Tease Me

by Kaye Blue

  I didn’t allow my mind to linger on that and instead threw on a black T-shirt, jeans, and a jacket, and headed to the market.

  As I left, I nodded at Dalton, the head of my security detail, and then made my way to my own car. Dalton or one of his men would be behind me, but after much wrangling with my brother, we had reached an agreement that as long as I didn’t see his men, they could follow me as much as they wanted.

  Leo didn’t like it, but he had acquiesced, and while I hadn’t accepted that a security detail was even necessary, this arrangement at least bought me a little space. The sun had barely cracked the horizon when I reached the market, and by the time I had begun weaving my way through the stalls, thoughts of anything else were gone.

  Most chefs, especially those who were on the cusp of opening multiple restaurants delegated daily shopping trips, but not me.

  I lived for those mornings in the loud, chaotic morass of the farmers market. Picking my ingredients and seeing each and every thing I would serve to my guests was something I treasured, and no matter how big my business got, I wasn’t sure that I would ever give it up.

  But soon enough, reality came crashing in, and my time at the market was over.

  When I got back to my car, I felt a pit begin to form in my stomach. I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there, and I knew exactly why.

  The plans for the second restaurant were progressing, but not as quickly or seamlessly as I would have liked.

  I’d devoted countless hours and resources to this project, and I wanted to get it off the ground.

  Dallas, in her own unique way, had reminded me that there was no such thing as seamlessness, had told me that I needed to relax, turn down, as she liked to say, and though I tried to heed her advice, it was difficult.

  More like impossible if I was being honest.

  I’d confided in Dallas, but I hadn’t even told her how much this meant to me.

  Perhaps I was putting too much pressure on myself, but this restaurant was everything to me.

  Opening one restaurant and having it be successful could easily be a fluke. I knew lots of gawkers showed up at my restaurant because I was a prince, and I knew the novelty alone was enough to keep it afloat even if the food sucked. But a second one—

  The spectacle of a prince-chef couldn’t support two restaurants, so if the second succeeded, it would be definitive proof that I had what it took to be a great chef and restaurateur.

  And it would show that all of my years of effort, all of the naysaying, even from my own father, and, on occasion, my brother, had been wrong. I wanted that, needed it, and I was determined to do everything I could to have it.

  But despite that, I couldn’t shake the trepidation that was inching up as I got closer to the second restaurant. And for once, that trepidation didn’t have anything at all to do with the business.

  No, those nerves were solely because I was going to see Dallas.

  “Afternoon, Chef,” Martin, the kitchen manager said when I entered the restaurant.

  “Martin,” I responded. “How are things today?”

  “Deliveries are in at the main restaurant, and prep is underway for this evening. I thought I’d drop by here for a couple of hours and make sure that everything is working smoothly,” he said.

  “Good. Let me know if there are any problems,” I said.

  “Of course,” he responded.

  Then he turned toward the kitchen, moving to help the equipment installers and make sure that all the equipment went into the right place.

  He was dedicated to his work, and I appreciated him. I could also see how the second restaurant was falling into place. I stood looking, the eclectic decor, the nice finishes, all giving the place a high-end and yet homey feel, which was exactly what I had been going for.

  “She’s shaping up, isn’t she?”

  At the sound of Dallas’s voice I turned and watched her walking toward me. Today, she was dressed as usual, wearing tennis shoes, leggings, and an oversized T-shirt and jacket, her hair still completely untamed.

  Again I was struck by that sense of familiarity and warmth, one that was both welcome and, at least today, slightly terrifying.

  “She is. Thanks to you,” I added when she came to a stop next to me.

  “What can I say?” she responded, a light smile playing on her face.

  “You don’t have to say anything. The work speaks for itself,” I said.

  “You’re damn right it does,” she said. “But let’s go to the private dining area. I have some ideas about what to do with it.”

  I followed Dallas as she left the main dining room and went off to the private chef’s area. A month ago, I had shared with her my frustration about the decor.

  I’d hired a designer, got consultants, but they were all pushing me in a direction I didn’t want to go. When I told Dallas of my vision, high-end yet homey, she had run with it. She’d also put me in touch with some local artists and furniture makers who had constructed the tables and created the accent pieces for the walls. She’d thrown herself into the project with extreme gusto, something for which I would be eternally grateful.

  I walked into the room, saw the beautiful, sixteen-person table that had been carved out of a single piece of reclaimed wood.

  The floor was smooth polished concrete, the light fixtures a mix of old and new.

  To my eye it looked perfect, and I told Dallas so.

  She’d gotten ahead of me, but I caught up and looked at her and saw the slight frown on her face.

  “I think it looks great,” I said.

  She didn’t bother to look at me, and instead kept staring up at the ceiling.

  “You would, but then again I’m the artist,” she said.

  “That’s right, and I’m just a lowly chef,” I responded.

  “And a prince, but neither of those things are an artist.”

  I laughed, and she did too, but then she turned serious again.

  I let my gaze follow hers and looked up at the ceiling, and saw—a ceiling.

  “You seem pretty fascinated by that,” I said, pointing up. “It’s called a ceiling.”

  “Umm-hmm,” she muttered. “You call it a ceiling. I call it an eyesore.”

  I knitted my brows together and looked at her, wondering why I was surprised, but still somehow managing to be. Dallas sometimes got these ideas in her head, and there was nothing I could do to shake them.

  “I don’t know about calling it boring. But it’s just up there, doing what it’s supposed to,” I said.

  “Yeah it’s hiding pipes or whatever the hell ceilings are supposed to do, but it’s not adding anything into the room.”

  “Does the room need something added?” I asked, again looking around, and again loving what I saw.

  “No, but this isn’t just a room, Kristian. It’s a work of art, and, at least as far as I’m concerned, the heart of this place.”

  I had never seen it that way, but I certainly wouldn’t argue with Dallas, especially not now, when I could see that she was in the midst of a little bit of a whirlwind.

  She stared at the ceiling a moment longer, and then finally her face broke out into a smile.

  It was positively radiant, and I watched as the pleasure spread across her face.

  I had known her all these years, but still hadn’t quite gotten used to that.

  As a child, and then later, I had always been taught to hide my emotions and had dealt with people who did the same thing.

  But not Dallas. Whatever she felt, which, to my great joy was usually happiness, it was on her face.

  It wasn’t like she simply smiled. Everything about her lit up, and even after all this time, I still admired that and was awed by it.

  “I know that face,” I said, feeling thirty pounds lighter, buoyed simply by being in the presence of her enthusiasm.

  “That face means I have an idea. Go grab a ladder and meet me back here in two minutes,” she said.


  Without waiting for me to respond, she scurried off in one direction and I went in another.

  I didn’t bother to ask her what she needed the ladder for, and certainly didn’t ask for her plan. I also didn’t protest when she bossed me around. I’d gotten used to it by now, and in fact, that was the way we had first met.

  All those years ago, I was standing on the landing of the first apartment I’d ever chosen for myself. I could hear her voice now, calling out to me. “You up there. With the shoulders. Give me a hand.”

  Though I had desperately sought freedom from the restrictions and expectations my title brought, I had been so sheltered back then. I’d been stunned by the way she’d snapped her fingers to get my attention and even more stunned by the fact that she expected me to comply.

  It was one of the best decisions of my life that I had.

  That fateful trip down one flight of stairs to help Dallas carry up a trunk that was heavier than anything I had moved before or since had changed my life and given me joy I knew wouldn’t have been there without her.

  “Earth to Kristian. Stop daydreaming and set up the ladder,” she said.

  “You know this is my place, right,” I groused as I pulled the ladder apart.

  “Yeah,” she responded distractedly.

  She had a small can and paintbrush in her hand, and I watched as she carefully maneuvered herself up the ladder, while I stood at the bottom, holding it in place.

  “It’s high up here,” she said.

  “Well, Dallas, it is a fifteen-foot ladder,” I said.

  “Don’t remind me,” she muttered.

  She’d never been the biggest fan of heights, but she wouldn’t let something like that get in the way of her doing—whatever the hell she was doing.

  Careful to make sure that I held the ladder stationary, I watched as she popped the lid off the can, dipped in her brush, and then began to paint.

  The ceiling had been painted twice by the last designer and consultant, but Dallas had no compunction about painting it yet again.

  She painted a four-foot patch, and then slowly began to step down the ladder.

  When she reached the bottom she stood next to me, her hand on her chin as she thought.

  “What do you think?” she asked, looking over at me expectantly.

  “It looks like a white splotch in the middle of the dark ceiling,” I said.

  She shook her head, then rolled her eyes.

  “Such talent in the kitchen, but lacking vision. I think it’s perfect. The white takes away some of the heaviness of the room, gives it a dreamlike quality that makes this more than just a place where people sit and eat. That’s the last piece it needs. Can I call the painters and have them make the change?” she asked.

  “No need. I’ll add it to the list of finishing touches for this room. Do they need any particular color?” I asked.

  “White, but insist on three coats. Not two, not four, but three,” Dallas said.

  “Three coats. Got it.” Then I laughed. “That’s funny. I don’t think you know how to balance your checkbook, but your precision when it comes to coats of paint is a thing of marvel,” I said.

  “Gotta save the mental space for stuff that matters,” she responded.

  I laughed and Dallas joined in, but a moment later I went quiet.

  “Stick around for a bit?” I asked.

  “Sure. I want to do some sketching.”

  I nodded. “You go to the office. I’ll come get you in a couple of hours and whip you up something special for dinner,” I said.

  “You don’t have to bribe me to stick around, but I wouldn’t be opposed,” she said.

  “Good, I’ll catch up with you,” I responded.

  I watched as she headed back to the office, feeling like everything was back on track.

  That question had been a minor hiccup, just like the fleeting thought of what it would be like to touch Dallas’s shapely body had been a minor hiccup.

  Neither changed anything between us.

  I wouldn’t let them.

  Four

  Dallas

  I had been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading this afternoon, but now that I had seen Kristian again, I felt calm, almost happy.

  Things between us were as they always had been, easy, comfortable, just like I wanted.

  It still felt weird to leave something like that hanging out there without addressing it, but I felt good about where things stood, and it seemed that Kristian did too.

  It wasn’t usually in my nature to ignore things, but if he was happy, didn’t feel like we needed to talk about it any further, I would follow his lead.

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret what I had asked, but I realized how much of a bullet I had dodged.

  Because this, Kristian’s friendship, was something I treasured, and being with him was like being home.

  I still wanted to find love, was still determined to do so. I also knew that giving my virginity to Kristian was still the quickest way to free myself up to find that love. But I wouldn’t push him, not if it meant risking our friendship, which was one of the most special things in my life.

  Having at least resolved that little issue, I threw myself into a bit of a pencil sketch.

  I had started to try out some metal sculpting, but wasn’t yet confident enough in my abilities to go for it without sketching. But sitting in Kristian’s office, the sounds of all the work happening around me allowed me the space to sink into what I was doing, and the hours passed by without barely a notice.

  “You hungry, yet?” Kristian asked.

  I jumped, then shook my head, trying to clear it as he entered the office.

  “Yeah, you were super into that,” he said.

  “I know. I like this new idea, and I’m excited about it, but I’m not sure if I can pull it off.”

  I hated admitting that little bit of weakness, and only allowed myself to do so because it was with Kristian.

  As I had been certain he would, he simply brushed off what I’d said, punctuated it with a little nudge to my shoulder.

  “You think I would trust my restaurant to just anybody?” he asked.

  I frowned, narrowing my eyes at him. “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, a little flare of embarrassment sparking in my chest at having shown him such vulnerability.

  “Everything? You think I would trust my restaurant to just anybody?” he asked.

  “Guess not,” I responded, my frown deepening.

  “So see, if I trust you, you must be good, so don’t worry,” he said. “And what do you want for dinner?”

  I didn’t respond immediately, and instead thought about his words. I didn’t think I would ever get used to that.

  Kristian had complete confidence in me and in my abilities, and it was something I would never be able to thank him enough for.

  Something I didn’t even have the words to begin to thank him for.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  “I am. So what about pasta?”

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” I said, smiling at him.

  I followed him out of the office and toward the kitchen, noting the changes that had taken place in the hours I had been here.

  Every day he was getting closer and closer to launching the new restaurant, and I was more and more excited for him.

  I knew how much it meant to him, and had as much confidence in him as he did in me.

  I had often tried to tell Kristian that he didn’t have anything to prove, not to his family, not to the world, maybe not even to himself. I was certain that my words never made a difference, but I believed them. It was my hope that once he opened this restaurant, he would believe them too.

  “How about rigatoni with chicken medallions, broccoli, and a nice garlic tomato sauce?” Kristian asked.

  The restaurant had cleared out, the workers done for the day, and the space, while still in a bit of disarray, was serene, almost cathedral-like.


  “And some of that amazing bread you make?” I asked, my voice hopeful.

  Kristian smiled, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course. It goes without saying,” he said.

  “That sounds perfect.”

  I leaned against one of the double-stacked ovens and watched Kristian as he began to prepare.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked as he tied the apron around his trim waist.

  He paused, his hands behind his back, his fingers holding the strings. He lifted a brow, and I could see the corners of his lips turning up.

  Mine started to respond in kind. “What?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

  His smile deepened, and then he shook his head.

  “Yeah,” he said. He finished tying the apron and then went to the sink to wash his hands. “Why don’t you get us a couple of bottles of water?”

  I shook my head at his subtle dig at my terrible culinary skills, but did as he asked, and set the water on the counter next to him when I came back. I resumed my previous spot and looked at him as he began to mince the garlic.

  “You know, I can help,” I said.

  He continued with his precision cuts, not bothering to even break his rhythm.

  “You can help. And you did,” he said without looking at me.

  I laughed, knowing exactly where this conversation would lead.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time. Maybe I picked up a thing or two,” I said.

  That made Kristian pause, and he looked over at me, knife still in his hand, face in a brilliant smile.

  “I’m sure you have, Dallas,” he said, before he turned back to mincing the garlic.

  I laughed and didn’t bother to argue the point.

  Truth was, I was helpless in the kitchen. I mean, I could warm up leftovers with the best of them, unless of course I used the oven. In that case, there was a fifty-fifty chance I was going to forget that I even put anything inside, and more than once—twice, if I was being honest—I’d had to tell Kristian that my dinner had consisted of popcorn and soda because I had burned the expertly prepared meal he’d left for me to reheat.