by Teagan Kade
“Your ass is already mine. I don’t need to inspect it to know that.”
She has me there.
I slip the gloves on and stand there feeling like an idiot. I’m so out my depth here it’s not funny. I’d be the laughingstock of Crestfall if anyone found out.
Heather slides a chopping board across to me, takes a knife from the magnetic strip running across the wall, hands me one in turn. There’s a series of containers at the far end I missed before, full of whole vegetables—carrots, potatoes, mushrooms. She selects one and passes it over to me, providing another, empty, container to my left.
I look down. “Carrots, huh? I guess a Bugs Bunny joke is out of the question?”
She reaches into her container, selecting a potato and placing it down on her chopping board, knife moving to cube and carve it with such speed I’m questioning whether she’s a line cook or superwoman.
She looks to my chopping board. “Those carrots aren’t going to chop themselves.”
I take in the knife I’m holding, select a carrot, already peeled, placing it on the chopping board with no idea what to do next. I’ve never chopped anything in my life—not a vegetable, not a loaf of bread. We’ve always had people for that. Our meals just appeared every night. Even now, living with my brothers, a chef comes in every Sunday to meal prep for us, make sure everything’s nutritionally A-Okay so we can perform at our best.
Heather notices me looking lost. “You don’t know how to chop a carrot, do you?”
I shake my head slowly knowing honesty is probably the best course of action here.
She dumps the potato she was chopping into an empty container and slides up next to me, taking a carrot to demonstrate. Her body brushes up against me in the process. I get a hint of her scent as she moves past me, somehow earthy and yet feminine, floral and woody and certainly no commercial fragrance I know of. My cock tightens in my jeans, my burgeoning erection thankfully hidden below the line of the counter.
“It’s easy,” she says. “Just do as I do. Hold the carrot here, with this kind of grip.”
I take note, copying what she’s doing.
“You need to hold the knife like this, almost as if you’re pinching the blade, got it?”
I adjust my fingers. “Think so.”
“Now curl your fingers in a little, like so. You want the side of the blade to rest against the middle knuckles of your non-knife hand. It’s safer that way.”
“Easy enough.”
“Now chop down, but you want to make it with a rocking motion, shifting from the tip to the end of the blade. It’s not a literal ‘chop’, more of a caress, a smooth and seamless action.”
“How can describing how to cut a carrot sound so damn sexy?”
She ignores that and cuts. I copy.
“Good,” she says, but more to exaggerate the motion. “Let the blade do the work. You shouldn’t have to tense up at all. Keep the cuts even, moving the carrot down incrementally.”
I do as she says, concentrating on my technique and suddenly Crestfall may as well be a million miles away. “Where the hell did you learn all this stuff?”
I notice she’s already done with the carrot, onto her second potato. She keeps her eyes down, hair tied up in a tight bun, copper threads in it I hadn’t noticed before straying from the area above her ear. “I went to culinary school, cut plenty of vegetables there, let me tell you.”
“I thought you said you were homeless?”
“I was,” she says, “but like I said, the owner of that soup kitchen I used to go to kind of took pity on me, gave me a place to stay, helped me get my GED, get into that cooking school. The rest is history, I suppose.”
“So that’s why you’re here?”
“I’m here because I need the money.”
“For?”
“A food truck is the current idea.”
She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t think I should press. “I like it. You thinking waffles, pizza, Mexican? There’s this taco truck in New Jersey I went to once, this killer barbacoa burrito they do.”
“We’ll see, but it won’t be for profit. It’s to give back.”
“I admire the hustle, but you led me to believe you didn’t have a heart.”
She taps her chest with the end of the knife handle. “It’s there. It just needs a kickstart from time to time.”
Something I can definitely help with.
We talk a bit more, but before long I’m lost in the task, all my concentration on the rocking motion she showed me, making sure every cut is even and true. It’s weird. It’s a humble task—simple, some might say—but it feels amazing to master it. Before long I’m chopping away feeling like a younger Gordon Ramsey.
“That’s the way, big boy. We’ll make a line cook out of you yet.”
I smile and it’s partly because I’m pleasing her and wanting to please her, but I also realize it’s the act itself. Every time the blade hits the board it’s so fucking satisfying, so simple and yet so perfect. Hell, I might even pick up a cookbook after this.
“Feels kind of good when you get it,” I tell her, reaching for another carrot and noting it’s the last.
“Better than basketball?” she asks.
“Hell yeah,” I reply. “Better than landing a three when the clock’s down and you’re all out of hope.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I never thought I’d get so much pleasure out of chopping vegetables.”
“You seem like an easy man to please.”
I smirk at that thinking of all the ways I could please her, happy to provide a lesson of my own in a different kind of culinary fashion, taste-test my way into her heart—or other, more intimate places.
I look to her, smile when she looks back. “Easy to please, but hard to satisfy.”
CHAPTER SIX
HEATHER
I’m tense walking with Phoenix to my car. We pass the spot where the mugging took place, nothing of note to mark it out.
“Have they caught the guy?” Phoenix asks. He has his bag over his shoulder, stands a good foot taller than me, but it’s reassuring having him here, a human seawall ready to weather out any danger coming my way.
“I haven’t heard anything from campus security. They don’t have any cameras down here.”
“I’ll see to it that changes.”
I look up to him, fishing in my new-ish bag for my keys. “You guys really do own this place, don’t you?”
He glances over his shoulder to the campus looming on the hill. It looks like Hogwarts from here with its turrets and towers. “When you’ve invested as much as we have in this place, you kind of expect the keys to the kingdom.”
I squint into my bag. “I’d settle for the keys to my car right about now.”
Phoenix looks into my bag and I’m really hoping his eyes settle on something other than a tampon or the lipstick vibe one of the soup kitchen girls slipped in for a gag. “My god,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “It’s bottomless in there.”
He’s looking harder just as my fingers find the keys. I pull them out, shaking them in front of his face. “Voila.”
He gives a small clap, following me to my car and watching as I attempt to the open the door with some modicum of grace—somewhat difficult given half of the hinge has rusted away. I finally wrench it free, almost tugging it back right into his balls.
He jumps back in surprise. “Hey, all I wanted to do was walk you back to your car, not receive a vasectomy.”
Which, of course, instantly has me thinking about his package and what it might feel like in my hand, maybe even my mouth. And that is crazy enough itself, that I’ve become this horny pervert goo- and gah-ing over the pretty boy. It’s not like me at all, but I’ve moved past the exterior now. I’ve seen that behind the oh-so perfect body there may be an actual soul and certainly a degree of sensitivity I could not have imagined. He went above and beyond tonight, had no real cause to help me out.
/>
I climb inside, Phoenix holding the door open.
I place my bag on the passenger seat and pull my seatbelt into place. “It’s no Corvette, I know.”
Phoenix looks down the bodywork. “I’m not even sure it’s a car.”
I laugh. “It’s the best I can do.”
“I get it,” he smiles, “and your hustle… It’s a hell of a thing. I’ll help any way I can. You have my word on that.”
Thank god he can’t see me blushing, can’t see the effect he’s having on me. “Thank you,” I manage to get out, reaching for the door handle, but he keeps the door open.
“I’m going to need your address, so I can pick you up later.”
“I’m not sure I can provide that kind of information.” It’s a token protest, makes me sound like I work at the DMV, but he knows he’s going to get it one way or another. I’m not going to cancel. The likelihood of him breaking my heart is high, but I’m smitten, simple as that. I’ve looked into the rabbit hole and all that’s left is to jump in feet first and hope to hell I come out alive.
“Fine,” I relent, relaying my address.
I see his smile grow. He nods. “Got it. I’ll see you at eight.”
God damn it my mouth is dry. “Yeah, see you then.”
This time he releases the door. I pull it closed and give him the most awkward of handwaves. The Queen of England would be ashamed. I watch him in the rear-view as I drive away, the tall, dominating figure of him fading to black. A premonition of what’s to come?
I’m not so sure.
*
It’s a long drive out to the restaurant. It’s been a while since I’ve been so far past city limits, had almost forgotten there was a world outside of Crestfall. It gives us time to talk. Phoenix doesn’t hold back, discussing his brothers, his relationship with his twin Titus. I had no idea about Titus’s accident, the day-to-day impact it’s had on not just Titus, but Phoenix too.
“He really can’t remember what happened before the accident?”
The dark shirt Phoenix is wearing makes him blend into the upholstery of the car. The fit is perfection, looks sewn to show off every bulge and ridge, the contours of his body that want to turn me back into that horny, hormonal teenager eyeing off the bad boy, wondering how I could bend him to my will.
“Not exactly,” he replies. “Long term Ti is good with, but the last couple of months before he took that ball to the head, nothing, and honestly he’d been acting pretty weird anyhow back then.”
“I’m sure he’ll get better,” I reassure. “What about Peyton? He married, didn’t he?”
Phoenix shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His fingers grip and release the top of the steering wheel. “And I grew up thinking miracles were things like water turning to wine. But she’s cool, Erin. If anyone can tame Peyton, it’s her.”
“Could I?”
He looks across to me, eyes glinting as a truck passes by. “What?”
“Tame you?”
He laughs aloud, looking to the roof of the car momentarily. “You can try.” He sets the indicator. “Here we are.”
We pull down a narrow road, climbing in elevation until Phoenix makes another turn down a cobblestone driveaway, shifting into reverse and placing his hand behind my headrest, leaning around to look through the back of the car while he parks. I don’t know why this turns me on so much. The car’s got a reversing camera, after all.
I resist the urge to lean over and undo another button on his shirt, the shadowy planes I can see as he leans toward me are simply not enough.
He parks and gets out, running around to open my door like a gentleman. “Madame.”
“Dumbass,” I smile back.
We walk arm and arm into what at first looks like someone’s home but soon draws out into a large, open-plan restaurant, the lights of Crestfall proper twinkling away in the distance.
“Wow,” I stammer, because I had no idea this was up here on the mountain.
“It’s only been open a month,” Phoenix tells me, again reading my mind.
Someone arrives to take us to our table by the large windows, sleek pendant lighting adding to the mood of modern opulence. I realized when I arrived home today I had nothing even remotely sexy in my wardrobe. Honestly, you’d think I was an angsty sixteen-year-old boy if you looked inside, but I wasn’t going to be defeated. I made a quick trip down to Hot Zipper, an old thrift shop on Main Street, found a beautiful, vintage velvet dress in iridescent blue. The slit in the side was a bit high for my liking, but I noted Phoenix’s look of approval when I stepped out of the car, saw the way his eyes hovered and danced looking for any exposed skin.
My hair’s in an up-do, the fanciest style I know. I wouldn’t know the first thing about braiding or make-up, any of those greater feminine skills a mother hands down to her daughter. I had Gordy… and Gordy has neither hair nor need for facial products.
A waitress arrives sharply dressed. She is wearing make-up, looks like she fell off the nearest catwalk, but Phoenix only seems to have eyes for me.
“Are there any dietary considerations for the table?” the waitress asks, fluttering her lashes at Phoenix.
He puts his hand out to me. “Heather?”
I shake my head, unsure what to do with my hands. I end up slipping them under the table to rest in my lap. “No, thank you.”
She darts off.
I look quizzically to Phoenix. “Don’t we need menus?”
“It’s a set menu,” he replies. “Five-course degustation.”
I attempt to hide my surprise and excitement. “Oh. That sounds… nice.”
We’re deep in conversation when the first course arrives, the waitress relaying it’s “river oyster with truffle-snowed potato glass, finger lime, and apple gel.”
Phoenix, no doubt used to such things, simply nods, the waitress evaporating.
“Dig in,” he smiles.
I take the nearest knife and fork, because there are a shitload of them, and look how to approach the plate, the presentation of which is more in line with abstract art than food.
I see Phoenix has picked up the shell the oyster is in, placing it to his mouth and letting it slide home. He smacks his lips. “Delicious.”
I laugh and place down the knife and fork, taking his lead.
In fact, having never experienced a meal like this, it’s far more fun than I expected, a kind of culinary theme park ride, each dish more wild than the last.
What I imagine to be the main arrives, a sous-vide lamb backstrap with mushroom puree, sauté champignon, and pistachio praline. I moan aloud from the first bite, the buttery smoothness of it all coating my mouth.
Phoenix is smiling. “I take it you approve?”
I try not to speak with my mouth full. “It’s amazing.”
“Did you ever make these kinds of dishes when you were at culinary school?”
I stop to pick up my glass of matching wine, probably my third, though I notice Phoenix has only had one. “Sometimes, but our budget was,” I pause thinking how best to put it, “limited.”
He holds up a slice of the lamb. “Is this well prepared?”
“It’s the backstrap,” I tell him, “from the back of the animal near the spine, cut from the middle of the loin. It’s lean, free from fat and gristle, which also means each individual portion goes a long way, and yes, it’s prepared especially well here, the water bath providing the kind of plate-to-plate consistency a restaurant of this quality would demand.”
Phoenix looks impressed. “Okay, Julia Child. No need to show off now.”
I lean forward a little. “And we haven’t even had dessert.”
I see a man step up to the table beside Phoenix with the waitress, clearly a chef. He takes off his hat, looks young for a chef at a restaurant like this. Phoenix notices him and reaches for his arm, pulling him forward. “Heather, this is my good friend Campbell Smyth, head chef here.”
Head chef. I’m dumbstruck, heat again rising to m
y cheeks. “So nice to meet you,” I blabber. I look down at my plate. “The food is incredible.”
“Thank you,” Campbell smiles.
“You know,” says Phoenix. “Heather is a cook too.”
Campbell looks back to me. “Oh? Where are you?”
I realize he’s asking me which restaurant I’m at. “I, ah—”
But Phoenix comes to my aid. “She’s shopping around, actually, was looking to get a food truck, keep it local.”
Campbell smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”
“Campbell and I grew up together playing basketball,” Phoenix tells me, “though we always knew he was destined for greater things.”
“Says the King headed for the NBA,” Campbell cuts in. “I’ve seen you out there, my friend. You’re a superstar.”
“Well,” Phoenix says, “you keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll do my best to keep scoring.”
Campbell takes his cue, smiling one last time to me. “Nice to meet you, Heather. Let me know if you’re ever looking for work.”
“I will,” I reply.
I have to take a deep breath when he’s gone, lowering my voice. “That was the head chef?”
Phoenix nods, already back to eating. “Yeah, nice guy, huh?”
I’m so not used to this, flying in these circles.
Phoenix points down at what’s left of his lamb. “I mean, I wish I could cook like this.”
“You can’t cook?”
He looks up. “Like I said, Chef comes in on Sunday, preps it all, or we order in.”
“I could teach you a few things,” I offer playfully, avoiding his eyes lest my own betray me.
He leans back. “Could you now?”
“Sure,” I add casually. “I love food and I like to share that love. Everyone should know how to cook at least one good dish.”
“I accept,” says Phoenix, a little too quick. “When do we start?”
And I genuinely don’t know if he’s just humoring me or using it to get into my pants, not that I even care right now. I think I’d even be okay with that, having decided to let him.
Eventually.
Phoenix takes care of the bill, won’t even let me see it.
I can’t seem to shut up on the way home, gushing over the intricacies of each dish, the masterful preparation, the finesse of it all. I thought you could only get this kind of food in the city, but I was wrong. What Campbell has created out there, on the mountain, is something truly special.
