by Teagan Kade
“Bria. It’s been a while.”
Her eyes are dancing all over me. “You can say that again.” She looks into my cart. “Is that… endive?”
I follow her eyes. “You know your bitter greens.”
She twirls a strand of strawberry blonde around her forefinger. “I know it isn’t your typical college student fare. Where’s the instant noodles, the cheap beer?” She taps her forehead. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a King. You don’t do cheap.”
I don’t know if I can be bothered playing this game. “You know me too well.”
She won’t let it go. “But seriously, don’t you have people for this kind of thing?”
“People?” I laugh. “We’re not slave-drivers.”
“Or were you just looking for a bit of cultural enlightenment, see how the other half lives and all that?”
I peer into her basket. “Two bottles of Belvedere vodka and you’re calling me out?”
She bats her eyelashes, swiveling her hip seductively. “Hey, I never said I was cheap.”
I’d beg to differ. “I should really get moving,” I tell her, holding up my cell. “Lots of ingredients to find. Busy, busy.”
She knows she’s getting the blow-off and she doesn’t like it. She pouts, looks fucking ridiculous doing it. “And here I was thinking you cared about whittle ol’ me. You haven’t even asked me out.”
Jesus. “I’ve, ah, got plans.”
“With who? Anyone I know?”
And I thought the endive was bitter. “Didn’t you get engaged?”
That puts a stop on things, but she recovers and waves it off casually. “Oh, that? It wasn’t meant to be. I’ve moved on.”
Not that long ago I would have loved a shot with her but right now I only have eyes for Heather, can only think about being with her and her alone, which is wild, weird, perhaps insane, but it’s true.
Bria takes two steps forward, hand moving out and playing with the lowest button on my shirt. “If you change your mind, or if there’s anything I can do to change it, you just let me know, okay?”
I swing the cart further around, almost knock her out in the process. “Will do. I’ll see you ’round.”
She skips out of the way, an awkward “B-ye” at my back as I take the corner.
Bria’s all but forgotten as I make my way through the checkouts admittedly unsure what the poor cashier’s intentions are when she asks if I want things ‘bagged up’.
Outside, mission accomplished, I’m smiling loading everything into the car.
You’re a Crestfall all-star, A-grade ass-kicker, I tell myself. How hard can a simple recipe be?
*
Answer: a lot fucking harder than expected.
Without Heather, it’s chaos. I have no idea where anything is in this kitchen, can’t seem to get hold of Chef for any help this time of night.
Nolan, a rare and aloof figure around these parts lately, appears briefly, simply shakes his head and moves on.
Titus is more vocal when he shows up scanning the fridge for a late-night snack. “Bro,” he tells me, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but try not to burn the house down while you’re doing it, yeah?”
I find a loose potato and toss it at him.
He deflects it with the fridge door, crouching. “You sure you don’t want to switch sports?”
“Can I get some fucking peace, please?”
He slowly backs away, out of the kitchen. “If I smell smoke…”
“Fuck off,” I laugh, hurling another potato in his direction. He scurries away up the stairs, prize in hand.
My first attempt is terrible. It’s like I’ve forgotten everything Heather showed me.
I’ve got the oven preheating to three-fifty, melting the butter in a saucepan over medium heat, chopping up onions and adding them along with the tarragon and garlic to a separate pan. How the hell does anyone cook like this without an extra ten pair of hands?
Far from the mouth-watering visage I saw earlier, the resulting Belgian endive gratin I serve up looks like something you’d scrape off the side of a road.
Lesser men would give up, call it a night, but I’m a King.
We never give up.
So I work—work my ass off and start over again until it’s past midnight and the kitchen resembles a mess hall. Slowly, I start to get the hang of everything, everything prepared and prepped ready to go.
I place the sliced endives in a baking dish and pour the sauce over, covering it with foil and sliding it into the oven, forced to pace around the kitchen while it’s cooking unseen.
I dial the heat up to broil and remove the foil when the timer goes, waiting until the cheese is bubbly and starting to brown, surprised the smell alone hasn’t lured my brothers out of their slumber.
I sit the whole thing on a chopping block before me and have to say this time, attempt number three, it looks a hell of a lot better, professional even.
After it’s cooled, I take a knife and fork, cutting into the end section and bringing it to my mouth in anticipation. I never had any idea eating could be so sexual. That’s confirmed from the first bite.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I did it.
I place the fork down and stand back just staring at what I’ve created—from scratch no less, bit by bit working it up. I understand now why people enjoy this, the satisfaction of the process and result, the pride in producing this from what hours earlier was sitting on a supermarket shelf.
I take out my cell eager to take a shot and send it to Heather, but I see it’s 2am and think better of it. No, I’ll put it in the fridge for now and take it to her tomorrow, see what she thinks of it.
That thought of pleasing her is almost better than the first bite. And I want to. I want to make her happier than she’s ever been—in bed, in life, everywhere. It’s strange, this fixation, could even be unhealthy, but I can’t let it go.
I place the foil back over the top of the baking dish and pick it up. “’Til tomorrow, my love.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HEATHER
There’s little exciting about the mass production of garden salads, but I’ve found a new spring in my step. Maybe it’s my newfound sexual awakening, perhaps the joy of teaching, hope for the soup kitchen, but I know without question Phoenix is at the center of it all.
I see him approaching, making his way through the dining hall kitchen. Speak of the devil.
He’s got a smile on his face, button-up plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, which would typically be fashion forward around here except for the fact he makes it look casual and effortless. And he’s carrying something.
I turn towards him. “I’m on shift. You can’t be back here.”
He looks down. “Can we lower the knife?”
I realize I’m pointing it right at him. “Shit. Sorry.” I place it down. “But seriously, as good as it is to see you, you’ve got to, you know, skedaddle.”
It occurs to me he’s holding a plate covered with aluminum foil. He sets it down in front of me. “First, I want your professional opinion on this.” He takes off the foil with a flourish, revealing what looks like endive, maybe? A gratin of some sort?
I spot my supervisor at the back of the kitchen giving us some serious stink eye, but she’s staying put, probably doesn’t want to come over and piss off a King. Still, it’s not in my best interests to let him linger.
“Quickly,” I warn him.
He takes a fork and knife from his pocket and cuts into a section of the dish, handing the utensils to me. “Go on. Have a taste.”
I bring a forkful to my mouth. “What is it?”
“Endive gratin. Your honest opinion. Hit me.”
I chew on it, swallow, the fork hovering in front of me while I make a quick assessment. “Honestly? It’s a bit soggy and limp from the reheating, but overall it tastes pretty good. The flavor is there, no question.”
He hasn’t let on he cooked it yet, but I sense
the impending reveal, the eagerness at my words. “Out of ten?”
“A solid seven, maybe eight,” I reply generously.
He laps it right up, that kid in the class who’s always looking to be teacher’s pet, though this is no kid and certainly no one’s pet. He stands back nodding. “Okay, that’s good.”
“I take it this is your handiwork?”
The stink eye coming from my supervisor has turned into all-out anger. She’s steaming harder than the pot she’s stirring.
“Yes, ma’am,” Phoenix replies. “Took me longer than expected, but I’m pretty happy overall.”
I’ve got to get him out of here. I place the foil back on and hand him the plate, slowly ushering him from the kitchen back into the chaos of the dining hall. I stop at the threshold. “Look, I’ve got to work, but I’m handing out sandwiches again after my shift if you want to help.”
“Of course. How about we make something a bit more special this time, though?”
I put my weight on one leg, sagging to the side. “Such as?”
He slides his hands into his pockets, shoulders lifting. “I don’t know. Poached salmon with salsa verde, Jambalaya, or,” he takes a hand from his pocket, snapping his fingers, “gnocchi. We could make it fresh, hit up—”
I put two hands up. “Whoa there, Jamie Oliver. You have seen my kitchen, right? I can barely swing a dish cloth around let alone roll out a five-star meal for fifty people.”
I see his look of disappointment, the loss of momentum sketched on his features.
“I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm,” I tell him, trying to be as gentle as I can, “but sandwiches will have to suffice. I’d still love the help if you’re offering.”
The hint of excitement returns. “You know I am.”
“Then it’s settled. Now, can I get back to work before Brenda back there lops my head off?”
“Go forth,” he tells me. “But before you go, I wanted to tell you I’m going to start calling people for donations today, hit up Alissa about finding a venue for the auction. It’s going to happen.”
“I have no doubt,” I say, using both hands to point behind me. “I’ve really got to get back there.”
He leans forward and kisses me, no grand French-a-thon, just a simple ‘see you later, lover’ that sends me away blushing like a bride and so damn giddy it’s a wonder rainbows aren’t sprouting from my ears.
I don’t turn around because I don’t know if I can handle of sight of him standing there looking so darn dashing and wonderful. There’s a part of me—an old, archaic shard of myself—that says I do not deserve this, that someone like me could never be with someone like him, but I rebel against it.
I’m not going to sabotage myself, not when this is the happiest I have felt in years. No, I do deserve this. Is it unexpected? Hell, yes. The real Phoenix King is so far from what I pictured it’s almost comical. But he’s real and he exists and he’s in my life actively trying to make it better.
What more can I ask for?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PHOENIX
I shake my head rocking up to my father’s place. Apparently, the last place wasn’t grandiose enough, so now he lives with Alissa in this monstrosity, the two of them with more space than a family of a hundred would require.
Yet for all that money the front door’s unlocked and security is surprisingly lax. I walk straight in and immediately find Alissa sitting in the lounge. At first, she appears to be watching a blank TV until I realize she’s actually on her phone.
I try not to startle her. “Dad away?”
There’s no startling to be had, Alissa simply turning around as if I’d be standing there all along—kind of creepy, actually. “He’s in the shower.” Her face brightens. “Can I get you anything? Lemonade?”
These many women of my father always seem so eager to please and play housewife. I have no idea what they see in him apart from his big, fat bank account.
“I’m good. I came here to see you, actually.”
Now she looks startled. “Me? Oh?” She stands, gliding around the sofa to face me. “Is everything okay?”
In a way, I get it. She’s dragged around the countryside after my father, spends the rest of the time sitting around tombs like this with nothing to do because there’s a whole team of people to do it for her. Some life. Well, I’m about to bring purpose back to the table. For her.
“I need your help.”
Wonder growing. “Anything,” she replies.
“I have a friend who’s trying to start a soup kitchen for the homeless, but she’s lacking the necessary funding.”
“You’d have to speak to your father, Phoenix. I don’t…”
I take a step closer to her, getting to the point. “I’m putting together an auction, for the soup kitchen, food truck, whatever, for charity, and I’d like your help coordinating the venue, advertising the event and so on. You have a background in event coordinating, yes?”
She’s practically jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. “Yes, yes. We had many big clients.”
“I’ve heard you’re good at that kind of thing.” And a touch of flattery for effect.
It has the desired result. “Whatever you need, I can arrange it.” She starts to list off contacts, throwing out ideas and potential venues. Admittedly I glaze over a bit, but given her sheer enthusiasm here I know I’ve come to the right person. It’s almost too easy.
Alissa’s halfway through her pitch when my father arrives half wet, towel around his waist. I don’t want to know what this midday shower is about, could have done without the peep show. He seems far more surprised than Alissa to see me. “Phoenix. Good to see you.” He looks between Alissa and me. “Seems like you two are getting along.”
I do admit from the outside it would be odd for any of us brothers to get to know Dad’s latest acquisition. I think we learnt after the third or fourth it’s simply not worth investing any kind of time in them if they’re just going to be kicked to the wayside in six months, though Alissa has outlasted most.
Dad takes a seat on the back of the sofa, towel dangerously close to revealing the family jewels. “Say, have you made up your mind which team you’re going to sign with? I assume that’s why you’ve come around, let the old man know face to face.”
I give an audible sigh, hadn’t really considered this. “Not yet, Dad.”
It invokes an instant change of demeanor. “You better hurry the hell up, son. Nothing. Not an inkling or twitch of the balls which way you want to go? I hear Denver’s offering big things.”
So he’s been chin-wagging with Jamie, not that I’m surprised. You think he’d be busier micro-managing his team than his sons. I try to be evasive as I can. “I’m still looking at the options, weighing it all up. It’s a big decision.”
He pushes himself off the sofa, clapping his big hand on my shoulder. I note he seems to be shrinking with age. “It is, but you’ve got to get going while the going is hot, understand me?”
Who could ever understand the mystery that is the mind of Stone King? “Perfectly, father.”
But he won’t stop. “I hate to say it, but even someone as sought-after as you can blow off opportunity if you wait too long.”
“I get it, Dad.”
His damn hand is still on my shoulder, squeezing now. “It’s about more than picking a team. This is about family pride, son, building a legacy for yourself.”
Or yourself, I want to correct, keeping my mouth shut and letting him waffle on.
“You can’t be distracted. You can’t be blindsided by this distraction or that. You’ve worked hard for this and now’s the time to cash in your chips.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“It’s about taking responsibility too. You’re a King. Don’t you forget that.”
Hard to tell if that was idle advice or a thinly veiled threat. “How could I?” I bring my hand to my chest. “After all, I’ve got a permanent reminder.”
Dad brings his hand to his own crown tattoo. “Damn straight, son. The best stock out there.”
This is getting a bit too melodramatic for my liking. I slowly peel his hand away from my shoulder looking for a way to distract him. “I actually came to ask for your help, and Alissa’s.”
The same shocked expression follows. “Our help? You’re going to have to elaborate.”
Alissa fills him in. “Phoenix is holding an auction, for charity. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Far from wonder, I see only skepticism in my father’s eyes. “And the reason for this so-called charity, son?”
“I’m feeling philanthropic, what can I say?”
He doesn’t look convinced.
Alissa tugs at his arm like a five-year-old asking for a lollipop. “I can coordinate the venue, help advertise. This could do great things for the King name in Crestfall.”
Maybe I wasn’t giving her enough credit, because those sugary sweet words bring a bit of color back into Dad’s face. “I suppose there’s no harm in it.” He directs his attention to me. “What did you say it was for?”
“To feed the homeless.”
“Hmm,” he mumbles, thinking it over and looking to Alissa. “If you think you have the time, my love.”
“Of course,” she laughs back, stroking his chest and once again there is a sight I really don’t want to see.
I need to get out of here before Dad lures me into another verbal slugging match over which team I’m signing with. I start to walk backwards in the direction of the front door, hands together. “Thanks so much for the help, guys. Alissa, I’ll text you the details so you can get started right away.”
“Looking forward to it,” she beams, and I’m pretty sure this is the most exciting thing to happen to her since Dad let her choose the living room drapes. She dashes away, calling, “I’m going to start making calls.”
Before Dad has a chance to delve back into basketball, I’m already at the door, waving goodbye. “See you soon.”