“Fuck,” I say.
And then I go and pick up Annabel.
I know I’m in trouble the second we walk into Chef Katie’s sunny kitchen.
Beside me, Annabel gasps at the setup, eyes going wide. The massive island in front of the range is set out with all kinds of goodies: wine glasses in every shape and size, more than I can count. Wooden bowls of fresh, fragrant ingredients. Butcher-block cutting boards. A pretty charcuterie spread set out on an antique bread board, complete with sausage, mustard, pickles, soft white cheese, and honey, all made or harvested on-site here at the farm.
Millie killed it, as usual.
A nice breeze blows through the open window over the sink. It’s warmed up over the past week, still a little chilly but less so as the days pass.
It’s cozy and romantic, and I know—I just fucking know—I should’ve pushed to do the skeet-shooting excursion I offered instead.
But since Annabel was such a good sport about the fly fishing, I wanted to do something she’d be jazzed about. Since she loves to cook, and loves wine, a cooking lesson with a James Beard Award-winning chef was just the ticket.
I can already tell Chef Katie has an awesome afternoon set up for us. I just hope I don’t ruin it.
I introduce Chef Katie and Annabel, the two of them shaking hands across the island. Katie, a Black woman in her late thirties, completely transformed our food program on the farm. She’s an incredible talent, an even better person, and she, more than anyone else, is what put Blue Mountain Farm on the culinary map.
“Wow.” Annabel wraps her fingers around my bicep and squeezes. “This looks amazing.”
Chef Katie looks up from pouring a frosty bottle of white wine into some glasses and smiles. “Thank you. Welcome to Pasta Making 101. We just harvested a gorgeous crop of purple sweet potatoes, so I thought we’d make some gnocchi with a hazelnut-butter sauce this afternoon.”
Annabel squeezes my arm again. She’s glowing. Excited.
It’s infectious. I feel it stirring in my chest, too, that excitement.
I gotta stay cool. But with Bel beside me, it’s like my emotions are on a runaway train. There’s no stopping them.
It’s an incredibly dangerous situation, considering I’m having issues controlling my impulses without her around.
Who the fuck knows what will happen when she’s here?
Chef Katie hands us aprons, each one stamped with the Blue Mountain Farm logo. We put them on, and I attack the charcuterie while Chef talks us through each step of the cooking process.
Annabel tries to join me, nabbing a sausage slice, but I elbow her side.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m better at charcuterie. Let me do it for you.”
Annabel looks up at Chef Katie. “Is he this cocky with you, too?”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” she replies, laughing.
I slather the raisin-and-rye cracker with cheese—a cow’s milk Brie-style—and a drizzle of honey, then hand it to her.
“That’s downright sinful,” Annabel says, chewing. “Okay, you win charcuterie. Make me another?”
I shouldn’t flirt with her. But I can’t help it. “Ask nicely.”
“Pretty please, you smug bastard?”
Chef Katie erupts with another bark of laughter. “I like her.”
Smiling, I make a second cracker, this time adding a pickle and mustard to the cheese.
Annabel moans as she eats it, this delightfully porny sound. My dick takes note.
Stay. Fucking. Cool.
Easier said than done.
One of the things I always adored about Bel was how much she loved to eat. She’s a total foodie, and over the years she’s turned me into one, too. Especially now that I don’t have to stick to such a strict diet like I did when I was playing pro ball.
Still, my doctors tell me over and over that diet and exercise go a long way in helping my body and my mind stay healthy. Which is why I’ve taken a keen interest in the produce we grow on the farm. It’s important to me that we serve fresh, organic ingredients in all our dishes. Chef Katie has made me a firm believer in the idea that food can be both healthy(ish) and delicious.
We wash down the cheese and crackers with tiny sips of a deliciously thirst-quenching Spring Mountain Riesling. Riesling is usually too sweet for me, but this one is refreshing. Bright without being cloying, as Samuel would say.
Chef gets to work on the sauce, a concoction of butter, sage, and shallots that smells so good it makes my stomach grumble, while Bel and I peel and rice the purple sweet potatoes.
She’s a whiz at this. Annabel wields her chef’s knife like a true pro, making a sizable dent in her pile of potatoes while I’m still trying to work chunks of my first peeled potato through the handheld ricer.
Probably because my focus has started to slip again. It could be the feel of Annabel beside me—her perfume surrounding me and her elbow brushing my arm as she works.
It could be the wine. The sunshine. Or the stress and the shame of wanting someone you can’t have.
But really, it’s my brain, working against me. Breaking my concentration, the way it did this morning.
It’s frustrating as hell.
Trying to stay on task—peel, chop, rice—I tell myself to stay calm and not to compare myself to Annabel’s increasingly large pile of riced sweet potato.
But it’s hard. So is the work. My hands ache from squeezing the arms of the ricer together over and over again.
Why can’t I get this? I shouldn’t have worked out so hard. My arms are toast. Is that why my fingers are shaking? I probably should take it easy on the wine. Speaking of wine, Samuel and Emma are still at each other’s throats. My throat. It kinda hurts. Allergies? I need to send Trent down to Asheville for more allergy medicine…
“Beau. Hello? Earth to Beau.”
Jumping, I look up from my ricer to see Annabel staring at me.
I don’t know what happens. One minute, I’m holding the ricer, and the next, I’m squeezing it so hard it cracks.
Annabel startles, her eyebrows snapping together.
Scared.
She’s scared.
She looks down at the island, which I’ve unknowingly smeared with chunks of riced purple potato. They look like bruises against the white marble.
Anger snakes through my veins. Entwined with frustration, it chokes me. I’m like a fucking toddler, making messes and needing supervision for the simplest of tasks.
It’s embarrassing. And a depressing reminder of exactly why I can’t give Annabel what she wants from me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
Chef Katie turns around from the range. “Sorry for what?”
I hold up the ricer. “I think I broke this thing. I didn’t mean to scare y’all.”
“What? Beau, the only thing you scared was that potato right there.” Bel nods at the lovely little arrangement of purple smears in front of us. “Lemme tell you, that thing was terrified. I was trying to save it, but alas, it was too late.”
Dropping the broken ricer, I spear a hand through my hair. My anger, the frustration, it all spikes. Fast and hot.
And just like that, I’m overwhelmed. My thoughts are moving a million miles a minute and not at all. I don’t know what to do. So I run.
“I can’t do this,” I say. “I should go before—”
Before I ruin everything.
I’m turning, untying my apron with fingers that fumble. My mind is a white whirl, thoughts blurry, pulse thumping in my ears. I feel like a big, dumb animal. A bull in a china shop when the bull is halfway through a bullfight: mostly dead but in agony and angry as hell.
As I’m attempting to yank the apron over my head, I feel Bel’s hand on my arm. She’s squeezing it again, more firmly this time.
“Hey,” she says. “So you bludgeoned a potato to death. I’m sure it happens all the time in the kitchen. Isn’t that right, Chef Katie?”
&
nbsp; “A daily occurrence,” Chef says. “And no big deal.”
I look at Annabel. She looks back. How do I explain to her what’s going down inside my head?
Do I even try? A part of me really, really wants to tuck tail and run. But another part—the better part—knows I should explain myself before I go. I don’t want to ruin her day or the remainder of her stay by blowing out of here without an explanation like a jerk.
So I take a deep breath, then flick my eyes to Chef Katie. She must sense my need for privacy because she excuses herself to the pantry, claiming she forgot a hand grater for the hazelnuts.
I go with the simple truth. My face burns the whole time.
“I’ve been having a hard time focusing,” I say, my voice low, “and staying on task. It’s why I carry around that clipboard. It helps me keep the shit in my head straight. Some days—most days—I’m okay. Days like today, though, it’s like my brain is in this weird fog. It’s so—” I spear a hand through my hair again, looking away. “Bel, it’s so fucking frustrating. And embarrassing. Makes me feel so angry I just…yeah. I’m gonna go and let you enjoy this lesson because I’m just going to ruin it. I’m sorry.”
I turn to go, but Bel keeps her grip firm on my arm. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Yes—”
“Beau, look at me. Look at me.”
When I meet her gaze, I find a warm determination in her soft features.
“Stay. Please. The food is great—Jesus, Beau, it’s freaking insane—but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I want to spend time with you.”
My stomach does a somersault. “You really want to be with me when I’m like this? A fuckin’ disaster? Really?”
“Really.” She doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. “Why do you feel like you need to have your shit together with me of all people? I’m a mess. So are you. I know this is rich coming from me, but who cares as long as we can be a mess together? Dare I say it, the whole thing—life—might be more fun this way. When we have no one to impress. No pressure to be anything except our fucked-up selves. Depressed. Foggy. Falling down. What-the-fuck-ever we are, we still have each other. If we don’t have that, then we’re in trouble. But everything else? Let’s leave it. Just for today.”
The desire to stay hits me hard. I want to believe her when she says I actually might be better this way.
Broken beyond repair.
“But I need to take care of you. Not the other way around.”
“You and the paterfamilias alpha-hole control shit.” Bel rolls her eyes. “I say no to that.”
“What’s an alpha-hole?”
She pins me with a look. “Use those smarts you say you have and figure it out. Yes, you’re still intelligent and still worthy, even if you’re having a bad day. Since that’s the case, you’re gonna let me take care of you for once. Because I am good at the smarts, concentration—well, before PPD, anyway—just so happens to be a special skill of mine. So is carb loading. Helping you make sweet potato gnocchi and then eating it with you will truly be a pleasure.”
I search her eyes. She means every word she’s saying, and it’s making my heart turn over inside my chest.
“I’m not comparing my shit to yours,” she continues, “but I have to take a pill every day to keep my mental house in order. I can’t do it alone, and neither should you. Just be with me. That’s all I ask. All I want is you. Not the things you can do for me or buy for me and not the things you think you need to be. Just the real you.”
Despite the soupy feeling inside my head, Bel’s idea is one I can grab onto: that I’m all right as is.
The stuff inside my chest reacts immediately by softening and swelling. This is why I adore Bel so damn much.
She’s always liked me for me. She knew me, and valued me, as Beau, broke college student and self-professed porn expert, before I became JR Beauregard. Top ten draft pick. Pro football’s highest paid linebacker.
Bel doesn’t care about any of that shit. She cares about me. And in my world, that’s a rare fucking thing.
Trouble.
But what am I supposed to do? Leave my best friend standing here with her heart in her hands? Before any of this happened—the postpartum depression, the make-out session, the brain injury—I was a good friend to her. She was a good friend to me.
Friends don’t run when things get hard. Unless we’re talking literally. Then I should definitely be running. Far, far away.
For now, I’ll stay. Because even though I’m still embarrassed that I can’t be my best self right now, Bel doesn’t seem to mind.
I obviously need to practice being okay with, well, not being okay. And who better to practice with than Annabel?
“Thank you,” I say. “For being you.”
Her fingers glide down my arm to capture my hand. She gives that a squeeze, too. Her hand is small, but her grip is firm, and something inside me cracks open.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. “Mostly because the house I’m staying in is much nicer than the one I have back home.”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders and neck dissolving as butterflies rise in my belly. I squeeze her hand back. “Stay as long as you’d like, Bel.”
Chef Katie emerges from the pantry then, grater in hand and a smile on her face. “Y’all ready?”
“Hell yes,” Annabel replies.
“Let’s get to it. So now that y’all have these beautiful piles of riced potatoes, we’re gonna add the good stuff. Eggs from the farm, house-made ricotta, flour. You combine it all, and then we’ll shape the dough into ropes. Roll up your sleeves—it can get messy.”
Grinning up at me, Annabel unbuttons my sleeves and starts to roll them up to my elbows.
“I can do that.”
“I know. But I wanna do it for you.”
The feel of her hands on me—a gentle but confident touch that’s familiar, nice—I couldn’t say no if I tried.
It keeps me rooted in the moment. My mind doesn’t wander like it did before. It’s focused, finally, on her.
The feel of her fingertips brushing my skin.
The quiet, starchy sound of my sleeve being rolled up. Bel’s breath on my neck. Just a barely there whisper.
Trouble.
Chef Katie pours more wine. This time a fresh, French-style chardonnay. It’s tart on my tongue, delicious.
Even more delicious? When Annabel downright hums after her first sip.
“Heaven,” she says. “I have died and gone to heaven.”
Chef tells us to each make our own dough, but Annabel steps in, asking if we could make it together. I can tell Chef is trying hard not to smile as she helps assemble a big, messy pile of ingredients in front of us, cracking eggs right into the mountain of potato and flour and cheese.
“Use your hands to mash it all together,” Chef instructs. “Then we’ll roll the dough into those ropes.”
Annabel digs in first. The unspoken agreement between us is that I’ll follow her lead. Flour and egg coat her fingers as she gets to work, face a mask of concentration, cheeks a little pink. She kneads with a bit more force, gaining confidence as the dough comes together. Kinda. The muscles in her forearms bunch against her freckled skin.
She lifts a hand, using her thumb knuckle to push her hair back from her face. The hair doesn’t move, but she does manage to mark her cheek with a swipe of purple-tinged flour.
“Shit,” she murmurs.
“Here,” I say, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“And my cheek?” She offers it up to me. “I have something there. I can feel it.”
“Nah, I think that’s gotta stay. Makes you look like a baking badass.”
And because it’s fucking cute. But saying that out loud feels too risky right now.
“You saying Paul Hollywood would approve?”
“I don’t get why you have such a crush on that guy. He’s a total tool.”
Chef Katie gasps. “Blasphemy!”
&nb
sp; “Right? Thank you.” Annabel glances at me. “You wish you could bake a brioche like him. The way that man has with pastry…ugh, can’t go there. But speaking of dough, it’s your turn, Beau. Get involved.”
I eye said dough. It’s gooey. Sticky-looking. Bright purple.
I’m about to protest, but then Annabel is moving around me. She settles behind me and shoves me forward with a bump of her hips.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing.
I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s wearing flats today, so the top of her head doesn’t even come up to my neck. But that doesn’t stop her from sneaking her arms underneath my own and grabbing my hands, her tits brushing the middle of my back.
“Keeping you focused by being the Patrick Swayze to your Demi Moore. You did it at the creek. Now it’s my turn. Get kneading.”
Her surrounding me like this is gonna focus me all right.
On all the wrong things.
Bel slides her hands over mine, smearing them with goo, and then she guides them into the dough. It feels a little cold and a lot sticky.
Together, we do this smush-push-roll motion. As we break the egg yolks, streaks of bright yellow appear throughout the ball of dough we’re forming together.
Behind me, Annabel is breathing hard. The muscles in her forearms are really working now. But when I try to take over, Bel tightens her grip on my hands.
“My turn to lead.”
“Let me—”
“Let me.”
It’s a difficult thing, learning to follow. To let go. Especially when my gorgeous best friend is pressed up against me.
I don’t know how to do it. At first, I fight it, remaining stiff and awkward.
But she keeps at it, fingers laced through mine, body surrounding me. Not because she wants something, but because she wants me to know she’s there. Determined as ever.
After a few beats, I get tired of fighting. My mind is working against me and so is my body. It’s exhausting.
So I just kind of…surrender. What choice do I have? I time my breaths with Bel’s. I follow her movements, letting her work my hands while keeping my gaze on the dough. There’s something hypnotic about the way we work together and the warmth created by knowing I’m in capable hands.
Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Page 15
