Jonathan stops, takes a few deep breaths, and lifts up his T-shirt to wipe off a modest expanse of sweat glistening his forehead. Of course my eyes gravitate to the six-pack show he unknowingly displays as if it were a Macy’s storefront—Jonathan’s 3D showcase of what’s hot now.
“Not just yet,” he says, calling my attention and wandering eyes back to our conversation. “And you’re pretty early. Again. Much earlier than yesterday, in fact. You do know, if you go to the restaurant now, you won’t be able to get in.” He appears to study me as if he’s trying to solve an elusive equation. “And, where are your glasses?”
Shit, I left those stupid spark of smarts glasses at home. Quick. Think fast.
“Oh well, they proved to be hard to keep on my face during all of the restaurant work. I’m wearing contacts. And, I was actually on my way to the coffee shop across from the restaurant,” I fib. A failed attempt at not looking foolish.
Jonathan regards me with a grin. “Come. We can have coffee. What about food? Are you hungry? I know I am. These morning jogs always get my metabolism going.”
I hesitate with utmost uncertainty, “Um, come? Come where?” I survey our surroundings in search of a small diner or…something.
“To my place. It’s just around the corner.” He lifts his perfectly pumped arm and points to a large twelve-story building made out of brick and limestone.
A TriBeCa Loft.
“Y-you live here? In TriBeCa?” I ask, fumbling with my words as if all parts of the English language just became foreign to me.
He begins to walk toward the building and motions for me to follow. A charismatic laugh escapes him. “Yes, and I promise I won’t bite.”
Jonathan’s loft is exquisitely tidy. Okay wait. I might as well be perfectly honest here.
It’s fucking amazing.
He’s disappeared upstairs for a quick shower before advising me to “Make yourself at home.”
I sink into a soft leather couch positioned in the center of the ample-sized living room and take this free moment to text Sebastian. Of course.
Me: Guess who I ran into while en route to the restaurant?
Sebastian: If it’s that bitchass Garrett, please tell me you sucker-punched the hell out of him so hard, he flew into the street and a school bus struck him just like one did to that salty chick in Mean Girls. Honestly, that scene is fascinatingly epic.
Sebastian has this flat out obsession with Mean Girls—so much that he created a Facebook group ‘All About Mean Girls’. Incredibly, it has at least 12,000 members.
Me: No silly, I ran into Jonathan while I was walking along Leonard St. Can you believe he lives here, in TriBeCa? In a loft? I’m at his place now.
Sebastian: Shut the fuck up! And hold on. Where exactly is Jonathan right now?
Me: He’s taking a shower.
Sebastian: FaceTime session. Pronto!
Seconds later, Sebastian and I are heavily involved in a FaceTime conversation.
“Woman, what the hell are you doing at his place? I mean, yeah, I know you mentioned you need to find a way to get dude to open up, but sleeping with him so—”
“Wait. What?” I interrupt and laugh out loud like a crazy woman. “I’m not planning on sleeping with him. Although he did look awfully yummy in that tight-fitting T-shirt.”
“Um, you can reel that sarcasm back just a notch, sweetheart,” he implores as he reviews his own image on the screen, meticulously adjusting his flashy bow tie. His swaggering maneuver makes me think he only solicits FaceTime calls when he’s all too lazy to walk over to a damn mirror. “I’m being serious, Penelope.”
“Shhh. It’s Ken-ne-dy,” I react, enunciating my decoy name to Sebastian as if I were his second grade teacher. “And you think I’m not being serious?” I lower my voice to a scant whisper. “Look, this is all totally innocent. Jonathan was jogging. I was walking. Now we’re at his place. I’m sure the two of us will head to the restaurant together in a bit. It’s only about a block away from here.”
“Fine,” Sebastian gives in, “just keep that Code of Ethics pamphlet top of mind. Page five says you can’t sleep with a client until at least day three.”
Chapter 13
After Sebastian’s facetious comeback, he winks at me and blows a theatrical kiss before ending our FaceTime powwow.
I toss my iPhone into my bag and sink farther into the soft abyss-like couch, allowing my eyes to scan the room in an awe-stricken fashion. Jonathan appears to have impeccable taste—clearly evident by the way the loft is gussied up. Sure it looks like a man resides here, but I imagined Jonathan to live in a rugged bachelor pad with dirty socks and jeans strewn here and there, half-crushed beer cans taking a permanent residence on the coffee table, and dirty dishes scattered about. Not on your life did I fathom Jonathan to live in a trendy loft with soaring ceilings beautifully contrasted by maplewood floors, walls decorated with tasteful yet subtle artwork, and floor to ceiling windows with dynamic views. Then again, I mustn’t forget, I also expected him to have greasy hair, missing teeth, and a protruding beer belly.
Feeling a tad antsy, I peel myself off the couch and begin to explore. I mean Jonathan did say “make yourself at home,” right?
As I rummage around, out of the living room, through the sleek dining room equipped with a table large enough to feed a city (okay, teeny tiny exaggeration but still), a peek into a quaint powder room, and back through the living room, I finally land in the most spellbinding part of this loft—the open kitchen.
Unmistakably chef-inspired, the kitchen has two integrated refrigerators—that’s right, two of them. There are cabinets, drawers, and counter space galore, a twelve-burner top-of-the-line gas range, two ovens (again, two), a wine fridge that holds fifty-four bottles of wine (yes, I just counted them all), and a pantry the size of Sebastian’s, Carrie-Bradshaw-inspired, walk-in closet. If only it had a TV, I could probably live in a kitchen like this.
Just as I’m about to open one of the two refrigerators, Jonathan announces, “I see you’ve discovered my man cave,”—his tone startling.
I let out a sissy-girl scream and turn toward him. I can literally feel all of the blood in my body flood my cheeks. My guess is the expression on my face is one of a naughty kid who just got caught with her hand in a cookie jar—because that’s the precise aura hovering over me right now with a jumbo caption bubble that reads—oops.
I bite my lower lip and nervously fidget, finally settling on wrapping a strand of my hair around my finger. The sight of him looking all cleaned up in dark blue slacks, a tan polo shirt that hugs his perfectly sculpted build, and stylish leather oxfords, makes my vocabulary limited to a succinct three-word reply, “Your man cave?”
He draws near, once again invading my personal space, even though I’ve made said space awkwardly cramped since I’m standing with my back up against the refrigerator. He smells sensual and clean.
No hint of cilantro this time.
“Yes, Kennedy, this is my man cave, which, by definition, just so happens to be a male retreat or sanctuary in a home, such as a specially equipped room.” He delivers his cocky spiel as if he’s some sort of a courtroom attorney expertly defending his case.
I stand completely unable to move, as though the lower half of my body has been buried inside a one-hundred pound cinder block. His proximity is annoying, exhilarating, and intimidating, all at once—especially since he’s armed himself with that playful smirk of his—a sure fire way to make me want to—
“Excuse me please,” Jonathan softly asserts, cutting through my disorderly thoughts as he gently eases past my shoulder to open the refrigerator door. “You’re hungry, right? That’s why you’re in here…you’re planning to prepare us a morning feast?”
Thankfully, the lower half of my body makes an escape from the fictive cinder block and I graciously step aside. “Me cook?” I frantically shake my head from side to side. “Um, no. I’m actually cooking impaired.”
Jonathan removes a
carton of eggs, something wrapped in butcher paper, butter, fresh rosemary, and a small mason jar filled with some sort of sauce from the refrigerator. He looks at me and laughs. “Cooking impaired?” He skillfully kicks the refrigerator door closed with the back of his shoe and sets the food onto the center island countertop. “I have to say, your choice of words is intriguing. Most people would just keep it simple. Like, I can’t cook.”
I walk over to the center island, park my butt on one of the swivel barstools, and lay my elbows on the cool marble countertop. I can feel the corner of my lip curve—something it tends to do all on its own when I’m feeling flirtatious. “Well, Jonathan, I’m not most people.”
“Touché, Madam Prescott,” he says, stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. “I’ll prepare us a morning feast.”
“Can I help?”
“No. But thanks for offering. I invited you, so please just sit and relax.”
As Jonathan begins to artfully prepare our morning feast, I decide to go back to yesterday’s conversation at the restaurant. I need insight in order to help produce winning results.
“Jonathan, yesterday we were chatting about your off-menu items. Do you mind if we circle back to that?” I inquire, my hands folded, resting comfortably on the counter as I prop up, in preparation for intuitive dialogue.
Jonathan shrugs his shoulders. “Sure, however, we may have to eat before we can dive into any deep conversation. My mind doesn’t function that well on an empty stomach. You like steak and eggs?”
“Do I ever. The last time I had steak and eggs was ages ago. My dad used to prepare it every Sunday morning when I was younger.”
He removes two petite filet mignons from the butcher paper, sprinkles both sides with salt, and places them on a wood cutting board. “Great. You’ll be the first to taste my Steak and Eggs Benedict.”
I ardently observe Jonathan as he slips into a culinary zone all his own—and like a rhythmic drummer, he doesn’t skip a beat.
He cracks open two eggs, allowing them to ease into an egg-poaching pan—a gadget I wasn’t aware existed until this moment. And while the eggs simmer, Jonathan gently lays the steaks in a sizzling frying pan, tossing in a couple of pats of butter and two sprigs of the fresh rosemary to boot. Next, he empties the contents of the mason jar into a small saucepan, placing it on the stove over low heat. He flips the steaks, grabs a small wooden spoon from the drawer besides the range, and deftly bastes the heck out of the filets with rosemary-infused, melted butter. It’s like watching Bobby Flay on TV—but exceedingly better. Mostly because Jonathan is that much hotter. And because I can actually smell the yumminess prepared before me.
Somewhere in the midst of my daydream about Jonathan vs Bobby, I must have missed when one split English muffin was plopped into the toaster, because the sound of the slices popping up makes me jump in my seat. Stop fantasizing about his lips pressed against—
“You alright there, Ms. Prescott?” Jonathan asks, once again intruding my borderline-smutty rumination.
I mumble yes, and try to wipe the red glow from my cheeks, embarrassed I allowed my thoughts about Jonathan to momentarily take me away from my 3D cooking show. He doesn’t know what you were thinking, my overactive imagination assures me.
Before I know it, Jonathan has expertly plated our morning feast of Steak and Eggs Benedict.
The remarkable aroma makes my mouth water. Truthfully, this meal is almost too damn beautiful to eat—his plating technique is impeccably perfect—a food photographer’s dream.
“Coffee. I promised you coffee,” he remembers as he walks over to the counter above the dishwasher and grabs a container of coffee, a coffee press, and two mugs. After placing them on the counter, he prepares the coffee, and thoughtfully provides me sugar, cream, and utensils needed to dig into this breakfast delight.
“Thank you, Jonathan, everything looks and smells amazing.”
He slides into the barstool next to me and a small black purse falls to the floor; he tosses it aside as if it were an utter annoyance. I dare not ask who it belongs to. It’s none of my business, really. But I’ll admit, I am curious.
“Thanks, I sure hope you think it tastes as good as it looks. Like I said earlier, you’re the first to try my dish.”
He motions for me to dig in and seems to watch me, awaiting my reaction.
I slice a bite of all the elements and slide it off the fork and into my mouth. Ambrosial is the first word that pops into my head. The flavors of the steak, eggs, and sauce, all married together, simulate a honeymoon in my mouth. Who would have thought Steak and Eggs Benedict was even possible?
“Jonathan, it’s magical,” I say, digging in for another bite.
“You think so, huh?” he asks, looking pleased as he finally takes part in our morning feast.
“Yes,” I assure, trying to speak with my mouth full. “What’s in this sauce? It’s not a typical hollandaise sauce.”
“For someone who is cooking impaired, you have an impressive palate,” he says, dodging my inquiry altogether.
“Well, I do eat out a lot.”
He smiles, but that smile fades away quickly. I take this moment to probe again, taking full advantage of his vulnerability.
“Jonathan, as I observed you prepare this elaborate meal, you clearly demonstrate a passion for cooking,” I begin, as I take small bites of my breakfast, savoring each as though it were my last, “yet, you mentioned the other day, you’re not as passionate as you once were. Why is that?”
Jonathan lifts the mug full of coffee to his mouth and takes a sip. I stare at him solicitously, patiently waiting for a response.
Is this the moment when I get to delve deeper into the mystery of Jonathan Knight?
He turns to face me, takes a deep breath in and out. “I haven’t had time for much of anything for the past few years.” He takes another sip of coffee before placing the mug back onto the counter. “I’ve been trying to keep my head and the restaurant above water.”
He looks down at his plate and pushes it aside as if this subject matter has made him lose his appetite. Part of me wants to halt my efforts at uncovering the details because I can sense Jonathan’s discomposure. But this NYU trained journalist turned restaurant consultant must do what she does best. Gather information.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s happened over the past few years? Something significant that would cause your passion to be placed on hold?”
He sits still for a few seconds as if he’s allowing my question to come to a simmer before providing an answer. I wait, and silently pray that what he is hopefully about to share, has nothing at all to do with my restaurant review.
He clenches one fist and places it to his mouth as he clears his throat. “Our parents died three years ago. A small private plane crash off the coast of Virginia. They were off to Florida for a weekend getaway because they had been working their fucking asses off at the restaurant—which was their third child, so to speak. It was their first vacation in years, and they never made it. Their will named me as the restaurant’s successor, and I was also left to take care of my younger sister, Olivia, who at the time was only fourteen years old.” He turns to face me with a poignant glare. “So yes, Kennedy Prescott. I would say something extremely significant has caused me to place my passion for cooking on hold.”
Jonathan’s revelation punctures my open wound—I know and understand all too well how it feels to suffer a loss so painfully devastating.
I struggle to hold back a floodgate of empathy-laced tears, and all I can manage to mutter in this drastically frail moment is, “I am so very sorry.”
Chapter 14
An unbreakable silence pollutes the atmosphere as Jonathan and I sit in our respective barstools, side by side, lost in our own reflective thoughts.
I so badly want to reach over and embrace him—show him how much I understand.
But I can’t move.
I can hear Jonathan’s intense breathing while my hea
d saturates with headline-like flashes of potential icebreaker verbiage—none of which can cool down the torrid mood my steadfast probing has generated.
So you just had to keep probing, huh?
Ugh.
Sometimes my conscience is a Captain Obvious sarcastic bitch.
“I lost my parents too,” I finally manage to murmur as I slowly trace the rim of my coffee mug with the tip of my index finger. I turn to face Jonathan and try to survey his disposition before I continue, “It happened a year ago, in fact. Car accident. My world was—is shattered. I have moments when I daydream their absence is nonexistent, I listen to saved voice messages the two of them left on my phone over the years, and a simple trip to the bank freaks me out, because money I inherited from the tragedy is a dismal reminder,” I reveal.
Jonathan lets out a deep breath, as if relieved, and turns to face me. His eyes, once ominous, are now calm and forgiving. “Kennedy, I’m sorry. I-I honestly had no idea. And you get it. You understand.” he says, his voice slightly broken.
I nod in agreement as I am faced with a sudden loss of words.
“I really haven’t given myself time to grieve,” he admits, rising up from the barstool to begin the task of breakfast dishes clean up. “My focus has been the restaurant and Olivia, who has good days and bad days. I thought including her in the restaurant would be good for her emotional recovery, but she’s been quite a tool lately.”
His comment about Olivia takes me back to my visit to the restaurant last week—and the unpleasant service she provided.
“Jonathan, I visited the restaurant last week. Olivia was the hostess,” I begin, now assisting with the breakfast clean up.
I’ve been waiting for an opportune chance to speak with Jonathan about Olivia and since he’s planted the seed, it may be now or never.
Jonathan looks at me, his expression curious, “Wonderful. I’d love to hear all about your visit,” he says, tossing me a small dish towel, “While you and I do the dishes, of course. I’ll wash, you dry?”
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 8
