by Nikki Chase
Before she even finishes pulling the seatbelt off her, I lean over to her side of the car, reaching for the door handle to open it for her. As I do, my arm and shoulder brush against her chest.
I hear her draw in a sudden, sharp breath. With a flick of my gaze, I see her face as red as a cherry for a moment, and she sucks in, pulling away from me, but even through her clothes I can feel her heart racing.
This is almost entertaining, at this point.
I give her a wink before pushing the door open, and we climb out of the car separately.
“Thanks,” she says in a shy tone I haven’t heard from her since meeting her at that first brunch.
“Any time,” I say, giving her a nod.
She lets a smile flicker over her face and turns to head into the restaurant. I can’t tear my eyes away from her ass as she goes, and I swipe my tongue over my lips thoughtfully.
My eyes drift to the glove box, where those papers are waiting patiently for me.
They can wait a little while longer, can’t they?
Claire
I wake up with a clanging headache and a stomach full of what feels like a hive of angry bees buzzing around.
It’s partly due to the mild hangover I have from drinking three glasses of wine within the span of a single hour last night, but that’s not the only thing making me feel queasy and anxious.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water can help wash off some of the guilt and regret clinging to my skin like a stubborn stain. I blow-dry my hair, slap on some lipstick, mascara, and just enough under-eye concealer to make myself less reminiscent of a zombie, then head out the door to wait for Ben to pick me up.
As much as I would like to call in sick today and just put off dealing with my problems until tomorrow (who knows, with any luck the world will end before then), I force myself to text and let him know I’m ready to go.
As I stand there on the sidewalk, I go over all the mistakes I’ve made in my head.
My brain won’t stop replaying the way I burst into tears and had to be consoled by my boss in the kitchen in full view of the whole staff, the three glasses of wine I drank, the moment I took Ben’s hand and accepted his offer of a dance in that dimly-lit alleyway.
I can’t stop picturing in my head the look of something akin to real affection shining in his gorgeous brown eyes, the twinge of his lips tugging upward in the corners as he fought a smile. I can vividly recall the sensation of his hand gripping my waist, then sliding around to press at the small of my back.
As the cherry on top of the whole shit sundae, my lips still tingle with the memory of what it felt like to kiss Ben Graham. And just thinking about it sends sparks of electricity straight to the juncture of my legs.
“Oh God,” I groan as I slump back against the brick wall of my apartment building, “what have I done?”
More importantly, how am I ever going to face Ben at work today? He’s not just some random guy— he’s my boss.
He is the one man cradling my long-held dream in the palms of his hands. If I screw things up with him, it’s all over for me. I can kiss my blossoming career as a fine dining chef goodbye.
The worst part is that even though I know I should be ashamed of myself, I can’t help but want to do it all over again. I long to feel his hands on my skin, his lips against mine, his soft voice murmuring my name. And even more shamefully, I crave more than that. I wonder how it would feel to have his weight on me, his hands all over my bare skin, his lips on the bits of me normally hidden behind my clothes.
“Snap out of it, Claire,” I tell myself aloud.
It was all just a big misunderstanding. We got caught up in the moment.
Or at least I did. Maybe I’m remembering it all wrong; maybe I kissed him and he was simply too polite to turn it down.
And as he drove me home last night, I kept thinking that if he asked to come inside my apartment, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. When I sat next to him in the car, I kept wanting to reach over and pull him in for another kiss.
Thinking about it now in the bright light of day, it all seems so obviously inappropriate. But last night it seemed normal. Almost natural.
As Ben’s fancy car pulls up to the sidewalk to collect me, I take a deep breath and reassure myself that it’s all in my head.
No matter what I thought I felt about Ben last night, it’s all a mistake. Just a tipsy slip-up. I don’t really have feelings for him.
And he definitely doesn’t feel the same way about me. I have to keep telling myself that if I’m going to survive the workday.
As I climb into the passenger seat, I decide I’m just going to play it cool and pretend like nothing happened. Otherwise, how the hell can I ever face Ben?
Luckily, he seems to be in a similar mood. He gives me a dazzling smile that makes my heart race, but after some mild attempts at polite conversation, he turns up the radio.
Although I can still feel the awkwardness prickling between us, I just stare out the window all the way to work.
When he parks in the lot, I’m startled by his warmth brushing over me. I move abruptly from his unexpected gesture, and his muscular arm grazes against my chest.
Oh God. Should I say something?
But what?
Oops, I didn’t mean to push my tits up to your arm?
I chance a glance at him, and he gives me a wink.
God. I hope he doesn’t think that was an awkward attempt at seduction.
I mean, this is not something I’m normally proud about, but I had a slutty phase—a pretty long one, too. I know how to lure guys into bed, and this is so not one of my moves.
Maybe it’s best to pretend it didn’t happen, even if Ben’s obviously aware that it did.
I hop out of the car with a quick, “Thanks!” and hurry on my merry way, Ben keeping a safe distance behind me.
Phew. Crisis averted.
Or so I think.
Within a minute of my walking through the entrance, I’m swarmed by the lunch shift maitre d’ and one of the pretty young waitresses, who are chatting animatedly with each other at the front podium. When they lay eyes on me, they both squeal and come rushing over with wide eyes and big smiles. And when Ben comes walking in behind me, they look like they might just explode.
Uh oh. That can’t be a good sign.
“Hey guys,” I greet them awkwardly. “What’s going on? And should I be worried?”
“No! Definitely not!” the waitress, Sandy, blurts out.
“The opposite of worried, actually. It’s great news,” the maitre d’, Lara, says. “You will never guess who called the restaurant this morning just as I was clocking in.”
“You’re right. I will never guess. So why don’t you just tell me?” I ask, smiling expectantly. My poor heart can’t handle any more excitement this morning. It’s going to burst and I’m going to die. Seriously.
They exchange little enthusiastic squeals.
“Okay, so I got a call from that famous food critic from television this morning. You know, Taylor Hersch.” Lara looks up at Ben as he walks over to us, a puzzled look on his face. She bites her lip, waiting for the go-ahead.
“Go on,” he urges her.
“And guess what? He wants to do a feature on Ocotillo! He said he and his crew are interested in coming by for a televised meal and an interview!” Lara bursts, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.
Ben and I look at each other, astounded.
“Wait. Are you sure it was Taylor Hersch?” Ben asks.
I jump in, “The Taylor Hersch?”
“Yes. Absolutely. It was him,” she confirms. “He said he noticed all the press we’ve gotten lately and wanted to congratulate you on the grand opening . . . and the engagement.”
Ben goes rigid beside me and he nods, looking serious. “Right. Thanks, Lara. You two get back to prep work. I need to speak with Claire for a moment. Alone.”
My heart pounds against my rib cage
in frustration. What does he want now? I thought I’d escaped these awkward, tempting, private moments, at least for this morning.
The girls exchange giddy smiles and then scamper off, leaving me alone with Ben.
He turns to me and says in a lowered voice, “Look, I know this is weird, but that kind of publicity . . . well, it’s hard to turn down, if you know what I mean.”
I nod, trying to focus. “Yeah, of course. I mean, Taylor Hersch? Seriously? That guy is famous. An endorsement from someone like him could launch Ocotillo into the stratosphere.”
“Exactly. Listen, Claire. I know we have to get this domestic partnership thing taken care of, but I hesitate to jeopardize our chance of getting national exposure. I don’t know why, but for some reason, the world seems bizarrely invested in whatever we have going on here,” he explains quietly.
“I know,” I tell him, laying a hand on his forearm. I’ve tried all morning not to stare at the veins and the masculine muscles rippling just underneath his golden skin, but I’ve lost the battle now. He feels so good under my fingers, I’m finding it hard not to start caressing him. “I get it. We can’t break off our stupid engagement thing yet. Not with so much at stake. I say we ride this out a little longer, see where it takes us. I want Ocotillo to succeed, Ben. And I want you to succeed. You’ve worked your ass off for this.”
Ben gives me a warm smile that instantly makes my heart melt, and then holds out his hand for me to shake.
I take it, my skin sizzling from the contact.
He murmurs, “Thank you, Claire. This means a lot to me. And don’t forget—you’re a part of this team, too. If Ocotillo does well, that can help your career.”
“I know,” I tell him confidently, even though I’m already nervous about all the inevitable press and awkwardness to come.
Ben gives me a panty-melting smile, then he shifts into full-on business mode.
He claps his hands together and calls for a team meeting. We all gather into the kitchen as he explains that he’ll be throwing everything into overdrive. He starts delegating responsibilities among the staff.
He’s born for this, I realize, as I watch him step into the role of our charismatic, competent leader.
There will be lots of preparations: making sure the place is spotless, revamping some of the less opulent decor, drafting a brand-new special menu for the event of Taylor Hersch’s visit.
Throughout the rest of the day, Ben is a blur of activity, rushing around making checklists and handing out extra chores. A couple times, I try to offer some help by way of suggestions, but he breezes right past them, too caught up in his type-A whirlwind to pay much attention to the likes of little old me.
It’s irritating to be ignored, but at the same time, I can’t help but admit I rather enjoy seeing this side of Ben hard at work. He’s intense, ambitious, and decisive—all traits I might have scoffed at once.
But somehow, it’s different now. I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t stop admiring him from across the room.
What the hell is he doing to me?
Ben
It’s the big day.
Every day for a week since Claire and I shared that kiss, I’ve been running around Ocotillo in a frenzy, trying to get everything ready for the big interview that’s finally happening today.
I’ve been paying interior designers overtime to help spruce the place up last-minute and make sure everything looks beyond perfect for the cameras, both in the kitchen and out of it. Jorge and the rest of the kitchen staff are all tired of me hovering around them constantly, coaching them on how to act in the kitchen while the cameras are pointed at them.
I can be a control freak on an average day, but this is a new level. At least I can admit that. And I don’t think I’m unjustified in how I run my business.
It’s one thing to have a functional kitchen, but it’s another thing entirely to have one that looks presentable on camera. What might be everyday business as usual off-camera doesn’t work for an interview, and I expect they’ll want shots of the kitchen in action.
Jorge’s excitement has been good for morale, despite my constant presence in the kitchen. He’s an affable guy who laughs easily and gets along with seemingly everyone, even though he knows when to buckle down and get to work. He has no patience for interruptions and goofing off when the time comes.
And it just so happens that he’s extremely good in front of the cameras, according to himself, so while I’ve been bustling around left and right, he has seemed more in his element than ever.
If only I had more free time for Claire.
This whole operation might go more smoothly if I didn’t have her running through my head constantly. I haven’t had any time to spend with her since this whole business started.
I’ve had to be on the phones with advertisers and agents left and right, signing papers with some and making deals with others. I’ve had to help out with the logistics of shooting the actual interview, since I’m the business owner and property tenant, and the whole experience tells me I should be eternally grateful I didn’t choose to go into television as a career.
I can handle that kind of a schedule, usually, but lately, all I want to do is spend more time with Claire.
A part of me wonders—even hopes—that having to spend so much time away from her would cool things off a little and let me think of things with a clear mind, but the opposite has been true.
Each morning that goes by without me getting to pick Claire up from her house and drive her to work has felt like it’s missing something. It’s insane—I’ve only done that the one time, after all.
I wanted to give her time off to get ready for the TV crew because I know she probably has a hundred things on her list she doesn’t have time to get to, but it’s been nothing but overtime and more overtime ever since we got the news about the interview.
But today is the big day, and I’m not going to let all our hard work go to waste.
I step inside the restaurant, and for the first time this week, I feel relief as soon as I’m indoors.
Each day before now, I’ve found something out of place. The lighting was wrong one day, the plants were a little shabby another day, and the liquor behind the bar somehow felt like it looked trashy another day. It was always something.
But when I walk in today and get greeted by one of my waiters, it feels right.
“Nathan, how are things looking in the kitchen?” I ask a waiter as I cross the restaurant.
“Pristine,” he replies. “Chef Alonso got here before dawn to prep everything.”
“God, I love that man,” I say with a grin. “And everyone’s here?”
“See for yourself,” he says, pushing the kitchen doors open for me.
Inside, I see all the staff lined up alongside Jorge, who beams at me with his arms crossed.
“Ready to make some magic?” Jorge asks me.
After casting Claire a wink and a flash of a smile, I shake Jorge’s hand firmly and hug him, laughing.
“You’re the wind under my wings, I swear,” I say.
“Glad you’re impressed,” he says. “That’ll make it easier on you when I let you know the camera crew is already here.”
“What?”
“Mr. Graham!” a loud, cheerful voice booms from the back of the kitchen.
A man about my height and twice my width comes walking through the kitchen, a big smile under his thick black beard. He has a spring in his step and wears a crisp suit that looks like it was made for TV. He makes his way up to me and thrusts a big hand out, which I shake heartily.
“Taylor Hersch, a pleasure to finally meet you,” he says. Taylor’s show is big out west, especially with young entrepreneurs, like a somewhat more local version of 30 Under 30.
“Pleasure’s mine, Taylor,” I say with a grin. “Hope you haven’t seen too much yet.”
“Only enough that makes me want to see more,” he laughs, clapping me on the back. “Let’s get the cameras set up an
d take a little walk around this place, I’m already in love with what I see. Ah, and you must be Claire Madsen!”
Claire, who is standing next to Jorge, gives a nervous smile and steps forward to shake Taylor’s hand. “That’s me—it’s nice to meet you, Taylor.”
“Great! Now let’s get the ball rolling, my cameramen are ready to go.”
The next hour goes swimmingly.
I take our host on a tour of Ocotillo that makes even me feel like I’m being shown around the place for the first time. I spend time talking about all the work that went into designing the interior, making sure to compliment all the workers that made the hurried project come together in an amount of time so short I still don’t know how it really happened.
Taylor banters back and forth with me as if we’re old friends, talking about the banalities of restaurant design and the more exciting points about Nevada’s culinary history.
All the while, the cameras are on Claire and I, and to my delight, she isn’t shy in speaking up to talk about her own experience as a recent culinary graduate. “...it’s one of the unique challenges of bringing a little local flavor to the table, when fine dining is generally monopolized by culinary traditions from outside North America,” she says at the end of an impressive tangent on that very subject.
Taylor smiles even more broadly. “It’s easy to see how you earned your spot here, Ms. Madsen. And on that note, I’d like to congratulate you both again on the partnership your relationship has come with. It’s inspiring to see a couple of Vegas’ best and brightest getting together for such an ambitious project as Ocotillo. The phrase I’m hearing the headlines toss around is ‘power couple of the culinary world’, and after everything I’ve seen today, I’m inclined to agree wholeheartedly.”
“It’s still early in the game,” I say, beaming, “so I don’t want to call it a success just yet, but the reception has been very warm, and we’re off to a better start than I could have hoped for.” Without giving it a second thought, I wrap my arm around Claire’s shoulders and pull her close against my side. “And I have a better partner than I could have hoped for, for that matter.”