Just Desserts

by Mary Calmes

  “No, it’s not,” Daniel said angrily. “You should have spoken up and saved us all the hassle.”

  “It wasn’t my place,” I maintained.

  “You deserve each other,” he spat, wheeling around and hurrying out the front door after Justin, slamming the door behind him.

  “What the fuck!” Scott yelled, sitting bolt upright, appearing both alarmed and confused at the same time. “Who’s yelling?”

  “You sent your boyfriend away with your little show of possessiveness in the kitchen.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, watching me move closer and take a seat again on the table.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m sure I have no—”

  “Stop,” I commanded.

  He glared at me for a few seconds and then gave up. “So he’s gone now?”

  I nodded as he sat forward, his hands on my thighs, and stared into my eyes. “I can pretty much guarantee that, yes.”

  He smoothed his hands up and down before leaning close, searching my face for God knew what. “So you really liked the mousse?”

  “What’s with you and the fuckin’ mousse?”

  “I think it’s important,” he whispered. “So—it was good?”

  “Yeah, it was good,” I answered, slipping a hand around the back of his neck, dragging my thumb along the line of his jaw. “You had it too. It was amazing.”

  He exhaled sharply, his breath warm on my face. “Everything we do together is amazing, have you noticed that?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Boone,” he said, squirming on the couch, licking his lips nervously. “I want to talk to you, but I’m seriously afraid that I’m gonna pass out.”

  I reached for him and he lunged at me, burrowing against my chest, his exhale loud and long, utterly exhausted. He was asleep seconds later.

  Chapter 5

  I’D CARRIED him to his bed but had not been able to make myself leave. But he’d passed out around eight, and around midnight, I got hungry again. Normally it didn’t happen because Scott’s meals were heavy, but he’d cooked froufrou instead of millions of tapas or the more traditional meals I liked, so I was rummaging around when he walked into the kitchen, half-awake, bleary-eyed, his hair standing up in tufts.

  “Awww, shit, I woke you up,” I groaned.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, yawning. “I woke up ’cause I’m starving.”

  I whimpered without meaning to, and he smiled wide.

  “You too?”

  “Well, yeah,” I groused. “Why else would I be hunting for cold cuts?”

  “It’s because I made all the things Daniel liked,” he sighed.

  “Which is fine, I mean, all your stuff is great, but the food you and I like the best, that’s good too.”

  His grin, with the wicked curl of his lip, made my stomach flutter. “Yeah?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll cook just for you.”

  And while it was good to hear, it wasn’t right. “No, I’m being selfish. You should go back to bed.”

  “I just said I was hungry.”

  “Yeah, but—okay then, I’ll cook for you.”

  One eyebrow lifted quizzically.

  “What? I can cook.”

  He did not appear convinced.

  “I can,” I insisted peevishly.

  “You can’t,” he assured me. “Just so you’re aware.”

  I opened my mouth to defend myself.

  “You burned grilled cheese,” he said, like that ended our disagreement.

  “That happens.”

  “You made it in a toaster.”

  There was that.

  “Just—please, let me cook.”

  I relented because I would always rather eat than argue. “Yeah, okay.”

  “That was easy.”

  “As am I,” I teased. “I’ve been telling you this for years.”

  “Sit down,” he said, chuckling, bumping me out of the way to get into his refrigerator.

  There was a stool in the kitchen, purchased by me, solely so I could sit and watch him cook. When I picked it up and moved it over next to the counter, his smile—like I was his favorite pet—should have annoyed me.

  “I’m not some charity case,” I grumbled.

  “Yes, I know.” He sighed. “Get out the chopping block and a knife. You’re gonna help me so this goes faster.”

  “I thought I sucked at cooking.”

  “Cooking, yes, but this is chopping. Surely you can dice.”

  “You know what,” I began. “You can shove this crappy attitude right up—”

  “Ah!” He pointed a finger at me. “Just follow directions.”

  Growling, I stomped around his kitchen, pulling out the wooden cutting board from the shelf above the stove and a glass from another shelf beside the sink because I was thirsty, and after I poured myself some ice tea from a pitcher in his fridge, I took a knife from the custom-made magnetic interior of his spice cabinet. The under-cabinet knife block looked like something a serial killer would have, until you realized the man was a chef.

  “And what, pray tell, are you going to do with a boning knife?” he asked after a moment, his voice dripping with condescension.

  “Oh screw you, Scoot,” I snapped, waving it at him, drawing the hated name out. “Like I know what the fuck every one of these does.”

  He laughed at me, told me to grab the chef’s knife instead—the big one meant for zombie killing, so I could gut him afterward if I felt like it.

  “You’re hysterical when you’re half-asleep.” It was clear I was amusing, and I liked that, being there for him. “I should really make you go back to bed.”

  “No. I’m seriously too hungry.”

  “Should have made a bigger meal,” I said snidely.

  “Shut up and dice the ham.”

  It was Serrano, the kind I loved, and after that, he had me do the same with some tomatoes and boiled eggs.

  I got engrossed watching him slice the chorizo salame and prosciutto, because how he got the pieces that thin with just a knife was beyond me.

  “What?” he asked, glancing sideways.

  All I could do was gesture at the piles of cured meat. “That’s just mind-blowing, is all.”

  He was smiling while I took slices off the chopping board as he cut them.

  “So what else?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

  “Go over to the fridge.”

  I did as directed.

  “Now pull the salmorejo out for me. I wanna spread it on some french bread.”

  “I have no idea what you just said,” I answered, bent over, checking in different covered Tupperware bowls for what I thought might be what he was talking about.

  He snorted out a laugh, padded over behind me, put a hand on my back, and rubbed circles there as he pointed. “I forget—do you like blood sausage or not?”

  “God, no,” I groaned, looking up at him. “Is that what sal—whatever you said—is made out of?”

  “No,” he said, his voice going out on him, sliding his hand up the nape of my neck, settling it in my hair. “Salmorejo is like a tomato puree with olive oil, garlic, and vinegar.”

  I didn’t give a crap what was in it; my entire focus was now on him gently massaging my scalp as he pressed into my side.

  “I’ll put some cheese out with the meat,” he explained, apparently engrossed in what he was doing, scrutinizing the contents of his refrigerator, not paying attention to his hand on my forehead, pushing my hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ears. It wasn’t that long, but since it hit just above my shoulders, there was enough to manage that. “I have Bucheron and Zamorano; one is soft and the other hard.”

  “I like hard,” I teased as his hand trailed between my shoulder blades.

  “Perv.”

  “You have no idea how—”

  “I could grill octopus for you,” he offered, not really listening to me.
<
br />   “No thanks,” I said, straightening up.

  He leaned in to look at all the white paper–wrapped packages, obviously many different kinds of meat. “How about… clams?”

  “No.”

  “Grilled lamb chops?”

  “I don’t really care for lamb.”

  He nodded. “Tripe?”

  “Are you trying to make me puke? I hate that shit, it’s like eating gum.”

  He glared up at me. “I will have you know that my tripe is tender and melts in your mouth. It’s only rubbery if you don’t know how to cook it.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” I shivered in revulsion to make my point.

  He rolled his eyes but went back to his perusal of the meat selection. “Well, you already said no to the morcilla.”

  “I did?”

  “That’s the Spanish blood sausage.”

  “Oh, yeah, I did.” I chuckled, bumping him with my shoulder.

  “You need to broaden your horizons,” he informed me.

  “Yeah, so you’ve said,” I quipped. “Are there any crawfish in here?”

  “Crawfish season ends in midsummer,” he explained. “Anyone trying to give you crawfish in October––that is not fresh. You can smell it when it’s boiling.”

  “So that’s a no on the crawfish, then?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, baby, that’s a no.”

  God, I could really get used to that endearment coming from him. It made my stomach do odd flippy things.

  “Okay, how about a Baccala salad?”

  “I don’t care what you make.” I needed to concentrate for a moment on calming my racing heart. He was standing too close to me––or I was to him. One of us had to move.

  “Obviously you do,” he griped.

  “Just don’t make anything weird,” I said, trying to restore normalcy.

  “It’s only weird because you aren’t open to new things.”

  “I am very open to new things,” I insisted.

  But he wasn’t hearing me, as evidenced by him diving back into the packages. “Okay, I’ll make the salad, and some panfried pork ribs, and mussels steamed in butter and olive oil.”

  I was silent long enough that he turned to look at me.

  “What?”

  “Really, chef? All that? You can just make me a damn sandwich.”

  He made a noise clearly communicating that I was stupid. “Please, all that will be fast. You’ll have cheese and charcuterie while I work. Do you want wine?”

  “Wine? Scott, it’s one in the morning.”

  “So what?” he said, making a face. “Lemme cook for you. Open a bottle of wine.”

  I would not stifle him. “White or red?”

  He was thinking. “Well, red for the cheese and—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Why are you so grouchy?”

  “Because you ditched me for three weeks,” I blurted.

  We were silent for uncounted seconds before he cleared his throat. “I have a good Saint-Véran that’ll go with everything, all right?”

  We were obviously not going to address the situation.

  “Like I would know good from bad,” I said, my voice coming out hoarse.

  “That’s what you have me for.”

  “It’s hard to know what I do or don’t have,” I replied curtly.

  “No, it’s not,” he corrected, meeting my gaze and holding it.

  “I’ll get the wine,” I muttered after a moment, upset that I’d flared with anger, mortified that I was unable to not act like a spoiled child, and most of all, ready to slink away because I’d tipped my hand and told him I’d basically been eaten up with jealousy.

  “Okay.”

  I went to the living room where the small wine rack stood. He had a ton of bottles at the restaurant in one of those fancy rooms kept at a precise temperature, but at home he had a small rack that only held six bottles of whatever he liked best. At the moment there were four reds and two whites, one of which, the Saint-Véran, I pulled out. When I turned, he was right there, close—in my dance space as it were—and instead of taking a step back, he leaned in, his hands framing my hips, taking hold.

  “Scott, what—”

  “I’m going to put mandarin oranges in the salad because I like it like that, all right?”

  I nodded, not knowing what to do, struck dumb as I stood there holding the bottle of wine as his fingers curled into my belt loops.

  “Boone?” he prodded, grinning up at me.

  “What else is in it?” I blurted, staring down into his beautiful eyes.

  “Salt cod, boiled eggs, black olives, Kalamata olives, tomatoes, and some other stuff,” he answered. “Like you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, taking hold of that one fragment of a sentence so I would have something to say instead of focusing on his lower lip. I had the overwhelming urge to bite down on that tender piece of flesh.

  “I cook,” he said, stepping in closer to me, his chest bumping mine. “And you eat. That’s our division of labor.”

  I cleared my throat, trying to step back because he was crowding me and my body was starting to react. “So—”

  “Stop,” he whispered, holding on, making sure I couldn’t move. “You always pull away.”

  I glared at him.

  “The mousse,” he said flatly, his hand lifting, sliding over my cheek. “It tasted different when we ate it together than when I ate it with Daniel.”

  “There’s no way,” I assured him.

  “Chocolate mousse for sorting,” he told me, rising on tiptoe for my mouth. “Sometimes it takes me a minute to catch up.”

  His soft silver-flecked gray eyes, his plump pink lips, the heat rolling off him, and his hands on me, urgent and pulling, were all too much. I couldn’t pretend in the face of such trembling hope and obvious need, but neither could I take advantage.

  “I’m not this big a prick,” I groaned, pulling away, crossing the room and walking back into the kitchen. I put the wine on the counter and then moved to the sink, leaning against it, hands braced behind me.

  “What’re you talking about?” he asked, sounding concerned as he followed me in, brows furrowed, breath catching.

  “You just got rid of Daniel, and I don’t want to—”

  “What? You don’t want to what?”

  “Take advantage!” I growled, irritated that he was pushing.

  “Oh?” he taunted, moving forward.

  I went to move, but he was there faster, caging me against the sink, one hand on my hip, the other on my chest.

  “How would you take advantage?”

  He had to be ready—he had to want me, or we’d be ending before we even got started. “I should let you grieve for Daniel.”

  “No,” he husked, staring into my eyes. “I can’t do it anymore just because you’re scared.”

  I scowled. “What’re you—”

  “You,” he began, slipping his thigh between mine, opening my stance as he notched against me. “I keep waiting until you’re ready, looking for signs, but it never happens.”

  I tried to move, but he leaned, giving me his weight, pinning me with his long, lean frame.

  “You’re terrified and I know why.”

  But how could he? How could he know all the things I was scared of? Losing him if we got together and then all went bad between us was only the beginning. There was so much more at stake.

  “Should I tell you?” he asked, softly, tenderly.

  “Yeah, I… yeah.”

  His smile was beautiful. “You were in love before, all the way, heart and soul, in it for life, and he… died, huh?”

  My body washed hot and then froze a second later.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reached up to cup my face in his hands. “And you want me, because I see it sometimes, and even feel it… but then you remember that you’re supposed to be grieving, so you back away.”

  “No, that’s not—”

&n
bsp; “It is,” he insisted, easing me close. “You love him so much that you put him there on your arm, and the leaves that are tattooed over your heart… those are for him.”

  I couldn’t stand there and stare at Scott and feel my heart breaking for Haru. Taking hold of his wrists, I moved his hands away and slipped by him, walking back into the living room to grab my cardigan so I could leave.

  He caught me at the front door, barring my path.

  “I bet you thought it was you waiting, huh?”

  “Scott, lemme out.”

  He shook his head.

  “What’re you—”

  “But it was me waiting for you,” he informed me, grabbing the sweater and yanking it out of my hands.

  “That’s crap,” I snapped. “There’s always some guy you’re madly in love with, and I keep hoping that you’ll see me and—”

  His sharp laugh shut me up. “See you? For fuck’s sake, Boone, you’re all I see.”

  I opened my mouth to call him on his bullshit, but he took a step forward and put his hands on my chest to keep me quiet.

  “You have the greatest lines on your face,” he said as I retreated. “It’s what I noticed first about you.”

  “You—”

  “The ones on your forehead when you’re scowling,” he went on, coming at me, “and the crow’s-feet in the corners of your eyes from laughing with your friends, and your dimples…. Jesus, the dimples make my heart stop.”

  I took another step back as he continued forward.

  “And the stubble is hot, and the way your hair is a mess in the morning when I come over to make you breakfast… I want you so fuckin’ bad. So just trust me already. I won’t fuckin’ die and I won’t leave you.”

  I caught my breath as he leaped, arms coiling on my neck. My hands moving without thought to his ass, lifting him as he wrapped his legs around my waist.

  “That’s it,” he moaned, loud and decadent, before leaning close and claiming my mouth in a hard, hot kiss, shoving his tongue between my lips, making me open for him.

  I felt it then, the jolt of fear, and I realized we’d been dancing around the hole in my heart for two years, and it was no one’s fault but my own.

  I had loved with every part of me, held nothing back, and when I’d lost Haru—once when we were forced apart and forever when he died—there had been nothing left. I drifted for so long that when I finally woke up, I barely knew myself anymore.