by Nina Lane
When I return to Tyler, he shows me how to season and sear scallops.
“The less you mess with food, the better it is,” he says, stepping aside and nodding for me to put the scallops in the hot pan. “Don’t put too many in, and don’t move them around until they’re ready to be turned.”
He doesn’t coach me when to flip them, but I’m very aware of him watching as I slide a spatula under the scallops. To my relief, they’re a lovely golden brown. I know from class that it’s easy to overcook scallops, so I take them from the pan about thirty seconds before I think they’re completely cooked.
Tyler hands me a clean dish and we plate the scallops with celery-root puree, fava beans, and arugula.
“Now go and eat,” he says, nodding to the table. “Scallops can’t wait or they get rubbery.”
By now my stomach is growling, so I sit down and eat. The scallops are excellent, crispy on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside. I finish them all just as Tyler brings me the perfectly cooked salmon and braised lentils, which are melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
“Not bad, Chef,” I remark, which of course is a vast understatement.
His grin tells me he knows that. “Glad you like it.”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Your dad must be really proud of you.”
“He would be.” A shadow crosses his face. “He died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I finally convinced my mom to sell the diner after he died. She’s living down in Florida now near my sister. I see them a couple of times a year. I’m thinking of opening a place down there someday.”
He looks at my empty plate and stands. “Hold on. One more thing I want you to try.”
A few minutes later, he returns with a warm, flourless chocolate torte adorned with raspberries and homemade coffee-bean ice cream.
“The ice cream is my favorite,” he says. “When it comes down to the basics, I’ll always pick good ice cream over anything else.”
He watches me as I eat the torte. I’m very conscious of his gaze.
“Tyler, this was amazing.” I lick the crumbs from my fork. “You didn’t have to take the time to show me so much, but I’m glad you did.”
“So am I. And I offered, remember? I was thinking we should come here as a class one afternoon. Like a field trip. So everyone can see how a restaurant kitchen runs.”
I look at him for a minute. His face is flushed from the heat of the stove, and his blond hair is ruffled. A few strands stick to his forehead. There’s a smear of chocolate on the front of his chef’s jacket.
Cute, indeed.
I pull on my coat and stand. “Thanks again. I won’t tell Charlotte I was here, though, because she’ll get jealous.”
“Charlotte doesn’t have a reason to be jealous.” He pauses. “Does she?”
“No.” I duck my head. “Of course not. I’ll, uh, see you in class.”
He walks me to the door. Before I leave, he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey.”
I stop.
“Did it make your soul sparkle again?” he asks.
For some insane reason, my throat closes over. I can’t speak past the constriction. Instead I just nod and pull away from him. He lets me go.
“See you in class, Liv.”
I hurry outside and walk back to my car. It’s not until I take off my coat before getting into the driver’s seat that I realize I’m still wearing the chef’s jacket. I pull it off and stuff it underneath the seat, then head home.
I smell like olive oil, salmon, dill, chocolate. I need a shower.
My chest is tight, even though I did nothing wrong.
Did I?
At home, I drop all my things on the counter beside Dean’s keys and briefcase. The shower is running. I remember the time I’d tried to join him in the shower and encountered a locked door.
Now my chest is so tight it hurts.
I go into the bedroom. The bathroom door is open.
I fumble with the hem of my T-shirt and start to take it off, then stop. Instead I reach underneath it, unhook my bra, and toss it aside. I take off my skirt but leave my panties on.
Before I can think too much, I enter the bathroom. Steam coats the air, blurring the mirror and the shower door. The outline of Dean’s body is behind the glass, his arms raised to scrub his hair.
He turns at the sound of me opening the shower door. Water cascades down his chest. My eyes follow the rivulets down to his groin. He’s already half-erect. That alone makes my heart throb. I wonder again what he’s been thinking about, standing here naked with hot water pounding over his skin.
I’m your wife, Dean.
I don’t know if the reminder is meant for me or him. Water splashes through the open door onto me, dampening my T-shirt.
Dean’s gaze goes to my breasts. My nipples harden and tent the soft cotton. My belly starts to swirl with desire, and I reach up to rub my palm across my breasts.
Dean places one hand flat against the door and pushes it fully open.
“Get in here,” he orders.
The gruff tone of his voice pulses through me. I step inside. The water drenches me in seconds, plastering my shirt to my skin and outlining every curve. Dean closes the door hard enough to rattle the glass on its hinges, then he turns and hauls me against him.
I move my hand down to brush against his cock. “What were you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Really?”
“Porn.”
“No way.”
“No.” He slides his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him. “You. Really. Naked and moaning and creaming all over my prick.”
A shiver rocks me. The hard edge to his voice floods me with arousal.
His mouth crashes against mine, and lust surges like an ocean swell. I can feel the adrenaline from the football game still racing through him, the heat of his skin beneath the water.
He lifts his head. “You taste good.”
“I had… I had some chocolate.”
“Nice.”
Yeah. It was nice.
I suddenly want it rough.
Dean’s cock pushes hard against my belly, fully erect now, but when I slip my hand down to grasp him, his fingers curl around my wrist.
He twists my arm behind my back. His breath is hot against my lips. “Don’t move.”
I don’t. Except that my chest is heaving as I watch him pull back to cup my breasts, flicking the tips through the wet cotton, running his long fingers beneath them.
He turns me around so my back is to his chest, locking one arm securely around my waist. He slides his other hand over my hip and peels the shirt up to expose my white panties.
“Are you hot under here?” His fingers tangle in the elastic waistband before he pushes them halfway down my thighs.
“God, yes.”
I shudder, wanting to both part my legs and press them together to soothe the growing ache. Dean pushes the panties off me, then slips his fingers between my thighs and starts working me in exactly the way he knows I like, his forefinger trailing up one side and circling my clit before stroking down the other side.
In no time, I’m writhing against his hand, and moans echo off the shower stall. I’m hoping the hot water holds out because the whole thing feels so good—the steaming, pounding water, Dean’s exploring touch, his other arm tight around my waist. The T-shirt clings to me like a second skin, and I’m aroused by the sight of my full breasts draped in the wet cloth, my nipples hard as cherries.
Three more hard strokes from Dean, and I come with the force of an exploding star, quaking and tightening my legs around his h
and. His chest heaves against my back, and then we’re tumbling out of the shower, dripping wet and not stopping for towels on the way to the bedroom.
My breasts crush against his chest as we fall onto the bed, our mouths seeking, tongues tangling. Water spills from our skin, evaporating in the carnal heat. He lifts away, his eyes hot as he stares at the shirt still plastered to my body. He pushes it up farther to expose my breasts, splaying his big hands over them, squeezing them together.
I spread my legs, my knees hugging his hips. My desire sparks all over again when his erection presses against my inner thigh. I can feel the urgency uncoiling through him. Above me, he’s all heated, damp skin and smoky eyes and I know he wants it, wants me…
I twist around, bucking him away, and get on my hands and knees. I push my ass toward him. “Do it like this.”
My voice is low and strained. This position has always been explosive for both of us, though I’ve never quite gotten used to the way it makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. But right now, I want it, want the reminder of Dean’s possession and my own compliance.
Renewed arousal clenches my belly. He grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it on. He settles his hands on my waist, pulling me into position, and then his cock nudges at my opening. Sweat trickles between my breasts. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Hard,” I whisper.
He tightens his hands on my hips before he slides into me with one powerful thrust. I gasp, jerking forward, wincing at the sensation of utter fullness. Dean pulls me against him and thrusts again. My nerves are on fire. I fumble for a pillow and bury my face in it, emptying my mind of all thought as he starts to pump.
“Push back.” His voice roughens with the command. “Fuck yourself on me.”
I shudder and drive my hips backward, matching his rhythm. My world distills to pure sensation—my husband’s hands gripping my body, his cock sliding in and out of me, his breath hot against my back. Tendrils of wet hair cling to my face.
My ass slaps against his flat stomach, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in my head. The wet cotton shirt abrades my nipples and sends heat sparking over my skin. Dean’s thrusts are forceful, his groans rumbling above me.
Air scorches my lungs. He slams into me all the way, jarring me to the core, pleasure mixing with an edge of pain. My pulse pounds. I’m quaking with urgency, and he knows it because he slips a hand beneath me and splays his fingers over my aching clit.
“Tell me what you want, Liv.”
“Oh…” I twist my hips, trying to rub myself against his hand, feeling that explosion of bliss so close. “I want to come again… please, let me…”
He takes his hand away, sliding it up to my breasts beneath the T-shirt. I cry out with frustration and reach between my legs. Dean grabs my wrist and pins my hand to the bed, plunging so far inside me that my whole body shakes with the impact.
“Don’t touch yourself,” he says hoarsely. “You’ll come just from taking me deep.”
Heat floods me. My thighs tremble. I shove back in desperation, craving release. My mind fills with images of me on my hands and knees, Dean all fiery and tense behind me, his muscles corded with exertion, his chest damp with sweat. His thick, veined cock sinking into my body.
“Work for it,” he orders. “You look so fucking hot… show me you want it… harder… ah, that’s it…”
I brace my hand on the headboard and writhe shamelessly against him, pumping myself onto his shaft and urging us both toward ecstasy. My breasts sway beneath me, cries of pleasure tearing from my throat. Pressure coils around my nerves.
“Dean!” The pillow muffles my scream as I convulse around him, my inner flesh tightening. He shoves hard once more before withdrawing. A second later, he rubs his cock into the crevice of my ass. His groan shakes the air as he comes long and hard over my lower back.
Gasping, I sink onto my stomach. Dean pulls away and rolls onto the bed beside me.
We lie there wet, panting, and sweaty. Shudders continue to tremble in my blood, those tiny aftershocks of lingering pleasure.
I shift, turning onto my side. Dean is watching me, wariness dissolving the satiation in his eyes.
Jesus. Does he suspect something? Why should he? And what is there to suspect anyway? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Have I?
No, dammit, I haven’t. He’s the one who lied about his previous marriage. I haven’t lied about anything.
I sit up to pull off the T-shirt, which is no longer wet and sexy but cold and clammy. I grab my bathrobe and wrap it around me. I don’t look at him as I make an intricate knot in the belt of the robe.
“You okay?” He’s still watching me.
I don’t know how to answer that question.
“Second time I’ve caught you thinking about me in the shower,” I remark, forcing lightness into my tone. “I should walk in on you more often, if your fantasies lead to this.”
Though I’d intended it as a teasing comment, darkness flashes across Dean’s face. The first time I’d walked in on him, my fears had provoked ugly accusations and doubt.
He pushes off the bed. Tension ripples in the air between us.
“I need to finish packing.” He pulls on his boxers and goes into the living room.
I take a few breaths to calm my still-racing heart. I’m tired and confused and in no mood to go after him and dredge up all our problems. I need to figure things out myself first, which I hope I can do while Dean is at the conference.
My throat constricts. I suddenly can’t wait for him to leave.
After Dean heads to the airport, I spend the morning alone in the apartment. The strain of recent weeks is gone in his absence, and I let myself enjoy the peace and quiet.
I have a cup of coffee, read a magazine, do some laundry, clean out my closet, watch a gardening show. In the afternoon I spend a few hours at the Historical Museum, and since I’m off work at the bookstore this weekend, Kelsey calls to invite me to a Mexican restaurant for dinner.
“Is it still the baby thing?” Kelsey sits back and sips her gigantic margarita. When I don’t respond, she glances at me. “Or is something else wrong?”
“No.” I duck my head and take a long sip of my own, less-gigantic margarita. The baby thing has been overwhelmed by the former wife thing.
“We’ll work it out,” I say vaguely. “It just takes time.”
I won’t tell Kelsey what Dean told me—it’s his story to tell, after all—but she’s savvy enough to read between the lines. She piles a chip with guacamole and crunches into it.
“Whatever the deal is, Liv, the man loves you to his bones,” she says. “Even I can see that, and I’m about as romantic as a tree branch.”
“Liv?”
Kelsey and I both look up to see Tyler Wilkes approaching our table.
“Tyler.” I smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his chef’s jacket on. He’s wearing tan trousers and a well-fitted, button-down shirt the same shade of blue as his eyes. He looks good.
He stops beside our table and there’s a moment of awkwardness as we try to figure out how to greet each other. Finally he puts an arm around my shoulders and we exchange a brief hug. I catch a whiff of his aftershave before I pull away and introduce Kelsey.
“Tyler is my cooking instructor,” I say, then launch into a list of Tyler’s many accomplishments, which I’m surprised I even remember.
“Impressive.” Kelsey purses her lips around her straw for another dose of margarita. She glances from Tyler to me.
“I expect Liv is going to be the most improved student by the end of the year,” Tyler says. “She’s a hard worker and she has great potential. And she makes a mean soufflé.”
I flush and roll my eyes, even though the compliment secretly pleases me.
“So
, what are you doing here?” I wave my hand at the restaurant, which is a nice place but certainly no fine-dining establishment.
“Just met a friend for dinner,” Tyler says. “The chile relleno here is the best for miles.”
I glance behind him, wondering if the “friend” is female. And then wondering why I care.
“Don’t you live in Forest Grove?” I ask.
“No, I’ve got a place over in Rainwood. About the same distance from here to Forest Grove.”
“Can you stay?” I gesture to the chair beside me. “We’re just getting ready to order.”
“No, I gotta get back to Julienne. I like to be there on weekends. Remember you’ve still got a standing invitation. Next time I won’t even put you to work.” He nods at Kelsey. “Nice meeting you.”
“Yeah. You too.”
“Bye, Liv. Good to see you.”
“You too, Tyler.”
I watch him go. I don’t really care that Kelsey is looking at me like she’s trying very, very hard not to interrogate me.
I haven’t done anything wrong. And Tyler’s compliments and admiration make me feel good. Frankly it’s nice to feel that way these days.
Our food arrives, and I ask Kelsey about her work as we eat. Ranting about her fellow professors is enough to keep her off the subject of Tyler, and by the time she drops me off at home she seems to have forgotten about him.
I don’t forget about him, though.
I lie in the big, empty bed and think about him and all his accomplishments and the easygoing way he has with people. I think about his vast knowledge of food, how he can debone a chicken within minutes, how he knows the exact temperature to cook a scallop, and how he can identify every cut of beef. He even knows how to make a perfect risotto.
I roll over and stare at the other side of the bed. Tyler is like Dean in some ways. Both of them possess an encyclopedic knowledge of their fields. Both are accomplished, dedicated, wholly passionate about their work. Both excel at what they do.