Skinny Bitch in Love

by Kim Barnouin

  By Sunday afternoon, I’d narrowed a long list of possibilities down to two. I sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and my laptop while Sara made us lunch—hummus and homemade whole wheat garlic pita chips. From the delicious smell wafting over to the table, I had taught her well. “Sar, what do you think: a portobello mushroom burger and some kind of tofu stir-fry.”

  She handed me a plate. “Yes and yes. The wannabe models who come in with their steak-eating dates will all order your stuff even if they’re not vegan.”

  Good point.

  Sara turned on a Downton Abbey rerun, and I worked up some original recipes. An hour later, I had an incredible-sounding portobello burger with avocado slices and roasted red peppers and a basic but kick-ass tofu stir-fry. For added inspiration, I checked over different recipes from the school I attended, the restaurants I’d worked in, and I called my dad to get his three cents. The man never disappointed. He suggested blackened Cajun tofu for the stir-fry—brilliant as always.

  “So is it just gonna be the two of you?” Sara called from her bedroom. “Or will his chef be there?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of hoping we aren’t alone. Zach is too . . . something.”

  “Yeah, too unbelievably gorgeous,” she shouted back. “So what are you gonna wear? I say make him crawl.”

  “What does that even mean, you goof?” I couldn’t imagine Zach Jeffries crawling for anyone, really. “Anyway, I’ve already decided to dress like a chef. I want him to take me seriously. I’m wearing my white skinny jeans and chef’s jacket.”

  “Sorry, Clem, but you actually look hot in that.”

  I smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t want him to think so.”

  “Smart girl,” she said. “Holy crap, I just stepped on the scale and I lost two and a half more pounds!”

  “Awesome!” I called back.

  She walked over with the scale, put it down by my feet, and stepped on it. “Two and a half pounds! Gone! And a pound and a half last week. And I’m not even starving.”

  I looked down at the digital readout. “I’m really proud of you, Sara.”

  She smiled. “You know what? I’m going for the Attractive Friend spot in the yogurt commercial—the go-see is Monday. I didn’t think I had a chance—and I know I’ve only lost seven and a half pounds, but whatever, I’m going.”

  “Yogurt. Blech. But that’s so great, Sara. You absolutely should go for it. And you’re gonna get it, too.”

  She grabbed me into a hug, then swiped a hummus-laden chip and skipped into her bedroom with the scale.

  Zach’s place was on the beach. On. The. Beach. A narrow three-story white and windows mini palace with balconies on the second and third floors. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler opened the door.

  I was a few minutes early, and there was no way I was ringing that bell before exactly seven. I turned to look at the beach, the Santa Monica Pier just a block away, stretching out under the still blue sky.

  At exactly seven o’clock, I rang the bell. My palms were sweating.

  No butler. Just him. He stood in the doorway in a dark blue T-shirt, jeans—low-slung, slightly worn—and bare feet. A beagle that was standing behind him eyed me, then waddled back to a red floor pillow by the fireplace and curled up.

  “Hey, Chef,” Zach said, holding open the door for me to enter.

  I dragged my eyes from him to the incredible house. There was lots of glass and leather and serious pieces of art. One wall was entirely windows.

  “This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment,” I marveled as I followed him in. Stainless steel and soapstone counters. And no one else. Like a girlfriend. Or the chef from The Silver Steer. We were alone.

  He leaned against the counter. He had to be six foot two. Maybe three. I hadn’t noticed last week how incredibly broad his shoulders were. “I liked your place,” he said. “What I saw of it, anyway.”

  Yeah, right. “I’ll bet you never lived in a place like mine.”

  He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer. I shook my head, and he put one back. “Okay, that’s true. I made a lot of money while still in college. I started a company at my dorm room desk and got lucky.”

  “Lucky? You believe in luck?”

  “Actually, no. I believe in smart. And action.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I can tell, Clementine. That’s why I specifically wanted you to design the vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five? And you’ve already worked at some major restaurants and have your own business.”

  “I’m twenty-six. But thank you.”

  He smiled. “I admire people with strong convictions, and passions. I always have. I liked that you barged into the restaurant that day and stood up to—what did you call her? Lady Clipboard.”

  I laughed. “So the admiration still holds even if it’s against everything you’re about.”

  He opened the beer and took a swig. “I’m more than what I eat, Clementine.”

  “But you live very differently than I do.”

  “How do you know? I wasn’t aware we’d spent that much time together.”

  “Ha. But still. You own a steakhouse. You spew fuel emissions into the air with your motorcycle. You use that crappy dishwashing liquid with tons of chemicals,” I added, jerking a thumb to the sink.

  “Huh. Definitely never thought about the dish soap.” He opened the refrigerator and pointed to two shelves. “Those are the perishables.” He opened a cabinet. “And the rest of the ingredients. My chef approved your entrees. Get past me and I’ll hand him your recipes and pay you well for them.”

  “You talk money a lot,” I said, taking out ingredients for the stir-fry.

  “I own a restaurant. It’s all about money.”

  “My place is going to be about the food,” I said.

  He laughed and lifted his beer in salute. “I have no doubt that place will be a hit. So talk to me about tofu,” he said as I placed the block of firm tofu on a cutting board. “What the hell is it?”

  I told him all about tofu, that it was made from soybeans and water, was high in protein and beautifully absorbed the flavors of spices and marinades. How it had less than a hundred calories, ten grams of protein, and five grams of fat per half cup serving. Good stuff.

  And he listened to every word. His eyes on my face. On my lips, I noticed. Then back up at my eyes. Then surreptitiously glancing lower, checking me out.

  As I stood next to him by the sink, draining the tofu, he was so close that I could smell his soap.

  He seemed to notice he was staring at me and took a slug of his beer. “Did you start cooking after culinary school or did you always cook?”

  Man. I had to actually force myself to look away from him, too. “I learned the basics from my father. My earliest memory is being in the kitchen with him, learning how to snap peas and tear the husks off corn.” I thought of my dad, in his wheelchair, so weak now, and I got that awful clenching feeling in my chest. “So, your dad took you out hunting the minute you could walk?”

  There. Good, Clem. You have to remind yourself that this guy is a total carnivore. He’s the anti-you. Do not get suckered by that face. Or body.

  He smiled. The kind of smile that said he liked being challenged. “I’m not a hunter. Ours is a breeding ranch. But I did grow up with cattle and chickens and rabbits walking in my path all the time. There was a time—I was thirteen—when I was really awkward and skinny and my hair stuck up in all directions, and I transferred to a new school and had no friends. A goose and a rooster were the only creatures I talked to for months. I told them everything.”

  Huh. Unexpected. “They say anything back?” I asked as I sliced the tofu, added the spices to the food processor, and then got busy slicing scallions and then shallots. I found myself moving a bit closer to him. My right arm brushed against his left one, and a freak tingle shot up my spine. From his arm.

  “They were good listener
s.”

  He looked right at me, and we just oogled each other for a very long moment. Dammit.

  I nodded, trying to break whatever this crazy thing was that was happening between us. “Yeah, animals are amazing listeners. I grew up telling our chickens and dogs and cats my life story and my sob stories.”

  “I can’t imagine you had an awkward period,” he said, peering into the pan, where the spice-dredged tofu sizzled on low heat.

  “Actually, I did. Before braces and filling out some I looked like a bucktoothed pole.” He didn’t need to know that until I discovered Frizz-Ease as a fourteen-year-old, I also had Bellatrix Lestrange’s hair, only blond.

  “Well, it seems to have worked out okay,” he said, looking right into my eyes again. “You can’t tell me you’re not seeing anyone.”

  A little jolt spiked up the back of my neck. “Nope.”

  “Well, that must mean you’re getting over someone, then.”

  I turned to face him. “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’re beautiful. And passionate about what you do. Like I said, you’re doing your own thing, Clementine. It’s very attractive. So if you were interested in a relationship, I’m sure you’d have one.”

  I turned back to the pan and added the veggies. “Something ended six months ago. Badly—for me, anyway. So I put blinders on and focused on getting promoted to sous chef and chef, and I thought it worked. But then—”

  I stopped talking. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life.

  “But then what?” he asked, stepping closer until he was right next to me, his back to the counter, our shoulders touching.

  He didn’t move. And neither did I.

  “Someone blindsided me again and I got fired from a top restaurant. That’s why I’m trying to get the Skinny Bitch biz off the ground—being a personal chef, offering cooking classes so that one day I can open Clementine’s No Crap Café.”

  “So do you think The Silver Steer and your Skinny Bitch world can coexist on Montana and 14th?”

  I smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but maybe.”

  He lifted up my chin with his hand and leaned down and kissed me.

  “You just kissed me,” I said like an idiot. Duh.

  “Yeah, I did. Couldn’t help myself. I guess that means we’re not enemies anymore.”

  “I never said that.”

  He laughed. “I’ve always liked a challenge.”

  Yeah, no kidding. And remember that, Clem. A zillionaire who gets everything he wants? Of course, he’s interested in the vegan who doesn’t worship at his feet like every other woman probably does. Remember that. Live it. Don’t be lured. “You know what I find challenging? Making sure blackened tofu doesn’t get so black that it’s burned to a crisp,” I said, turning off the burner and plating the stir-fry. The tofu was fine, but I wasn’t.

  “I’ll let you focus on your work,” he said, staring at me for a moment. “I’ll get out the stuff for the portobello burger. I admit I like the sound of that better than the tofu stir-fry, but my chef—Walker—says both will definitely move.”

  As he opened the refrigerator, I could still feel the imprint of his lips on mine.

  And then he was standing in front of me, kissing me again. Instead of taking my own advice, instead of not being lured, I kissed him back. Hard.

  The doorbell rang, and Zach went on kissing me as though someone wasn’t obsessively pressing the bell over and over.

  Like a girlfriend.

  “It’s like someone knows you’re here and isn’t giving up,” I said, heart unexpectedly plummeting. I shouldn’t care.

  The bell would not stop ringing.

  “Excuse me,” he said, looking pissed.

  He stepped outside and closed the door behind him, so, of course, I went right to the peephole to get a look.

  She was stunning, of course. Very tall. Long blond hair and huge boobs.

  And in seconds, she was in his arms. I couldn’t tell if they were kissing, but he was holding her. Very close.

  Dick. He was just all over me!

  You’re here to cook for a job, I reminded myself. Do not walk out. Do not tell him he sucks. Just do what you’re here for. Make your four hundred bucks. More money will come for the recipes themselves.

  Just grab the portobello mushrooms and pull off the fucking stems.

  The door opened, and in walked Zach and this woman who I still thought of as Baby.

  “See,” he said to her, his arm extended toward me. “Chef jacket. The smell of an amazing meal cooking. This is Clementine, and she is here making some vegan options for The Silver Steer.”

  Baby glanced at me, her big blue eyes on my jacket. “I’ll wait for you upstairs,” she said to Zach. “In your bedroom,” she added, eyes, suddenly cold, back on me.

  Before he could say anything, she was marching up the stairs.

  “Sorry about the interruption,” he said. He looked as though he was going to say something else, then slightly shook his head. “I’ll leave you to the burger. Call up when it’s ready for the tasting.”

  He started for the stairs.

  My blood started to boil. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You just kissed me,” I whispered—unnecessarily generous. “And now you’re dismissing me to go fuck your girlfriend while I audition my cooking for you?” I threw the knife I’d been using to slice avocado in the sink. “Have a nice life.”

  I grabbed my bag and stalked toward the door.

  “Clementine, wait.”

  “For what?” I pulled open the door.

  “At least let me pay you,” he called.

  Bastard.

  Chapter 6

  “Call Alexander right now and ask him out,” Sara ordered the next morning when I dragged myself into the kitchen, the smell of pancakes in the air.

  When I got home last night, furious, she’d called Ty, who’d come over with potato-leek soup; more insanely good cupcakes, which I stuffed my face with; and my favorite wine, which I drank too much of. We watched the Food Network for hours, and by the time Ty left and Sara turned out the lights, I felt slightly better. Zach was a jerk, but was that ever really in question? And, as always, my friends had my back.

  Sara flipped a buckwheat pancake at the stove. “You guys will go on some perfect vegany date and you’ll be madly in love with each other and you’ll be like, ‘Zach who?’ ”

  Except that Alexander, with his fresh-scrubbed cuteness, couldn’t compare to the utter hotness of Zach Jeffries. Still, I did like Alexander. He was my kind. And obviously too shy to ask me out. I would put him out of his misery.

  “But wouldn’t that be using him to get over someone else?” I asked. “I ran into him the other day when I was having lunch with my sister. He’s too nice to use.”

  She added the pancake to the stack of four already on a plate. “Who says you’re using him? Alexander could be the perfect guy for you. How are you supposed to know either way if you don’t give him a chance?”

  “You spun that well,” I said, going into my bedroom for my phone. I found his card in my wallet. Alexander Orr. Sous chef, Fresh. Good thing he’d scrawled his cell number on the back, because there was no way I’d call Fresh.

  “And hurry up because breakfast is ready. Spiced buckwheat banana pancakes from your recipe,” she called from the kitchen. “Please tell me I can use maple syrup.”

  “Yup. The real stuff is in the fridge. But not too much,” I added, heading into the living room and peering out at the dead cow head sign for fortification. I dialed.

  “Clementine,” Alexander said, sounding truly happy to hear from me. “I’d love to see you. I’m attending a special concert at two. Want to join me?”

  A concert at two in the afternoon? Maybe some outdoor lunchtime thing.

  “Sounds great,” I told him.

  “Terrific. Meet me in front of Taft Middle School at 1:50.”

  Middle school? What?

  I tried to do the math
fast in my head. Alexander couldn’t be more than thirty. How old were middle-school kids? Eleven? Twelve? Could he have a twelve-year-old kid? He could.

  Crap. Not that I didn’t like kids and all, but . . . did I want to watch that twelve-year-old kid blow into a clarinet or whatever for an hour? Not really.

  Before I could come up with a good excuse, he said, “Looking forward,” in that cute British accent and hung up.

  What did you wear to a middle-school concert at two in the afternoon, anyway?

  My own middle-school years sucked, just as I’d told Zach. My parents had switched me from a crunchy private school, where you took electives in African drumming, to the public school, which had four times the number of students. It took me a while to find my people.

  And it took me a while to spot Alexander among the throngs of people walking and milling around the school. Everyone’s parents and grandparents and bored-looking little siblings were heading toward the main entrance. No one else was wearing incredibly cool four-inch over-the-knee ecru faux-suede boots, though.

  Sara, who’d once substituted as an aide in a middle school, told me I could wear my skinny jeans and sheer, flowy shirt and amazing boots.

  Alexander was sitting on a stone bench and stood up and smiled when I approached. Damn, he was cute. He took off his sunglasses and squinted his sweet dark brown eyes at me.

  “So, you were a teen dad or what?” I asked as we headed in.

  “More like a teen mentor,” he said with that irresistible British accent. “It’s a Big Brothers–type program. I mentor a great young bloke called Jesse. He’s in sixth grade. Crazy good tuba player.”

  He was a Big Brother. Brought his grandmum soup. The guy might be too good for me.

  “What kind of stuff do you do together?”

  He led the way into the auditorium. “Everything from basketball to helping with science fair projects. My father took off on my mum when I was young and I had a few different mentors in a similar program. One taught me how to cook, and here I am.”