by Kelsie Rae
I smile crookedly in return.
“Good to know,” I murmur.
Indie clears her throat before turning her attention back to the task at hand. “Next, you don’t want to smash the onion with the knife, you want to use the blade to sweep it across the flesh of the vegetable. Like this.” She guides the knife, gently sliding it across the onion in smooth, yet deliberate strokes. The blade cuts through the onion easily, leaving thin slices on the cutting board.
“Perfect!” She grins while resting the side of her head on my shoulder. She lets me take the lead by removing her hands but still hovers behind me while peeking around my shoulder.
I can’t focus when she’s touching me like this. It’s so innocent, but I can feel the hint of lust. Hell, maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe it was all that talk about cooking being a language of love. Maybe it’s that we’re surrounded by real couples. Or maybe it’s that I’m wishing I had the same thing.
Not with just anyone. With her.
Whatever it is, it’s starting to go to my head. Making me want things I have no business wanting. Making me crave things that are just out of my grasp. Making me yearn to touch something that isn’t mine to touch.
“You are a beautiful couple,” Chef Thomas says as he comes to a stop in front of our table. He’s been walking around the room, providing helpful tips and insight for the past thirty minutes. But his comment brings us both crashing back to reality.
“Oh, we’re not a couple.” Indie’s cheeks are on fire as she stumbles over the words.
“Pardonne moi,” he apologizes. “I am surprised. You two seem more in love than many of les autres couples.”
“It’s fine. Not a big deal at all. Don’t even worry about it,” she rushes before taking a hasty step away from me like I have cooties.
“And why are you not a couple pourtant?” He grins mischievously. It’s obvious he enjoys watching Indie get flustered. And I kind of like it too.
I watch Indie squirm as I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the cool countertop. The moment is pretty light, so I don’t mind throwing her to the wolves and making her answer the exact same question that’s been running through my mind for days.
Anthony doesn’t deserve her. He’s a good guy. But he doesn’t want her the way I do. If he did, he’d be here right now. I just need Indie to realize the same thing. And to break up with his sorry ass, so I can make a move without breaking my one rule.
“Oh . . . um . . .” Her eyes dart to mine while silently screaming for help.
I throw her my signature crooked grin before shrugging innocently.
Sunshine, I’ve been wondering the same damn thing.
Her eyes narrow, and her lips pucker slightly. She received my silent message loud and clear. I won’t be coming to the rescue.
This time, she’s on her own.
“It’s . . . complicated, Chef Thomas,” she says evasively before turning to the pan on the stove, throwing in a stick of butter and watching as it melts. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice she just dismissed her teacher for the evening.
Chef Thomas bursts out in laughter. “Be careful with this one, monsieur. She is forte tête. Headstrong,” he translates, “and will not budge unless she wants to.” He takes a peek over Indie’s shoulder, grins, and moves to the next station.
Indie tries to contain a smile at his reprimanding but is unable to do so.
We spend the next hour throwing together the soupe à l'oignon and beef bourguignon, laughing with each other like old friends. It’s funny how we move in sync, almost like we’re dancing in the tiny kitchen space to a song neither of us can hear. Both of us know the movements by heart without ever being taught. She grabs the knife, and I slip behind her to crush the garlic. I step to the left, and she twirls around me to add a pinch of pepper. I’m so . . . aware of her presence that I know where she is at any given time. I’ve never felt so in tune with someone. I can only imagine how this nifty trick would translate in the bedroom.
I shake my head at the thought.
We’ve just finished plating our dinner when Chef Thomas asks every couple to send a filled dish up to his table, leaving us with only one left.
Chef Thomas takes the plate Indie and I prepared and examines the beef bourguignon before slicing off a bite-sized morsel.
“Bon appetit.” His mischievous eyes are focused on Indie as he raises his fork. He takes a bite, and his lids close slightly, savoring the unique spices and the dry wine we splashed it with while cooking.
“Parfait.” He nods his approval, and I can almost feel Indie bursting with excitement from his compliment.
The couples surrounding us lift their forks and take turns feeding each other like the lovers they are.
Indie and I, on the other hand, shift awkwardly next to each other, debating how we can get out of this suddenly intimate situation that our teacher just threw us into.
Sneaky devil.
“Chef Thomas!” Indie calls. Her voice drips with desperation.
He wanders over to us with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“Oui?”
“I’m sorry, but can we get another fork? It seems we only have one.” Indie takes the opportunity to wave the silverware through the air.
“Oui. You have your utensil. Now use it. Or must I show you another demonstration?” He grins knowingly.
“No, we both know how to use forks, it’s just . . . like I said . . . we’re not dating.”
“You came to a couples’ cooking class together. You flirt and play like nouvel amour. I think you can share a fork, non?”
“I have a boyfriend,” Indie explains. Her eyes shift between Chef Thomas and me.
“And does he know you are here?” Chef Thomas inquires.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Non. I am sorry, chérie, but if he knows you are here with him”—he tilts his head toward me—“then he already knows you are not his anymore. Eat. Enjoy. Savor the flavor of young love. Soon, we make chocolate soufflé.”
Chef Thomas leaves our table while Indie chews on her lower lip. Her anxiety is potent as it fills the air.
“Okay,” she whispers under her breath. She’s stunned by his observation. Her eyes glaze slightly as she lets his sage words marinate.
The silence is palpable in our private corner. My stomach grumbles from hunger, but I ignore its protests.
“Do you think he’s right?” she asks quietly, still refusing to look at me.
“Of course not, sunshine.” I shake my head vehemently. “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I think he’s used to couples coming to his couples’ cooking class, and our situation is a little unconventional. He just . . . doesn’t know how to handle it.” Indie’s shoulders hunch forward in defeat. My heart aches at the sight. “He didn’t mean any harm, okay? Let’s just forget about it. Give me two seconds. I’ll go grab another fork.”
I take a step to the front area, but Indie’s hand darts out to stop me. She grabs my wrist with more strength than I’ve given her credit for. Hesitantly, I turn back to her. My eyes focus on the contact of her skin against mine. The way my heart skips a beat when I see her little fingers wrapped around my arm.
I like her touching me. And that’s a problem.
Slowly, I shrug out of her hold and take a few long strides to the front. After grabbing a clean utensil, along with a pair of spoons for the soup, I head back to Indie. Her eyes follow me the entire trip.
“Thanks,” she breathes out before taking the fork from my fingers.
We eat in silence. The tension is heavy in the air. Neither of us says a word other than to comment on how amazing the food is.
Seriously, this girl can cook.
When Chef Thomas stops at our table again, Indie sets her fork down and gives him her full attention.
“Chérie, viens avec moi, s'il vous plait,” he says kindly before walking away.
She turns to me, her eyes tight with confu
sion. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod, but she’s already gone, leaving me on my own to finish the delicious French onion soup with my very own spoon.
My gaze keeps returning to the clock hanging along one of the walls as I watch the minutes slowly tick by.
Indie’s still gone.
It’s been ten minutes.
That’s six hundred seconds.
I’m starting to get worried when she finally appears from around the corner. My tense muscles melt at the sight.
She looks . . . happy, which is the last thing I expected. Like a weight has been lifted somehow. Her skin is glowing, her eyes are sparkling, and her lips are smiling. I’m so anxious to see her again that I don’t even realize I’m standing until she walks up to me and wraps her arms around my waist.
She pulls me into a warm hug, holding me like I ground her. Hesitantly, I return her embrace and rest my chin on the top of her head. She smells good. Really good. Like sugar and spice and everything nice.
I laugh to myself at the childish rhyme.
She smells how every girl should smell.
Like perfection.
I have to restrain myself from bending closer and taking a giant whiff.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” she mumbles into my chest. Her arms give one more extra squeeze before releasing me.
“Everything okay?” I ask as we both sit. She takes a bite of our now-cold food.
“Not yet,” she answers honestly while peeking up at me. “But it will be.”
It’s obvious she knows something I don’t. And I’ve never been a fan of surprises. But I decide to let it go. If she’s happy then I’m happy. I’d do anything to see her light up and give me another warm hug like she did thirty seconds ago. Hell, I’d take a lot more than a simple hug if she was ever willing to give it to me.
If she was available, I remind myself.
“Well, all right then,” I say before finishing the last of my soup.
Once we’ve finished eating, we spend the next hour preparing our chocolate soufflé. We whip the egg whites and fold them (yes, you need to fold them) into the other ingredients to create a fluffy chocolate batter.
She dips her finger into the chocolate mixture before sending me a saucy grin and slipping the batter-covered finger between her lips. Her eyelids flutter shut as she tastes it.
“Mmm,” she moans before turning her attention to me.
“Seriously, you need to try this.”
I lift a brow. “I sure hope you don’t stick your fingers into your food at work, Indie. Seems highly unsanitary.”
She giggles before giving me an ultra-serious look. “I’m a very dirty girl.”
I shake my head while chuckling dryly. There are so many things I could say to that, but I bite my tongue.
Not available.
Indie lifts the sugar-dusted ramekin filled with the batter for me to have a taste.
I glance down at her, mumbling under my breath with my lips tilted toward the ceiling, “You’re a bad influence.”
She grins right back at me. “I’m your dealer, Rhett. You should know this already.”
Before I can stop myself, I taste the batter, my mind going to all the different places I would rather lick this from than my own finger.
So. Many. Possibilities.
But I’ll never get to experience any of them.
Not with her, anyway.
Maybe I need to get laid. Maybe that’ll scratch the highly inappropriate itch that’s dying to be scratched.
But as I look into Indie’s hypnotic eyes that are a few inches from my own, I know it wouldn’t work.
If I leaned in a little closer, our lips could possibly touch. I could finally taste the one thing I’ve been craving more than every other addiction in the world. I don’t want to scratch that itch with anyone but her.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m falling for an unavailable woman.
I’m on the verge of breaking the one rule I’ve ever had.
And it breaks me.
“I need to go. I’m sorry, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I make a beeline for the exit, but before I can reach it, she’s calling out for me to wait. I ignore her.
I run for my mom.
I run for Anthony.
And I run for the broken little boy without a father.
I can’t do this.
Chapter 10
Indie
What the hell just happened?
Everything was so clear. I knew exactly what I had to do to be happy and now . . . now the courage I had a firm grip on seems to have evaporated into thin air.
I grab a taxi. Alone. The abandonment is still fresh in my mind, making me question everything.
Then I remember the wise words of my very own Mister Miyagi named Chef Thomas.
“When was the last time you were happy, crazy cherie?” I hadn’t been able to answer, so he kept talking. “Sometimes we love the familiarity of a relationship more than the person in it.”
Tony and I were practically raised together, but does that mean we are destined for each other? Honestly? I don’t think so. I love Tony. I do. But I’m not in love with him. I’m not sure I ever have been. And if I’m being completely truthful, I don’t think he’s ever loved me that way either. If he had, he’d want to be with me. He’d crave me the way I crave my next-door neighbor.
Shit.
I pull my phone from my purse and tap out a message to Tony.
Me: Are you home? We need to talk.
Hastily, I press send before I can convince myself otherwise.
My dad has a saying, if you don’t do it now, it won’t get done. And I’m implementing those words right now. That message was long overdue.
My hands tremble as I pull out my keys and unlock my door. My palms are sweaty when I grip the handle. My heart is racing with uncertainty.
What the hell am I doing?
I swallow thickly and try to control my breathing, but it doesn’t work. If I had a brown paper bag handy, I’d be using it right now like a champ. Alas, I need to power through. I need to do this. Regardless of the consequences.
My phone buzzes, and I glance to the screen.
Tony: I’m not home. Something came up. Talk soon.
Damn it.
I was hoping to end this quickly before I lose my nerve. The longer I sit, the longer I have to talk myself out of it. And I’ve done that way too many times in the past.
I drop my head back in defeat and stare up at the popcorn ceiling in my apartment. My skull thumps against the front door behind me, and I slide my back against it, landing in a heap on the floor.
I type a dozen messages ranging from you need to come home now to Never mind. Forget I said anything. Finally, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: I’ll wait up.
I have to be at work in an hour, Tony still isn’t home, and I haven’t slept at all.
I tried to get some rest, but my mind wouldn’t shut off. It’s been on a constant loop of what-ifs and I can’t do this for the past four hours. I feel like I’m going to puke. I even knelt in front of the toilet for a solid twenty minutes before deciding it was just nerves.
The lock on the front door clicks, and I sit up straighter on the couch.
This is the right thing to do, I remind myself.
Tony enters, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter, and when he turns, I can’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes.
Am I really going to do this?
“Hey. What’s wrong?” Tony asks, rushing over to my frozen position on the couch. Carefully, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a comforting hug.
If only we could fix this with a simple gesture.
If only I wanted to.
I lose it completely, my fingers gripping his white button-up shirt, wrinkling the soft fabric.
My chest heaves as tears slide down my cheeks in angry rivulets. The guilt hits
like a sledgehammer as I come to the realization that I’m about to crush this man. He’s comforting me, rubbing his hand up and down my shaking back while sobs wrack me from the inside out, and I’m about to tear his heart into pieces.
I don’t know if I can do this.
“Shh . . . what’s wrong, Indie? How can I help? Is your family okay? What’s going on?” He peppers me with questions, but I’m too distraught to answer any of them.
We sit like this for what feels like hours as I try to gain the courage to follow through on the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Hesitantly, I pull away from him before wrapping my arms around my chest protectively.
“I’m so sorry,” I cry, while trying—and failing—to keep my composure.
His concern morphs into confusion in the blink of an eye. Subtly, he leans back a few inches, putting distance between our bodies on the soft yellow couch.
“What’s going on?” he whispers, as his gaze darts around my face. He’s trying to piece together what I’m not saying. Trying to come up with a solution for an irreparable break that’s about to occur between the two of us.
“I can’t do this anymore.” My eyes close as the words leave my lips.
I’m a coward.
I can’t watch as I break him with five simple words.
“What?”
Warily, I glance over at him, taking in his defeated expression. You’d think I had slapped him by how hurt he looks.
Maybe I should have.
I think it would’ve been less painful. At least he would have seen it coming.
Tony and I have never done this before. Even during arguments, we’ve never threatened breaking up, so I can see how this would come as a shock to him.
But I don’t know what else to say.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. My gaze is firmly glued to the beach painting hanging on the wall, wishing I could feel the soft sand between my toes, the gentle breeze against my face. Wishing I could feel free. Free from this relationship that I have no desire to continue being in. Free from the heartache I know I’m causing one of my best friends. Free from the unknown path I’ve decided to take without someone to guide me.