Dirty Chef

by Cara Dee

  “Jesus Christ!” I jumped when I felt a hand on my back, and I spun around to see a sleepy Alessia wearing…fuck me, too little. Those pajama shorts were…new. Did I mention short?

  I removed one of my earbuds and willed my heartbeat to calm the fuck down. “Morning, love.”

  “Hi.” She quirked a confused little smile. “Did you turn off my alarm?”

  Maybe. Sorry, I was stuck on her legs.

  She was wearing one of my hoodies too. She’d been doing that for years, and it still hadn’t gotten old. Those shorts, though… Man.

  “You have cramps,” I said and turned back to the food. “I figured you’d wanna sleep for as long as you could.”

  She joined my side and pulled her hair into a messy bun at the top of her head. “This is where I wanna be. Holy hell, it smells good.”

  I smiled and flipped the music to the speakers instead, and then picked up the pace to finish the first dish for her. I cut the biscuit into halves, added a chorizo patty, sprinkled on two types of shredded cheese—a mild Gouda and mozzarella—sliced up a red bell pepper as thinly as possible, and, lastly, carefully applied the egg without breaking the yolk. The top of the biscuit was placed next to the bite-sized burger. No, wait. Fuck, I almost forgot the garlic butter. There. Better.

  Opening the cupboard under the register, I located the paper wraps we used for the burgers that customers took home in to-go boxes. The wraps were too big for a small slider, but this guy had a plan. I carefully slid the biscuit inside the wrap before I filled the leftover space with bacon chips.

  Alessia could barely stand still, and her excitement was infectious.

  With the wrap placed on a plate, I picked out three small dipping bowls to put next to the wrap. “You know those paper containers you can get ketchup in at some fast-food joints? I saw you can order those in stainless steel—same mold and pattern. I bookmarked the page on the computer.”

  “They would be perfect. I’ll put in an order today.”

  I filled the three bowls with the dipping sauces I’d prepared. A smoky maple whip with tart apple, a key lime aioli, and a mayo mix with horseradish and paprika.

  “I’m freaking salivating. Don’t move, I’ll snap a picture for Insta.”

  So I stood there with the plate in my hand, and Alessia took a close-up of the dish.

  “I have no words for how good this looks.” She was gawking at the food.

  It made me grin. “I’ll need your opinion on the garlic butter. I don’t want the flavor to take away from the rest.”

  “Copy that.” She nodded.

  I didn’t care about presentation as much for my own meal. I plated a little bit of everything, and Alessia poured us coffee before we took our seats in the restaurant. It was a side of the bar I didn’t see as often.

  I took a sip of my coffee while Alessia tried the dish, and her evident enjoyment shot pleasure through me. Every. Fucking. Time.

  “Oh my God, Adam.” The tip of her tongue poked out to catch the maple whip at the corner of her mouth. Not distracting at all. “How do you just know? Everything you make is freaking divine.”

  Because it’s you I cook for.

  She was my muse and my biggest inspiration.

  I… Christ, I didn’t know how to cook without her in my mind.

  How was that gonna look in the future?

  “I guess I’m good at what I do,” I replied distractedly.

  The unease within kept growing.

  Work continued, this time on the couch upstairs. I’d finalized the first dish of the Valentine’s menu, and now I needed to write a step-by-step list for Tracy. And Alessia, who was better than me at final touches. She also had to order some shit to make everything perfect, in her words. Such as the dipping containers.

  “Have you given the dessert any thought?” I asked. While I was stretched out on the couch and worked on our laptop, Alessia was pacing a hole in the floor between the living room and kitchen in an attempt to walk off her cramps.

  I’d fix dessert if she couldn’t, but in my opinion, she was way better at it. She was just held back by modesty.

  “Sort of.” She winced at a pain and pressed her hands to her lower back. I’d seen Isla walk around like that before she gave birth. In Alessia’s case, I’d long since learned she had some tougher months here and there when the cramps attacked her kidneys. “I talked to Elise.”

  Solid idea. “Yeah?” Elise Quinn was a friend of Alessia’s, and she had a dual shop of sorts two streets over. One half of the shop was all candy, and the other was a pâtisserie. We’d collaborated with her before.

  Alessia sucked in a breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to fade. “Dessert is supposed to be the most adults-only item in our theme, right?”

  “In theory. It doesn’t have to be. We’ve changed our minds before.”

  She nodded and seemed to relax slightly. “Alcohol-infused chocolate sweets.”

  This was why I loved her. Okay, one of the million reasons. “Fuck, yeah.”

  She smiled a little, walked closer, and plugged in her heating pad before she joined me on the couch. I pulled up my legs a bit so she’d have room.

  “I talked to Griffin too,” she went on. “He’s available to work on Thursday—he kinda begged for it, actually. I think he needs a distraction. So, I was thinking you and I could do a taste testing up here. I’ll get the truffles and the other sweets from Elise on Thursday morning. I ordered four of each—twelve flavors—for us to experiment with.” She paused as she leaned back and slipped the pad underneath the hoodie. “We still have a bajillion of those plastic liquid dispensers from the whiskey burger you made last year.”

  I nodded, liking the idea. The dispensers, or pipettes, really, had been a hit last summer. We’d stuck them down in half-open sandwiches—straight into the meat—filled with an alcoholic whiskey sauce, and left the top bun resting against the side.

  “We’ll figure out which ones go well with the pipettes,” I said. “You think Elise would be willing to alter the recipes if we ask?”

  Alessia nodded. “She told me that right away.” She offered me a wry smirk and pinched my toe. “You’re famous for wanting to mix ‘weird’ flavors, and she’s down.”

  I chuckled.

  She groaned suddenly and pouted. “I forgot the cookies in the kitchen.”

  I smiled and shook my head, then closed the laptop and got up. “Which ones?”

  “The double milk chocolate, please.”

  “Comin’ right up.” I located the box on the kitchen island, and I paused when something caught my eye. It was a women’s magazine. “This is unlike you.” I held up the magazine, to which Alessia rolled her eyes.

  “Isla gave it to me.”

  I eyed the cover. Get rid of acne overnight, huh? Fucking keto recipes. Ten ways to seduce a man—Jesus. Women actually read this shit? Perhaps I was spoiled. Alessia was plenty girlie, but her stack of magazines under the coffee table consisted of history, music, and military news. The latter was part of a monthly care package from Alessia’s parents.

  I put down the magazine again and returned to the couch with the best from Pepperidge Farm.

  “Your emotional support human is back.” I got comfy on the couch and held up an arm. “Wanna use me as a heating pad?”

  She was the icicle between the two of us. Her room may smell like lavender, but it was hotter than a sauna and I couldn’t stay there very long.

  Alessia bit her lip. “Don’t make an offer I can’t refuse.”

  I gave her my most charming grin. Internally, my stomach coiled up at the thought of legit having her in my arms. It happened, though it had been a while.

  It was when she felt under the weather a guy could take advantage.

  “Can I borrow your duvet too?” she asked and scooted off the couch.

  “Sure…” I did a quick memory scan. No need for her to find my Fleshlight and definitely not the pictures of her. “You know what, I’ll get it.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I’d hidden everything in my nightstand from last time.

  Good call on my part, I thought when I entered my room. As I reached my nightstand, I tucked away my favorite photo of her. It was from when we were in Italy to see her folks. Alessia Rossi in a yellow bathing suit with cleavage—sweet mother of God. She’d been so uncomfortable in that thing. I’d been uncomfortable in my trunks, for other reasons. She didn’t like showing much skin, ’cause she was fucking nuts.

  While I was in here, I changed out of my jeans and into a pair of basketball shorts. If I was taking a break from work, I’d do it comfortably. On that note, a pillow was necessary too.

  On my way back to the living room, I checked the time and bargained with myself. Two hours should be fine. That’d give me three hours to play around with the lunch dish for the Valentine’s menu before Tracy arrived for prep for tonight’s shift.

  I set an alarm on my phone.

  “All right, let’s cuddle those cramps outta ya.” I fanned out the duvet once she was off the couch and gestured for her to get underneath first. My plan was to trap her between the back of the couch and my body—and we’d stay there forever and ever.

  The second I joined her on the couch, I felt her icy cold feet. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

  “Sorry.” She wore an impish smile, not sorry at all.

  “Yeah, I believe that.”

  She adjusted the pillow for us, and I was about to offer my chest for her pillow…when I noticed how close we’d be if we both used the pillow. Pillow, it was. Face-to-face, both on our sides, I was mere inches away from her dimpled smile, faint freckles, and soulful peepers.

  She let out a soft cookie-scented breath and closed her eyes. “That moment when the painkillers kick in…”

  I smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “You saying it’s not my presence that magically does it?”

  She giggled sleepily and tucked her hands under her cheek. So goddamn cute.

  I made sure the duvet covered her fully.

  “I’ll do my best not to cop a feel,” I joked. Kinda.

  She smirked and kept her eyes closed. “You must be getting desperate, then.” Uh, what? “How long has it been since you dated?”

  Fuck that. I had no interest in this topic, or other women. “Last thing I wanna talk about. No dating for me.”

  She cracked one eye open, and her forehead wrinkled with confusion and skepticism. “Did something happen?”

  I shook my head and pinched her lips shut. “Rest, love.”

  I only wanted to enjoy the moment with her. The rest of the world could piss off.

  She sighed, a silent way of saying fine, and I released the lips I wanted to kiss.

  There was another reason I didn’t want to discuss dating. Over the years, I’d told so many lies that I’d lost track of them. Alessia would sometimes mention names and specific events, and I’d pretend to remember or duck out of the conversation. It’d been whenever she was dating someone that I had ventured out there for a couple lousy lays and a bucket of bullshit. When she’d dated a teacher from the other side of town a couple years ago, I’d been on a few dates with someone from Seattle. I’d quit seeing her quickly, yet it’d taken me months to say that to Alessia.

  In the end, what had been a few dates with someone I didn’t remember had turned into a six-month-long relationship—according to Alessia.

  The first lie was always the hardest. I remembered mine too. We were about to open Coho, and she’d asked me what my type was.

  Before I’d fallen for this Italian spitfire, I would’ve said anything with a pair of tits. But then Alessia got under my skin, and my type became her. Her curves drove me batshit. Thick, soft, silky-fucking-smooth thighs, finest ass I’d ever seen, those hips of hers, her waist, spectacular tits, and those expressive eyes that could bring me to my knees. Everything about her was grace and softness, sprinkled with fire and a bit of fumbling.

  I’d lied to her and nodded at some random woman outside the restaurant.

  Alessia had snorted and rolled her eyes, then continued with inventory for our opening.

  She’d been dating someone at the time. Some fucking paramedic who’d sent her flowers and made her smile like a fool. Fucking dick.

  Almost ten years later, I was as much of a coward as ever.

  I hadn’t spent this past decade pining; the restaurant had been my priority and my wife for a long time. The one thing I’d wanted to put first. But my feelings for this chick had been there too. Sometimes blending in with the background, sometimes forcing my chest into a vise.

  It was definitely in a vise now, and it had been for a couple years without reprieve.

  If anything, it was getting worse.

  Six

  Adam Grady

  I woke up wrapped around Alessia, who’d shifted downward in her sleep to tuck her head under my chin. She was dead to the world, and I indulged. I pressed my lips to the top of her head and breathed in her subtle lavender scent. She used it everywhere. It was in the scented candles in her room, in her body wash, and in her lotion.

  My fingers twitched along her side when she slipped a cold foot between my calves.

  Lifting my head off the pillow, I squinted into the kitchen where the clock on the wall told me I had to get my ass in gear. My alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway. Fuck, I didn’t wanna leave my spot.

  Then Alessia stretched out and yawned, pressing her delectable body against mine, and slid a hand up my chest. I swallowed hard and shifted my lower body away from her hip.

  “I don’t wanna wake up,” she mumbled drowsily.

  “Me neither.” I stole one more whiff, burying my nose in her hair, and stroked her lower back through the hoodie. “How’re the cramps?”

  “Temporarily dead.” That was good. She yawned again and inched away enough to peer up at me. “You’re the best. You know that, right? You may be a slob, but you take care of me.”

  I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the neatest person I know.”

  She let out a laugh. “That’s funny.”

  I smiled and reluctantly moved off the couch. “We take care of each other.” I groaned as I stretched my arms over my head, and my knees popped. As if I needed a reminder that I was getting old. “You might even call this a friendship with benefits.”

  She gigglesnorted and dragged herself up. “I suppose that’s perfect for Mr. Commitmophobe.”

  I didn’t know about that, but I could certainly think of a few benefits to add to our relationship.

  Such as filthy sex and my last name in her passport.

  “Sigh. Okay.” She stood up and winced. “You make coffee. I’ll go get ready.”

  “Yes’m.” I trailed into the kitchen and let out a yawn. That dumb magazine caught my eye again, and once the coffeemaker was brewing, I couldn’t help but flip through the pages. I wanted to read the stupid advice they gave women on how to seduce a man.

  Fun fact, it wouldn’t take ten things.

  “All right, let’s see…” I rubbed a kink out of my neck and scanned the first two pieces of advice. Jesus H, a lengthy novel basically to tell women to wear revealing clothing. I mean, it’d definitely work, but… Didn’t seem very…what was the word? Progressive?

  The second one was legit. Laugh at our jokes. We enjoyed that.

  The third was absurd. Become interested in your future man’s hobbies. You couldn’t fake that shit. Was this magazine from the fifties?

  Number four on the list, casual touches. Yup, legit too. When Alessia touched me, she had my full attention.

  I heard her behind me, coming out from her room, so I turned around to lean against the kitchen island, and I read number five to her. “Ten ways to seduce a man—item number five. ‘Run a little hot and cold.’ What the fuck? I think that’s how you lose a guy. Or give us whiplash.”

  Alessia laughed and joined me at my side to see the text. “Wh
at’s next, say things are fine when they’re not?”

  I grinned, side-eyeing her. At least she was wearing something decent now. The shorts had been replaced by yoga pants, and she’d put on a black Coho Bar & Grill tee.

  She read the next one. “Send flirty texts.” Then she looked up at me for my opinion.

  I nodded. “Yeah, if you send me flirty texts, I’ll be seduced in a heartbeat.”

  It was funny, or fucking sad, how she interpreted the sheer truth as a joke.

  “I’ll make sure to send you plenty,” she teased and patted my arm.

  “Please do. I think you have my number.” I set the magazine aside to pour us some coffee in our to-go mugs.

  She picked up the magazine to read another. “If he’s a flight risk, indicate that you’re looking for something casual. Jeesh.”

  “See, that’s where we leave seduction and start talkin’ hostile takeovers,” I said.

  She hummed.

  Once I had our coffee, we made our way downstairs to nail this lunch dish.

  I was thinking something simple before the main event. A salad with my Italian dressing, olive bread, plenty of parmesan, and grilled eggplant stuffed with cheese and marinated garlic.

  Alessia had been right. I couldn’t have a bunch of options for this menu. We didn’t have enough time, and the number of dishes was already going to consume our kitchen—both the one behind the bar and the actual kitchen. The only things we made alterations for, ever, were allergies.

  After sharing my vision with Alessia, she said, “I think that will be great. And we can still use the wicker baskets for serving. We’ll serve the salad in a bowl that goes in the basket. Then the eggplant and bread on the side.”

  Perfect. Here we go.

  Some nights, the dinner guests set the mood. It was one of the perks of running a smaller establishment. On a Saturday evening, it could be calm and romantic with couples speaking in hushed voices—or it could be festive with a large party getting together for a family reunion. And on a random Tuesday, it could be a big group of coworkers who were trying to cheer one another up after they’d just learned headquarters was moving to Tacoma and they were all getting laid off. Like tonight.