by Olivia Luck
“Reasonable enough,” I murmur. “Aside from my father drilling into my head that only sinners drink alcohol, I’m not too fond of allowing libations to control my actions. Booze just doesn’t appeal to me. My own version of a Pavlovian response, I guess.”
“It’s interesting how the lessons of our parents can dictate our decisions and behaviors into adulthood.”
“I’m old enough to make my own choices and have the capability of thinking critically. Nevertheless, my reactions to alcohol are deeply engrained.” I shrug. “What lessons from your parents are you holding onto?”
“All those cotillion classes my mother forced me to attend as a teenager.”
We both laugh at that and then the waiter arrives with our cocktails. “Are you adventurous?” Oscar asks while the server stands astride the table.
“Sometimes,” I say carefully. Where’s he going with this?
“How about adventurous enough to let me order?”
“Go for it.” I nod.
When the waiter is gone, Oscar lifts his glass in a toast. His eyes lock on mine. A current simmers between us, and the attraction is so powerful my body turns to a block of ice. I am frozen, held captive by his penetrating stare. I would do anything to know what he is thinking. “To trying new things.” His voice, though deceptively soft, smolders.
The ice clinks against the side of my glass when my hand quivers. Despite all of the new hurdles I have crossed since leaving the safe confines of Winter, Illinois, I’ve never felt more out of my league than I do now. Oscar closes the final gap of space between our glasses, tapping the salted rims together.
“Cheers,” he says.
When I repeat the word, it comes out as nearly a whisper. The tangy liquid slides down my throat easily. This is my first experience with tequila. From what I’ve heard, this liquor is extremely potent. I take a small sip and replace the taste with a salsa-covered chip. “Delicious,” I approve instantly.
“What I like about Casita is their penchant for fresh ingredients. Their price point is a touch higher than your typical Tex-Mex place, but the improvement in quality is unmistakable.”
“What made you want to become a chef?” I ask.
Oscar smiles fondly. “My mother is an excellent cook. I am her only child, and she insisted that I learn her recipes. Most of my childhood was spent in the kitchen with her.”
I smile at his memory even though I’m not a part of it. His youth sound idyllic. “How wonderful that you share this pursuit with your mother.”
“It wasn’t always a blessing,” Oscar admits. “As a kid, I wanted to be on the baseball field, and it was a point of contention between Mom and me. Eventually, we worked it out. Needless to say, she is thrilled with my chosen profession.”
“You truly have a gift,” I tell him honestly. “Watching you in the kitchen is like watching a professional athlete at his sport.”
Oscar clears his throat, looking uncomfortable with my genuine praise. I shift awkwardly in my seat when he doesn’t respond, wondering if the waiter will arrive soon.
“Thank you,” he says shortly. “And you? What got you interested in baking?”
“Baking wasn’t pre-destined for me as it was for you. Growing up with a father as a pastor, my mom was called upon many times to bake something for a picnic, or a bake sale, a Christmas pageant, you name it. Mother loathed the kitchen, and somewhere along the way, I took over for her. To me, nothing is better than creating things in the kitchen. The next best thing is watching someone enjoy my creations.”
Oscar looks transfixed by my explanation. “When I first started cooking professionally, I’d occasionally find a few minutes to sneak into the dining room and look and listen for responses to my food. After all these years, I still get a thrill when I watch someone enjoy a meal I made.”
We share a smile, a moment of complete understanding. The boisterous noises surrounding us fade, and all the external stimuli disappear. To me, it’s a moment of synchronicity I never expected to experience with someone else, let alone the first man I ever truly desired. It’s all a little serendipitous, but I can’t help but become seduced by the exchange.
Naturally, the waiter chooses that moment to appear with a tray of steaming, sizzling dishes. He places an array of plates on the table. Flautas. Mole Poblano. Stuffed chiles. All the food overwhelms me, and I’m now glad I didn’t consume half the chip bowl.
“Don’t feel like you need to eat everything. I don’t eat here as often as I’d like and admittedly got a little carried away,” Oscar says. “May I?” He indicates toward my plate, and I nod. Oscar expertly serves me a mixture of food.
“Good?” he asks after I’ve taken a few bites.
“Delicious,” I confirm. “I’d be surprised if the food wasn’t fantastic. I hear you know what works well in the kitchen,” I tease him.
Oscar grins shamelessly. “Not going to deny that.”
We eat in companionable silence, and I continue to sip my margarita. The strong drink makes my shoulders loosen and my smile easier. When I finish eating, I sit back in my seat and sigh with satisfaction.
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask innocently.
All the good humor in Oscar’s expression disappears. His jaw sets and a deep frown causes crease lines to form on his face.
“No,” he says without further explanation.
I wonder if I’m wrong about this date—if it isn’t going well. From my perspective, I’m having the time of my life. Oscar is kind, gentlemanly, witty, and polite. But Oscar is harder to read than I thought. Whereas I wear my emotions plainly, his hide behind, at times, a mysterious countenance.
“I didn’t mean to pry. Just curious.”
The tightness in his jaw releases, and his eyes soften. “My apologies. Family is a prickly topic.”
“Sounds familiar.” I want him to understand that I know how badly family memories can sting, but I also don’t want unpleasant things to drag down our first date. “Violet and I don’t speak to our parents,” I confide. “It’s not something I like to talk about—or even think about, really.”
Oscar nods but doesn’t say anything further. Thankfully, the waiter arrives to ask if we want dessert. “No,” my date say succinctly.
My heart drops. Oh, no. That completely benign comment about his family must have really upset Oscar. From his grim expression, it looks like he wants to bolt.
They converse in Spanish again, and the waiter clears our plates. I hear the word for check and know it’s time to go. I try my best not to let my disappointment show, but I don’t know the first thing about masking my emotions.
All of a sudden, Oscar captures my hand fidgeting with a napkin on the table. He strokes his thumb against my palm, causing goose bumps to erupt along my shoulder. Whatever tension he has is forgotten. “You’ll have to forgive me for not mentioning this to you earlier,” he says huskily. My fallen heart perks up. Recently discovered desire coils inside me. “Dessert at my place. I want to cook together.”
I swallow. Hard. There’s no mistaking his intentions.
I’m not so inexperienced that I can’t decipher what this man is saying. However, if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that he wants to sleep with me or at least hookup, as I’ve heard Violet call it.
Maybe it’s the three-quarters of a margarita I drank, or maybe it’s Oscar’s dark, cinnamon-colored eyes bewitching my sense, but I cannot think of any logical reason to turn him down. I am a vibrant young woman. If I want to explore a relationship with a man who has been nothing but kind and courteous toward me, nothing should hold me back. Despite Cameron’s tame warnings about Oscar, I have seen no glaring red flags. Aside from my standard bouts of shyness, I am comfortable around him.
When will this type of experience make itself available to me? I won’t be afraid. I won’t go home by myself and wonder what could have happened.
“For once, I can’t read you,” Oscar observes. “The only emotion you’re displayin
g is steely determination. Are you determined to send me on my way or determined to try a recipe with me?”
I can’t help giggling a little. Yeah, all he wants is to knead some dough. “Well, what are we making?” Am I flirting? Yes, I am most definitely flirting.
“Chocolate-almond pastries.” Somehow, he makes the dessert sound sinful. With all the sugar and butter, it’s probably an artery killer, but still, he makes chocolate sound akin to sex.
“You are in luck, Mr. Alexander. Chocolate and almond are the magic words.”
Oscar chuckles. When the waiter drops a black leather envelope on the table with the check, he swipes it away before I have a chance. I dip down to grab my purse from where it rests against my chair and begin to pull out my wallet.
“Don’t think about,” he says sternly.
“But–”
“No arguments. This is the way it is when you’re out to dinner with me. I pay. You don’t argue.” Instantly, my mind goes to the future. Does that statement mean there will be other dinners? I shake the thought from my mind. “Before you say anything about being able to afford our dinner or equality in relationships, know that this is another lesson my mother drilled into me at a young age. Things we can’t overcome, right?” He arches a brow.
“I suppose, although it does seem a bit antiquated.”
Oscar shrugs, uncaring. “Call me old-fashioned.”
Although it’s only a few minutes, the time that it takes the waiter to process Oscar’s credit card drags. A tiny thrill races through me, making me antsy. Oscar seems impatient too because the moment the waiter places the envelope back on the table, he snatches it and quickly signs his name. With the same grace, he rises to his feet, sidesteps the table, and moves behind me to pull out my chair. I collect my bag and move the chair to stand.
“Sometimes, old-fashioned rules have their perks.” His warm breath tickles the shell of my ear. He stands close enough that I swear his lips whisper against my skin. There’s no hiding my shiver.
Agreed.
Fingertips at my lower back, Oscar guides me through the people, pausing briefly to say good-bye to Manuel. Again, he opens the passenger door and shuts it behind me once I am buckling my belt.
If history were any indicator, I should be nervous. Pinpricks of anxiety should be making their way across the pads of my fingers, yet the opposite is true. Every one of my cells is humming with electricity. Any anxiety rushing through me transforms to anticipation.
Jazzy piano fills the cabin of the car. Oscar keeps one hand lazily on the wheel, directing the vehicle confidently, and his other hand rests above my knee. Neither of us speaks on the short trip. I desperately want to know what he is thinking, but I also don’t want to interfere with the simmering sexual tension.
Wait.
Sexual tension. My nose wrinkles. Is that what this is? The air between us crackles with energy. His grip on my leg is possessive, like—like I’m his to take.
You’ve been reading too many bodice rippers, I chide myself silently.
“There’s an awful lot of thinking going on over there,” Oscar says.
I have to clear my throat and wet my lips before my dry mouth works properly. “Enjoying the ride,” I lie.
Oscar catches my fib, smirking toward the windshield. “Surely, you know that you aren’t an accomplished liar,” Oscar says.
“Surely, you know it isn’t polite to demand I tell you everything on my mind. A person is allowed to indulge in thoughts without necessarily spelling all of them out. Sometimes, thoughts are just thoughts. Fleeting concepts to contemplate at a later time.”
Oscar chuckles richly. “You are something else. Okay, Iris. I’ll let you have this one. No further questions. As it is, we have arrived.” He rounds a corner, pulling into the driveway of a towering three-story single-family glass and steel structure. A balcony juts out from the second floor, and it looks as though there’s a roof deck, too.
Oscar parks the car inside a garage. This time, I don’t give him the opportunity to open my door, to which I receive a frown but no comment. I follow him through a mudroom-slash-laundry room up a staircase to the open concept main floor. On one side is a cozy living room and on the other, a sitting area. A kitchen and dining area separate the two spaces. Naturally, the kitchen is fit for a professional chef with shiny, white quartz countertops, high-end stainless steel appliances, a massive rectangular island, and a wine closet. The hardwood floors are oak. All the furnishings are neutral tones, except for the blue piping on one chair and colored pillows adorning the chairs and sofas. The dining table has an impressive display of blue hydrangeas.
“Your home is lovely.” I twist my head to look over my shoulder to where Oscar stands a few feet behind me.
“Hmm,” he murmurs as though he doesn’t hear me. His dark eyes study me with yet another indescribable glaze. The same charged voltage fills the air as it did in the car. Oscar closes the gap between us. His fingers curl around my neck, and he tilts my head to the side. I stare at him, unblinking, breathless, heady, consumed by his scent.
“Your cologne . . .” My eyelids fall shut, and I find myself inhaling through my nose.
When he speaks, he brushes his mouth against mine. “I don’t wear cologne, Iris.”
My eyes blink open, and I find I’m so close I only see the dip between his nose and full lips, the curves of his cheekbones, and the line of his jaw. The scent of sandalwood teases my nostrils.
“Aftershave,” he rasps.
Then I’m not thinking of anything at all. When his warm, soft lips press against mine, all logical reasoning disintegrates.
This is a kiss.
Ravenous.
Hungry.
Somehow, my hands end up clutching his biceps to urge him closer. One of the hands holding my neck skims backward, fisting my hair. He tilts my head further, granting him better access to fuse our lips together. His tongue teases the seam of my lips until I part my mouth. He laps my tongue, nibbles my lips.
I feel Oscar everywhere—physically—and somehow, the force of him ignites every one of my cells.
Pleasurable sensations bombard every single synapse. Tingles race through my body. Flaming desire courses through my veins. Don’t stop, don’t stop, my body chants. I want to press the length of my body against his. I want to know what his arousal is like, know that a burning need consumes him too.
And then we’re not kissing. His hands fall to my waist, resting there lightly. I’m thankful he’s holding on to me. Otherwise, I might stumble. Head swimming, heart pounding, I am dizzy with want.
Oscar presses his forehead to mine, taking calming breaths. “I meant to get you a glass of wine. Pull out the recipe. Actually cook dessert. Yes, I intended to taste it off your lips—but I wasn’t going to rush this.”
My chest heaves. “I’m not complaining.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” He punctuates each word with fervor.
Think carefully, Iris. This is your first experience with a man. Don’t rush into anything you’re not ready–
“You. I want you, Oscar.”
The voice of reason silences immediately before I can second-guess myself. I am going to lose my virginity at some point, so why not now? A sensual, considerate, brilliant, honest man wants to make love to me. I would be a fool to turn him away. I’m ready. I want this.
All my life, I’ve lived by my father’s rules. Father had to approve it all—makeup, television programs, parties, and friendships. I was only allowed to have friends who belonged to the church. He controlled all aspects of my life, and I allowed it, even when I was old enough to know better. From the time I was born, Father dictated the rules of the house. Mother adhered to the rules, then Violet followed suit, and I, watching the examples ahead of me, fell into line. Even after my sister had the courage to break free, my self-esteem was too low to stand up for my own beliefs.
The first step to realizing my own dreams was moving to Chicago. Here, I have a chance to do s
omething completely out of character from young Iris. I am not that terrified, unsure girl anymore. I am a passionate woman. A woman. Have I never considered myself an adult until this very moment? A larger rush of resolve churns through me.
“I want you, Oscar. I want this.”
Did that come from me? The words tumble from my lips without any hesitation. My goodness, it’s almost as if I’ve done this before.
Apparently, my boldness surprises Oscar too because his eyebrows rise an inch. Indecision flickers in his eyes, and for a moment, my intention wavers. A moment later, the vacillation disappears. Oscar tangles our fingers together, and with a gentle tug, he leads me to the staircase.
“The house tour will have to come later,” he says.
Oscar keeps me close as we ascend the staircase, our hands tangled together although he walks a step ahead of me as if he can’t move fast enough. My bicep brushes against the back of his arm, and the scent of sandalwood consumes my olfactory senses. Desire mixes with a level of euphoria, and any trace of anxiety disappears. Knowing that I am going to be intimate with Oscar Alexander is a rush. I’m the master of my own destiny. The thought gives me a high like (I imagine) no drug ever could.
The house rushes by in a blur. I don’t take notice of the décor or the colors of the walls or if there are bedrooms or bathrooms. I am watching the powerful line of Oscar’s shoulders as he advances to a door at the end of the hallway. He releases my hand to allow me to cross the threshold first.
At the loss of his touch, I’m unsure what to do next. I cross across a continuation of the same hardwood floor as downstairs to stand on a plush white carpet extending from underneath the gunmetal bed into the center of the room. Like downstairs, the bedroom decorated in neutral tones, although the bedding is ice blue. Large windows with white frames allow the moonlight to stream into the room.
One, two gentle thumps sound behind me. Probably Oscar toeing off shoes. And then his hands cup my upper arms. He nuzzles against my hair, burrowing against my neck. I respond, sinking into his touch, and cock my head to the side to grant him better access.