by Teagan Kade
He pops the other half into his mouth, mumbling. “Amen.”
The baking doesn’t stop there. Buoyed by his efforts, Phoenix is keen to learn more. Before long the entire counter is covered with flour and bowls, the two of us caught in a flour fight and soon walking around the kitchen looking like ghouls.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had this much fun cooking, and yes, it might be the company, the eye-candy of such a fine male specimen of the species, but I know it’s a lot more. I’m enjoying teaching, taking a step back and examining what I do and how to translate it into something anyone, even Phoenix King, can work with. At the end of the day, the sun setting and the counter full of cakes and slices and everything sweet, hours of work, I’d have to say it’s been a roaring success.
I put my hands on my hips, dish towel over my shoulder. “What the hell are we going to do with all this?”
Phoenix leans on the breakfast bar with me. “Start a bakery?”
“You’re willing to get up at 3am every morning?”
“Hey, Coach had us practicing all night once, regularly likes to fuck us up in the wee hours.”
“Sounds more like boot camp than practice.”
“One and the same,” he nods. “Coach would have made a great drill sergeant, probably was in a former life. This,” he says, pointing to the assorted dentist bill before us, “is worth it, even if it’s just going to gobbled up and forgotten.”
“Ah, it won’t be forgotten. My cooking is never forgotten.”
He bumps me with his shoulder. “So modest, you are.”
I return the Yoda-speak. “Gorgeous, I am.”
Phoenix takes my face in his hands, a cloud of flour puffing out around us as he places his lips to mine, a kiss deepening. I know it’ll lead onto other, similarly sweet things tonight.
I smile as he kisses me, never imagined it was possible to be this happy… or horny.
He taps my nose when we break apart, leaning in so our foreheads rest together. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“A good book and an early night?” I tease.
He lifts me under the legs, carrying me towards the bedroom. “I don’t know about a book and leaving early, but a good night? That I can provide.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PHOENIX
The next morning and Heather wasn’t wrong about boot camp.
I’m staring down at the basketball in my hands, have probably been doing so for quite a while when Coach shouts at me from the other side of the court. “It’s not a Magic Eight ball, King. Shoot!”
I snap out of my daydream and bring the shot up, firing off a perfect three-pointer. I used to find the swish of the ball moving through the net so satisfying. Now it’s like a death knell.
Practice is as uninspiring as ever. Like always, I go through the motions and do my best to concentrate on the actions, the physicality of it instead of the actual game and all the bullshit that comes with it. You’d think my skills would have suffered given my lack of inclination, but my averages are up across the board—rebounds, points, assists. It’s no wonder Jamie’s chasing me like a bloodhound to jump onboard an NBA team. But I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.
I may run and do push-ups, stand, shoot, and lay-up, but the whole practice session all I’m thinking about is Heather. It was one of those perfect mornings where you wake up late and roll out of bed into the kitchen. We spent the whole time cooking—or at least Heather did. She emptied almost her entire food stock teaching me this technique or that, how to julienne and chiffonade, French terms that certainly got me a lot more excited than this bullshit.
We laughed, we flirted. We had a hell of a time. I almost skipped practice, but my conscience got the better of me. This is a team sport, after all. Even I can’t let these assholes down.
These assholes or your father?
I don’t think Dad realizes how much all we ever do is try to please him, and for what? To get our picture up on the wall of his office? So he can have bragging rights around the coaching table? What the hell is it all for?
Questions, questions—they don’t stop. The only absolute is that I want to get back to Heather as soon as possible.
I consider swinging by the dining hall for another after-hours meet-and-greet, but I do have homework and class is tomorrow. You can’t just be a star athlete here at Crestfall. You’ve got to maintain a certain grade average as well. I’m no Titus with his big math brain. I have to actually work to remember anything.
So, I head home with a bad case of blue balls. I burn through the coursework with record speed and throw myself into the sofa in the den. I pick up the remote, start to surf through the channels looking for anything of interest.
A cooking show comes on, a cheery Asian woman slicing away at what looks like a baby lettuce. Usually I’d blast right past this kind of thing, but now I actually find myself sitting forward and paying attention, even turning the volume up. Five minutes later I’ve got my phone out taking notes.
“What the fuck are you watching?”
I know it’s Titus standing behind me, can hear him gobbling away at something, his spoon hitting the bottom of the bowl.
“Is that a fucking salad?” he continues, leaning over my shoulder, slurping away.
“It’s endive gratin.”
I know he’s scrunching his nose up at the TV. “Nothing ‘grat’ about that if you ask me.”
“Don’t you have a head trauma to attend to?” I fire back, still watching the show with intent, trying to keep up as the instructions blast past.
Titus laughs behind me. “Bro, even with this head trauma I can run rings around you.”
“How’s your little tutor bunny going?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He walks off, thank fuck. I’m trying to concentrate here.
As soon as the show’s finished I have an overwhelming urge to try the recipe for myself, haven’t felt this kind of innate energy in a long time.
I check the cupboard, but we’re sorely lacking in ingredients.
Fuck it, I tell myself, grabbing my jacket and keys and heading out the door. Once again, I consider waiting Heather out after her shift, but no, I want to try this myself, on my own, to see if I can do it. Call it an experiment.
There are only two major supermarkets in Crestfall. I head for the larger of them hoping they’ll have the exotic ingredients I require.
Having never been in said store, I find it’s a maze within a maze, never-ending shelves of soup and pre-made pizzas, junk as far as the eye can see. In fact, the fresh food section barely takes up a corner.
There is something enjoyable about pushing a shopping cart around, though. It provides a genuine feeling of purpose. I stroll along, smiling at the soccer moms and hipsters clutching their bags of coffee beans.
I pull out my cell and bring up the shopping list navigating around the store as best I can and slowly adding to my cart. I’m doing my best to hunt down ground cumin when a familiar voice speaks to my back.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Phoenix King slumming it with the rest of us.”
I turn slowly to find Bria leaning there on one leg, cheerleading uniform so clean and pressed it may as well be made out of cardboard. She hasn’t changed since I saw her last, though her hair’s gone through so much color and straightening it’s hard to recall what it was to begin with. She’s giving me her usual flirty vibe.
“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 expe
cted, 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.
