by Chantal Mer
“I didn’t say that.” At least not those exact words.
“Have a happy life? Yeah, I think you did, big guy.”
My phone rings, halting my argument before it begins. I don’t recognize the number. Still, after almost twenty years since Serena’s death, the fear that something tragic might have happened to a family member prods at me. “Hello.”
“Hi, Ash. This is Isaiah.”
The phone fumbles, but I catch it before it crashes onto the varnished planks. “How’d you get my number?”
“I made a few calls. Look, I need your help.”
“Who would give you my number?” I’m chasing the conversation, but unable to keep up.
Alejandro is watching with curiosity. All I can think about is the fact that the knot that’s been in my stomach all week is loosening bit by bit with each smooth syllable spoken by the man I have no business talking to.
“I have a big fundraiser in three weeks, and the catering company who was slated to work it pulled out. Now I’m scrambling to find someone who can do hors d’oeuvres and a sit-down dinner for two hundred people.”
I mentally skim through menus my catering team has done in the past and pull out a scrap of paper and pen from my gym bag. “What’s the venue?”
Isaiah clears his throat. “Triple Ice Skating Center. We’re going to have demonstrations and clinics on one rink, dinner for the kids, families, and donors on the other two rinks.”
“What kind of kitchen facilities do they have?” I jot down ideas and questions as I speak.
“They don’t have much. Just enough for their snack bar.”
I pull up my calendar. “What’s the date?”
“February fourteenth.”
“Valentine’s Day?” The man must have lost his mind. Other than Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day is our busiest day of the year.
“You see my predicament.” A puff of frustration seeps through the line. “This is our biggest fundraiser of the year, and this year we’ve had a record number of responses.” He sounds dejected, and even though I know this is a terrible idea, I can’t help but want to be the one to rescue the event.
I glance at the clock on the wall and do a quick calculation. The thought of seeing Isaiah again makes the heaviness I’ve been carrying around turn to fluff. “The restaurant is usually slow on Sundays. If you can come this evening for a tasting, I’ll have a few menus prepared. We can start from there and work out the details tomorrow.”
Alejandro lifts a brow, but I ignore him. The thrill of pulling something this big together is similar to the thrill of game day when I played hockey.
“You’ll do it?” Isaiah’s question is filled with shock and relief.
I feel my mouth pull up. “Yeah.”
“What time do you want me there?”
“Seven?”
“You can pull something together in eight hours?” Isaiah’s tone rises and I can imagine his brows lifting and those gorgeous eyes widening. Maybe in surprise, or maybe in disbelief.
I chuckle. “Because of the time constraint, there won’t be anything original, but hopefully we’ll have something you like.”
“Everything I’ve had of yours has been mouthwatering.”
The huskiness of his voice has me shifting on the bench. I scratch at my jaw. “Yeah, well, there’s always room to disappoint.”
“Don’t do that, Ash.” His admonishment is immediate and makes me blink.
“Do what?”
“Don’t play down your talent or your kindness.”
Speechless, I focus on the four young guys playing in front of me. How do you respond to the guy you took out with an illegal hit telling you you’re kind?
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says.
“Yeah. Tell the hostess you have an appointment with me, and she’ll get you situated immediately.”
“Thank you, Ash. I owe you one.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone like it has the answers to all of the questions floating around in my head.
“You agreed to a catering gig on Valentine’s Day? Have you lost your fucking mind?” Alejandro is reading my notes, scrubbing his face and shaking his head.
“Isaiah was in a bind. I couldn’t say no,” I say, still staring at my phone, which has yet to answer any of the questions I have.
Smartphone, my ass.
Alejandro sits straighter. “Isaiah?”
“Yeah.” I stuff my cell and water bottle back into my duffel and stand. “The caterer for his big fundraiser quit at the last minute. It’s the least I can do.”
“If you’re uncomfortable dealing with him, I can handle it for you.” His face is practically split in two from the grin.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” I grumble. Though I haven’t said anything to my friend about the crazy pull I felt with Isaiah, he somehow knows. But then that’s Alejandro. He always seems to know who’s digging who in the restaurant, even before the people involved know.
“C’mon. You can help me figure out a few menus while I drive you home.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isaiah
There’s a line outside of Long Change that looks more like a line for a new club than dinner on a Sunday evening. I get more than a few dirty looks as I weave my way in through the crowd and make my way to the hostess stand. A petite twenty-something woman with spiky purple hair and a nose ring looks up from her iPad and tells the lanky dude in front of me that the wait will be at least an hour. Lanky Dude shrugs, says he’ll be at the bar, and squeezes through the mass of bodies.
When I approach, Purple Hair’s smile appears genuine, even as three other people call and push to get her attention. “Welcome to Long Change. Do you have a reservation?”
“Um.” I clear my throat and lean closer so she can hear me over the din of the bustling room. “I’m supposed to tell you I have an appointment with Ash.”
Her eyes light up, and her grin grows so wide it looks like it will swallow her entire face. “Isaiah?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” She slides out from behind the podium, and I have to practically jog to keep from losing her black tee, with the Long Change logo on it, dodging servers, patrons, and tables. When she makes a left down a hallway, we pass the restrooms before making a right and entering a room marked Staff Only.
The room is clearly an office. An oak desk sits to the side with a white cloth, napkin, and utensils covering it. A leather desk chair is behind the desk, and Purple Hair places a glass of water next to the knife. “Ash apologizes for moving the tasting into his office, but we’ve been slammed today, and we needed the table.”
Guilt hits me harder than an enforcer slamming an opposing teammate into the boards. “I can come back another day when it’s not so busy.”
“Don’t you dare.” The sprite of a woman shakes her florescent green painted finger at me. “Today’s the first day all week he hasn’t been a pain in my ass. And if you leave, I have a sneaking suspicion my ass will have a huge pain in it again. So, you just sit your cute little butt down, and I’ll tell Ash you’re here.”
“Did you just reprimand and compliment me at the same time?” I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.
She chuckles and lifts a shoulder. “It’s what I do.”
“Ash said Sundays are usually slow,” I say, trying to make sense of the extremely, not slow scene I just witnessed.
“Yeah, well apparently the Tribune picked up the story about Ash being Asher Delacroix. It ran this morning, and now everyone wants to get a peek at the Bad Boy of Hockey turned chef.” She places her hands on her round hips and taps her zebra-print Doc Martin. “I’m annoyed he didn’t tell me, but he looked so deer-during-hunting-season, I decided I’ll cut him some slack.” She looks around. “Okay, I’ve got to get out there before Astro crumples from having to talk to so many people.” Waving over her shoulder, she calls, “Make yourself comfortable, Ash will be in soon, and I’ll have Dante brin
g you a drink.”
“I don’t—”
“Ash has a signature drink he’d like you to try for your event.”
“Oh, okay.”
She’s out before I can say thanks, and I’m left alone in Ash’s office. The sounds of the chaos on the other side of the door are muffled, making the space feel like a retreat. I glance around. Tufted leather couch, bookshelves filled with cookbooks, travel guides, mementos, framed photos. I step closer to the photos. Ash standing in front of the building holding a For Sale sign and giving a thumbs up. Ash in a hard hat and safety glasses with a Thor-like hammer swinging at a wall. Ash with hands covered in red paint coming at the camera. Ash in a suit with a big-ass pair of scissors cutting a red ribbon.
I linger on the picture of Ash in a suit, because damn, the man looks good in one. Next, is what looks to be a teenage Ash—with a full beard—standing in between a teenage girl and a much younger girl, arms around both of them. They’re hamming it up for the camera, but it’s clear the love they have for each other. And I know, these are Ash’s sisters. Only one of them is still alive.
I start at the quick rap on the door before a dark-skinned guy, in the same black tee Purple Hair wore, comes in.
“Hi, I’m Dante. Zinnia told me to bring this to you and let you know that Ash will be a bit longer. The kitchen’s jumpin’.”
“Thanks, man.” I take the drink from him, bringing it to my nose. The citrus mixed with something earthy is a surprise when looking at the pale icy blue concoction. “Wow, this almost smells too good to drink.”
Dante grins. “Thanks. Ash told us what he wanted, and this is my creation.”
I take a sip, expecting something tart based on the smell, but I’m surprised again by a smoothly sweet taste. “It reminds me of new ice before anyone puts a blade on it.”
Dante lifts his chin in a damn-I’m-good way. “That’s what I was going for.”
“Well you nailed it.” I take another drink. “I don’t need to try any others. This is the signature drink.”
“Glad you like it.” Dante jumps out of the way as the door swings open.
I hold the stem of my drink so tightly, I’m afraid it will snap. Ash, his jaw-length hair pulled back, worn jeans and a white chef’s jacket, carrying a tray with three small dishes fills the office. The veins in his forearms protrude as he holds the round tray at shoulder height while removing the plates and placing them on the desk, in a way that has my cock taking notice.
What the hell? Since when are forearms sexy?
“Oh great, you have the drink already.” He hands Dante the empty tray. “Thanks, Dante.”
“No problem, Chef.” When Dante leaves, he closes the door, securing Ash and me in a space that suddenly feels too close.
“I’m sorry you’re stuck in here.”
I place my hand on his shoulder because when I’m near him, I need to touch him. It’s like there’s some magnetic force that pulls me to him. “The girl with the purple hair—”
“Zinnia,” he supplies.
“Zinnia told me. I can come another night if this is too much.” I don’t want to leave, but I’ll take any excuse to see him again.
“Nah. The hard stuff is done. I may get pulled more than I anticipated.” He pulls out the desk chair. “Sit.” When I do, he takes the linen napkin and snaps it in the same way they do in upscale restaurants and places it on my lap. “So, this is the first menu option. You can mix and match anything we show you tonight, but I’ve specifically paired these menus in a way that I think compliments the flavors best.”
I sit back and soak in Chef Ash as he reviews the appetizer, the main course, and dessert, and describes what flavors work together, how the texture of each item plays in the mouth, and how he thinks they will work with the fundraiser. He’s animated and relaxed and so passionate about what he’s discussing that I can’t help but feel passionate, too.
And the flavors, holy shit. I swear, with every bite I’m moaning, savoring every morsel, every taste.
“Just when I think I’ve had the best meal of my life, you present something new, and that becomes the best meal of my life.” Not wanting to miss a thing, I stab a slice of avocado and cilantro with my fork and pop it in my mouth.
Ash’s warm eyes follow my fork. When he licks his lips, my dick says, Hello, Chef.
I shut that shit down because, no matter how attracted I am to Ash, we have a history that he hasn’t come to peace with yet. In the few post-injury interactions I’ve had with him in the last week, I know as soon as he remembers our history, he’ll bolt and go into hiding.
“If you hadn’t already put together two other menus, I’d say no need. This,” I point to the empty plates in front of me, “was fabulous.”
Ash looks at me, a hint of a smile playing hide and seek on his lips.
Lips that I’m becoming more and more curious about.
Lips I want to feel.
I chug the remainder of my drink in an effort to stop my mind from perseverating on those very kissable lips.
“I’m glad you liked it.” His voice is husky, and I wonder if he sounds like that after sex. Or maybe first thing in the morning.
There’s a quick tap, the door opening almost simultaneously. “Ash,” Zinnia says as she pops her purple head in. “Alejandro asked if you could get back to the kitchen, they’re starting to back up.”
He stands from the couch. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
When Zinnia speed walks out, Ash gathers the dishes. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Do you have time to stick around?”
It would probably be easier for both of us if I leave and come back another day. But he looks hopeful, and it’s a much better look than the guarded one he’s sported during the majority of our interactions. “I can hang out at the bar or stay here and do some work until you’re ready.”
And there it is, an actual full smile, unleashed, making his face come to life. It’s the same carefree smile he had in the picture of him with his sisters.
“It may be a couple of hours,” he says as if preparing himself for disappointment.
“Then, I’ll either be drunk or have gotten a lot of work done.”
The low rumble of his chuckle reminds me of the roll of thunder in a distant summer storm. “I’ll find you when I’m finished.”
I pull out my phone and open my email app. “See you soon.”
The app doesn’t distract me the way I was hoping because when Ash walks out with the load of dishes, I can’t help but take in his fine as hell ass and those powerful thighs.
Have I mentioned those thighs before?
I know I have because they are fucking works of art, and I’ve only seen them in jeans. I can just imagine what they’re like out of pants.
My cock twitches and I take a deep breath. The breath makes things worse because when I inhale, I’m blindsided by the scent of Ash, cumin, and cilantro. From here on out, I may get a boner every time I have Tex-Mex.
Three hours and four drinks later, Ash’s knee brushes mine as he scoots onto the barstool next to me. He asks Dante for a bottle of water, cracks it open and takes a swig. I’m transfixed on the movement of his throat, and because I’m feeling relaxed, I pat his thigh. “Busy night.”
I don’t remove my hand, letting it rest on the muscled leg that has contracted.
“Very busy.” His tone is constrained like his throat is about to close. He stands, effectively removing my hand. “They’re finishing with clean up in the kitchen, but we can complete the tasting, so you can be on your way.”
Well, damn. Nothing like getting shot down before the possibility of anything happening. But I get the sense that the attraction isn’t one-sided. Like if he’d let go and let this happen, we’d have something awesome.
No matter our history, or maybe because of it, I want to know him in a way I haven’t wanted to know anyone prior. Now, I just need to figure out how to spend more time with him and get him to forget what we di
d to each other when we were barely more than boys.
My dad always said that nothing is given to us. We have to work hard for what we want, and if it’s not worth working for, it’s not worth doing.
My gut tells me Ash is worth it. I just hope he eventually realizes it.
CHAPTER NINE
Ash
After Isaiah and I go over the final two options for the fundraiser menu, he makes his decision, selecting the first menu option. Every moan he made, every compliment he gave, every look he wielded, was a little piece of Hell.
Don’t get me wrong, I reveled in all of it, but some irrational part of me couldn’t stop thinking about if the moans he made while eating were the same moans he made during sex. When he pierced me with his those thick-lashed eyes, lids heavy with alcohol and good food, would they look the same if they were heavy with want?
With every compliment of the food, I wondered what kind of bedroom talk he liked. Dirty? Romantic? Comedic?
Don’t laugh. I once dated a guy who told jokes and made puns during the act. It was cute at first but quickly got tiresome. I like having fun, but I don’t want to feel like I’m being heckled at a comedy show when I’m trying to get us both off.
Which leads me to my current predicament.
We’re standing on the stoop of Isaiah’s building, one of the old row homes—with elaborate architecture not seen in today’s buildings—turned condos. Dante told me he’d had several drinks while he waited, and though he wasn’t drunk, I didn’t want him walking home by himself. Especially this late at night. So, I’d offered to drive him home, and, being the gentleman my mother raised, I walked him to his door.
I know, I know. It’s not like we were on a date. His being at the restaurant was business. We’re meeting again in less than eight hours to review the details, all of which could be done via email, but neither one of us has pointed that out.
There’s something about him.
A pull, a desire, whatever it is, when I’m near him, I want to stay close. I want to hear his laugh and see his smile, both of which he displays easily and regularly. I want the light, fluffy feeling that engulfs me when we’re together.
