”

  Before releasing my wrist he gives it a strong pinch, and then presses his index and middle fingers against my lips. Without another word he opens the door and light floods the small closet along with the sharp clamor of laughter and conversation. The party outside is a sea and if I step out I will drown. I don’t want to know what happens to you when Denver D. Phillips is ‘unsatisfied with your employment situation’.

  The door closes with a soft click and it’s quiet again—dark, cold. How long am I supposed to wait in here before I can come out? After the party ends? Damn you, Denver.

  “Tara, I want you to live here. I don’t care what it takes or how much it costs. Name your price.”

  “You like my food that much?” I ask, unable to stop my smile.

  “It’s not that I like your food, Tara. I need it. I need your food for every meal of every day. I need you to be here anytime I might need you.”

  “That sounds like a lot of commitment,” I say, trying to envision what that kind of lifestyle would entail.

  “It’s not only a commitment,” he says, withdrawing a checkbook from his inside breast pocket, “but also an investment opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “When you say ‘name my price’, you mean—”

  “I mean name your price, Miss Rogers.” His fingers hold a pen to the checkbook.

  “Are you asking my price per hour? Salary history? I’m sorry this - it’s just new to me.”

  “It’s new to me, too,” he says, searching my eyes like there might be something more valuable to him than money.

  “Tara, I want you to look deep within yourself and tell me how much it would take to get you to be at my every beck and call? For culinary purposes, of course,” a twinkle of white flashes in his eyes.

  I’ve never thought about something so absurd, a billionaire about to write a chef a blank check because he liked her denver omelet that was made as a play on said billionaire’s name. “So you’re saying you basically never want me to leave?”

  His laugh is quick—one precise chuckle. The thing is my question was not intended as a joke. “Miss Rogers, please,” he says, “under my employment you will have equal opportunities, if not infinite opportunities, to explore your own liberties and endeavors as you please. I have my needs, as your employer, but I think that you will find working here to be what some might call a dream come true.”

  *****

  It takes 45 minutes for me to escape the party unnoticed after Denver exited with some business excuse. With the energy continuing without him, it was hard to wait to slip out—but now I’m on my way to a hotel in Malibu where he’s waiting for me. I drive with the windows down, the cool air tickling my skin. How is this happening? This weekend feels like a surreal dream.

  When I pull into the hotel I don’t even need to park—the valet takes it off my hands for me. I check my phone and look at the room details. This ocean-side castle is something I’ve only fantasized about staying at.

  I walk inside, feeling a little underdressed for such a high-class place, but the concierge greets me with a welcome smile. This kind man was expecting me, and I can only imagine Denver telling hi
m to look out for a young, gorgeous black woman of my height. Whatever, the treatment still feels like royalty.

  The concierge shows me to Denver’s room. On the way up, he insistently says nothing, as if paid to do so. Once we’re outside room 925, the concierge leaves me and takes the elevator back to the lobby. I knock on the door and in an instant Denver opens it, gesturing for me to enter.

  “I’d like to have my dessert now, Tara,” Denver says, loosening his silver tie as he closes the door.

  Dessert? He never told me I had to bring actual food. I thought this was about something different. “I didn’t bring ingredients to make anything, but I can run to the store,” I say. “I saw a Gelson’s down the road. They should have something. I’m so sorry.”

  “Miss Rogers, please,” he says, sitting in the chair in the corner facing the bed. The room has a soft, rose-colored hue from the blinds and wallpaper. “If this is going to continue, I insist you stop taking things so literally,” he says. “By now I would have hoped you’d have realized that you are the dessert.”

  Unlacing the tie from his neck, he folds it and sets it neatly on the table next to him. He leans back in the chair, crossing his legs and stroking his chin. With his eyelids pinched closed like this, I feel like a piece of meat. Is he coming on to me this quickly? I haven’t even taken off my jacket yet.

  “Denver, I was thinking maybe we could start off slowly and make talk a little,” I say, my hands folded awkwardly in front of me. “All of this is so new to me. I feel like I got teleported to this whole new life and I don’t know where my old one went.”

  “I know how you feel, Tara.” He casually unbuttons the collar of his shirt. “This lifestyle can seem like a dream. In many ways it is. But, be honest with yourself, do you miss the old life all that much?”

  Feeling like a giant in my heels standing before him, I think about the apartment, Harvest Bar, and Dominic. “No, I don’t miss it at all,” I find myself saying, completely surprised by my honesty. Up until now I hadn’t realized that anything was different—only that time has kept going and every day feels never ending in the presence of Denver.

  “Good, because I’d like to treat myself to you every night.” Eyes locked on me, his bottom lip swerves around, like he’s imagining what I taste like. “If I’m going to indulge in such pleasure, certain sacrifices need to be made.”

  From his tone it sounds as if I’m the one going to be making the sacrifices. “Certain sacrifices,” I repeat. “So, for example, I sacrifice my freedom, work for you for one year for an astronomical amount of money, and during that year you get to have sex with me any time you want. Is that the kind of sacrifice you’re talking about, Denver?”

  “Now who’s the one being blunt?” His right eyebrow hooks upward along with a slight twist in his grin. “You still haven’t told me how much to put on the check.”

  Again with the check. “That’s partly what is making all this so confusing,” I say, backing away from his chair. “I don’t work where I sleep. I’ve never mixed the two before and I’m not sure if I can start now.”

  “There’s no need to be confused,” he stands up, inching after me. The rain outside drums against the window—probably the first time it’s rained here in months. “All I’m asking is for one year of your time at whatever cost you request. Money is no concern to me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say. Something grazes my left hip. It’s his fingertips, barely hovering against me. Warm air presses against the back of my neck—his breath, and he’s not breathing—he’s blowing to tickle me on purpose. “Denver, when I met you, I had no idea this would happen.” I refuse to turn around. If I get locked in those eyes one more time I’m a goner. “I can work for you, or I can be with you. But I can’t do both.”

  Both of his hands are at my hips, his waist presses against my backside, and the slow blowing is now centimeters from my neck. “I think you can do both,” he says. My shoulders and neck shiver as his lips lightly brush my skin. “Perhaps you’re having trouble conceptualizing digits. You’re a modest girl, Tara. I like that about you. Let me throw a few numbers out for you. Tell me how they feel.” His words are like poetry, vaporizing in the air. If he could see my face he would find it contorted, conflicted between fight and flight.

  “What do you make at pseudo-chic seasonal place? Fifty thousand a year?” How did he know it was fifty exactly? “I take care of my employees. If you were to cite a figure, say, one million…” The way he trails off disturbs me, and while pausing I hear him inhale through his nose—smelling me. He’s taking in the apricot from my lotion. “A figure like that would surprise me. Do you know why, Tara?”

  “Because it’s astronomically high?” I question, trembling.

  “No, Miss Rogers, because its astronomically low for what I’m asking.” His hands rise from my waist to my shoulders, and as his fingers calmly caress my skin, he reaches into my jacket collar and starts to slide it off me. First the jacket and then his fingers pause at my biceps. “If you were to say fifty million, one hundred million for a year—well, for someone of your caliber I’d be willing to negotiate a little higher.”

  With that amount of money I could retire after the year. I could move anywhere in the world I wanted. I could open my own restaurant.

  Who cares what he does with me for a year?

  If it’s an amplified version of what he’s doing with his fingertips, I don’t know if I’ll be capable of much cooking afterward.

  “I couldn’t accept an offer like that,” I say. Shut up, Tara! “Everyday I would just feel guilty. It’s too much money.” This is a classic case of my brain and my body walking in opposite directions.

  “No amount is too much for you,” he coos.

  Now that the jacket is at my wrists, the moment he removes it completely I feel free—like I’m a kite, drifting. Wearing a sleeveless top feels like a bad idea with my bare brown arms covered in goose bumps.

  “I love your complexion,” Denver says, taking my jacket to the rack and hanging it up.

  “You got a thing for black women?” I ask. Did I really just ask a Caucasian man that question? “That came out wrong, I didn’t mean that.”

  “I have a thing for all women, Tara. Yes, your rich, dark skin and thick, soft lips attract me.” This hotel room feels miniscule with the amount of tension in here, although it’s a luxury suite with plenty of room for us both to walk around. Still, he walks straight toward me.

  “That was a rude question,” I say, trying to make up for my naiveté with honesty. “I find you attractive, too. Like, really very attractive.”

  “Oh, really? What about me do you find attractive?”

  “You want specific details?”

  “Sure.”

  I’m at a standstill—we’re now chest to chest and he has the loose strand of hair flailing from my left temple twisted in his fingers. “You’re just…incredibly handsome. I find you sexy.”

  Did I just tell a billionaire that I find him sexy? In my defense, he did say that he likes my thick lips, so I’d call us even.

  “What about me do you find sexy?” he asks. “Would you like to see more of me so you can decide which part of me you find most sexy?”

  Suddenly he’s navigating me toward the bed, and I take baby steps backward until I feel the mattress against my calves. “I saw you and Jill together in the library the other night,” I say. “If you’re with her, I can’t do this.”

  “I’m not with anyone,” he snaps. His answer sounds bold and planned out. “Right now I am with you, Tara, unless you decide to leave. Are you going to leave?”

  It takes all of my strength to not fall backwards onto the bed. He’s so close to me I inhale the air that escapes him. “I’m not going to leave,” I murmur.

  “Good,” he says, a smile stretching across his face.

  He puts his index finger to my shoulder and I topple over like a domino. The mattress beneath me absorbs my weight without a single bounce.
When I look up, Denver is standing over me, unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time. What he reveals is his chiseled chest and then his cut stomach. I’m about to hop up and bite something under that shirt but I stop myself.

  He’s giving me a show. Looking down at me his smile remains wide as the shirt comes off, falling somewhere to the floor. The torso in front of me is the epitome of perfection. Should I take my clothes off or let him do it? I’d rather just watch him. He unfastens his belt and slacks and they drop to the floor without any help. That was fast—now it’s just Denver, his black briefs, and me.

  “I want you to take me in your hands now, Tara,” he says. “I’m going to taste you, but first I want you to taste me.”

  I lean up from the bed with the help of his outstretched hand. Once I’m level, he places his fingers firmly on the back of my head. If I take the next step and unleash him, I will be crossing a line into a new territory. Less than a week ago I had never met this man. This close, I observe every inch of his smooth skin. Do it, Tara. I reach out and place my palm against his skin, running it against the hills of his abs. I’ve never seen my dark hand against pale flesh like this.

  With both hands on him now I bite my lip to suppress my urge to claw him, or press my firm lips to the skin around his nipple before sinking my teeth in. Lowering his briefs, I cup both halves of his backside and squeeze.

  “Yes, that’s good, Tara,” he says. His hand against the back of my head massages in circular patterns. With every circle he pushes me a fraction closer to his hard-on. It’s not bared yet but it’s about to be. I bat my eyelashes and look up at him. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I’ve wanted a taste of this man since his blue eyes first struck me at the restaurant.

  I can tell by the way that he plays with my hair he likes the rough texture. It’s good for him that I’m hungry for his vanilla skin. “Go ahead, baby,” he says. Baby? He hasn’t laid that one on me yet. With his left hand he reaches into my tank and pops my hard nipple out of my bra with one motion. “It’s time for dessert, Tara. You first.”