After the Storm

by Katy Ames

  Tessa laughed. “It’s relevant because you won’t believe me when I’m trying to explain why you should give them a shot.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Why should I give them a shot? Convince me.”

  “For the sake of discussion, can I assume that you had a bad experience once?” Tristan didn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes. Like you bit into a raw one when you were a kid. Or you had a business lunch where you found out your breath stank like crazy after.” Tristan was actually glowering at her, and Tessa laughed harder. “It’s not fair,” she got out between giggles, “to write them all off after one bad experience. No one in their right mind wants to take a bite out of a raw white onion. But take that same onion, slice it up, throw it into a pan with butter, a little salt, and a little brown sugar, and let it cook for about an hour and yummmm.” Tessa closed her eyes, humming in pleasure. “I promise you, you’ll never look at onions the same way again.”

  When she opened her eyes, Tristan’s burger was frozen mid-way to his mouth, his eyes locked on her lips, slightly unfocused.

  “Stop looking at me like you think I’m crazy.”

  Tessa’s voice knocked him out of his trance. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “So what were you thinking?”

  His only answer was another bite.

  The next night, Tristan canceled. An issue had come up at the spa and he and the crew needed to deal with it before they could finish hurricane preparations and start helping the nearby residents.

  Tessa’s mood had plummeted when his text came through. It would have been their fifth evening in a row together since the night in his suite, and Tessa was surprised how much she looked forward their meals. She never knew exactly how the nights would go. There was always the chance they’d just eat in silence. Or that she’d say something to put Tristan completely on edge, rushing off before he’d finished his meal. Or Tessa would catch him watching her, an emotion she didn’t dare identify skimming the edges of his eyes, the blue so intense Tessa would have to look away.

  On edge. Silent. Intense. It described Tristan perfectly. But Tessa was learning he was also considerate, intelligent, and interested in what she had to say. It could’ve been an act, she supposed. But when she’d told the story about cooking Thanksgiving with some culinary school classmates, he’d absorbed every word, his mouth softening when she’d gotten to the part about how the garbage disposal in their kitchen had broken, and the sink had gotten clogged so the only way they could rinse the brine off the turkey was by taking it into the shower. He may have even laughed a little at the picture she painted of one of the guys standing in the shower in nothing but his underwear, washing off their twenty-two-pound dinner.

  The plan she and Grace had concocted was working. Tessa and Tristan were becoming friends.

  That was why she was bummed when their plans fell through. Because she’d gotten used to his company, and because she didn’t really enjoy eating alone. Not because she was secretly waiting to see how long they could survive those drawn-out, heated looks before one of them cracked and tackled the other to the ground with groping hands and a desperate mouth. And definitely not because she was running out of time to get the information she needed.

  When Tessa didn’t hear from Tristan the next day, she started to worry. Maybe one night off had given him the perfect excuse to break their routine completely. But she got a text later that afternoon confirming they were still on.

  At five that evening, Tessa had everything packed into two large tote bags. She took a quick shower at the gym and changed into a comfy white sundress and sandals. It was late July in the Caribbean. Even with the cool ocean breeze, the evening would be warm.

  “A picnic?” Tristan joined Tessa on the beach just as she finished laying the food out on the blanket.

  “A change of pace,” Tessa answered. Friends had picnics. Right? Picnics aren’t just for dates. Shit! Explain this isn’t a date! “We always eat inside. Which seems wrong, given how beautiful all of this is.” Tessa waved at the empty section of sand she’d claimed, the palm trees swaying above her, the waves crashing farther down the beach.

  “I like it,” Tristan said, kicking off his shoes and curling himself up on the blanket next to her.

  He was wearing his uniform. Dark pants, dark shirt. His hair was a little messier, the strands at the base of the neck sticking up in odd directions. A telltale sign he’d been rubbing his neck harder than usual. Which meant his day had been more stressful than usual. But, stressful or not, he’d stuck to his agreement and was there, with her.

  Tessa watched him from the corner of her eye as she pulled out plates and napkins. He’d propped his hands behind him, his arms locked, supporting his weight as he tipped his face to the sky. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow, deep, and even.

  It was a few seconds before Tessa realized what she was seeing. Tristan was relaxed. His fingers weren’t twitching. His feet were still where he’d folded them under his legs. And the crease between his eyes was gone.

  The kick of Tessa’s heart was so loud she worried he’d hear it. That it might break the spell that had fallen over him. But as she slowly leaned back, dinner forgotten, Tristan didn’t move. For that split second in time he was a picture of serenity, the early evening sun highlighting the stark lines of his face and striking streaks of blue in his ebony hair. The Tristan she’d gotten to know over the past two weeks always had his eye on the door. This Tristan was capable of taking her heart with him.

  “Done staring?”

  Tessa caught a flash of blue as Tristan glanced at her and she smiled, slow and wide. “Not yet.”

  She didn’t know what made her say it, but she didn’t care. Because Tristan smiled. It was small, only one side of his mouth lifting, his teeth still hidden. But Tessa didn’t miss the way it crinkled the corner of his eyes in the most devilish, handsome way. Happiness streaked through her and she laughed.

  “So glad I amuse you,” Tristan murmured, that ghost of a smile still visible.

  Tessa was thankful dinner separated them, otherwise she’d be tempted to crawl across the blanket and see what that smile tasted like. “Me too,” she teased. “Consider it payback for missing last night.”

  “Hey. That couldn’t be helped.”

  “Whatever you say.” She handed him a plate. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just happy you’re here now.”

  “You are?” Tristan’s attention flew up from the sandwiches he’d been inspecting.

  “I am.”

  Tristan looked at her a second longer, that unreadable expression back, before finally picking a sandwich and taking a huge bite.

  It was the middle of summer, close to the equator. The sunlight would linger for hours. But the moon was a small smudge in one corner of the sky and the brighter stars were already visible. It was a gorgeous night. No sign of a storm on the horizon.

  “How are the preparations for the hurricane coming?”

  “Good,” Tristan mumbled around his food. “All of the construction at the spa is boarded up. Sandbags will start to go out tomorrow morning, tarps later in the day. We should have the hotel secured by tomorrow night, along with most of the houses nearby.”

  Tessa hadn’t been home since the morning, but she knew workmen had boarded up the windows at the staff condo building earlier that day. “Good.” She had to work her throat a few times before she got the food down.

  “Tessa.” Tristan shifted on the blanket, bringing them face to face. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  God, where do you want me to start? was the question that popped immediately to mind. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re worried about the storm.”

  Tessa set her plate down, her appetite gone. “I, uh, don’t really like them.”

  “Storms in general? Or hurricanes specifically?”

  Tessa went a little pale. “Storms. I’ve never been in a hurricane.”

  “Let me gu
ess: you had a bad experience once?”

  She nodded. “Summer camp. When I was fourteen.”

  “What happened?”

  Tessa buried her fingers beneath her bent leg. “We were out on a lake. A bunch of us. Being stupid kids. We’d taken the boats out. We knew we weren’t supposed to. The counselors had just given us this huge lecture about staying off the water during bad weather.”

  “But you didn’t listen.”

  “Like I said.” Tessa shrugged. “We were being stupid kids. We were far out, towards the middle, when the storm hit. One of those huge, afternoon summer storms, you know? The sky turned fast. Blue one second, almost black the next. We felt the temperature drop the second before it started pouring. The rain came down in big sheets. We couldn’t see a thing.” Tessa puffed out a nervous breath.

  “We’d already started rowing in when the lightning struck. It hit a huge tree on shore. Split it clean in two, we found out later. Which made sense, because the noise was deafening. It kept echoing, over and over. We were all freaked out. But this one kid—well, he lost it. Jumped right out of the boat. Started swimming for shore. But the rain was falling so hard, the wind whipping around. The water was choppy. Tristan, I swear, I’ve never seen anyone disappear so fast. One second he was there. The next, just, gone.”

  Tessa felt something warm against her knee. She looked down to see Tristan’s hand brushing the skin just beneath the hem of her dress. “We went in after him.” His fingers stroked a little harder.

  “Me and two other kids. We were searching everywhere, going under, trying to see him and not to swallow gallons of water whenever we came up for air. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like forever. The boy who jumped in, he brushed up against the other kid under the water. Managed to grab his arm. The three of us were able to lift him up. The others were able to pull him back into the boat.”

  “Was he…?”

  Tessa shook her head, her hand locking around Tristan’s. “No. Thank God. He hadn’t been under long, if at all. He must have gotten turned around, gone the wrong direction. But he wouldn’t have made it back to shore. He was panicking, thrashing around. If we hadn’t found him….” Tessa couldn’t repress the chill that hit her every time she thought about it.

  “But you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was okay?”

  “Yeah, more or less. Freaked out, as you can imagine. Enough that his parents came and got him the next day.”

  “And you?”

  Tessa peeked up at him from beneath her lashes. The concern she saw on his face lit a fire somewhere low in her stomach. “I was fine. I am fine,” she emphasized. “Just not a big fan of storms.”

  “Understandably.”

  “And a hurricane.” Tessa gripped his hand a little harder. “That’s a lot worse than a summer storm, isn’t it?”

  Tristan’s eyes darkened with worry. He shifted closer on the blanket.

  “Just tell me,” she prodded. “I’d rather know. Can’t be worse than what I’m imagining.”

  “Like I said,” he finally answered, “I haven’t been in one. But a Category 3? Yeah, way worse than a summer storm.”

  “Oh.” It came out small and hollow.

  “I don’t want you to worry. Peter, his team, and the crew have done a great job shoring up the buildings. They’ve been through this before, have had a lot of practice. We’ll know when the storm is on its way. You’ll be safe inside. I’ll make sure of it.” Tristan said the last part in a steely tone. Tessa scanned his face, her fingers almost crushed in his grip.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she said.

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll stay safe, inside. Wherever you tell me. If you promise you’ll stop swimming until the hurricane passes.”

  “What?”

  Tessa didn’t care if she’d just tipped her hand. They hadn’t talked about his swims. Not the morning ones, and definitely not the one he’d taken that one night. But if the forecast was right, the hurricane would make landfall in two days, maybe less. His daily escapes into the water put her on edge, and that was before the ocean had gotten so much choppier. She didn’t need to think about him getting dragged under if things got worse faster than expected.

  “Stop swimming. Just for now. I don’t want you getting caught out there.” She didn’t hide the anxiety in her face, hoping it would push him to agreeing. They were so close, there was no way he could miss it. Tessa felt like it was practically radiating off her. “Please. For me. Don’t swim again until after the storm.”

  “Deal.”

  It was Tessa’s turn to say, “What?” That had been far too easy.

  “I said, deal. I’ll stay out of the water until after the storm, if you promise me that you’ll stay inside, in your apartment. You’ll be on higher ground there. Mark had that building practically re-built only a few months ago. It’s solid. The windows are already boarded up. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Promise.”

  “Thank you.” Tristan shifted her hand in his, turning her palm up. He stared at it, his head dropping. For one heart-stopping second Tessa thought he was going to kiss it. Her skin tingled in anticipation. Instead, he curled her fingers into her hand and returned it to her lap. The next second, he grabbed the two slices of cake she’d set out earlier.

  “Time for this?”

  “Yes.” It came out unsteady, the rapid change in conversation throwing her.

  Tristan didn’t wait. He had the first bite into his mouth before Tessa had picked up her fork.

  “God,” he grunted around the cake, “what is this?”

  “Guinness chocolate cake.”

  He paused long enough to mutter, “It’s really good.”

  “Thanks.” It was one of her favorites.

  “And this?” Tristan poked his fork at the chunky, caramel-colored frosting.

  “It’s the filling typically used in German chocolate cake.”

  Tristan swallowed, snagging a stray piece of coconut from the corner of his mouth. “That’s kinda an odd combo, isn’t it? I mean, it works. Really well. But Irish cake with German filling?”

  Tessa laughed. “German chocolate cake doesn’t have anything to do with the country. It got its name from the baker who invented it, a guy named Samuel German. And I’m not so sure how Irish the cake is, though the Guinness really brings out the chocolate flavor.” Tessa took a bite, savoring the bitter richness of the cake balanced with the nutty sweetness of the filling. “Together, it just makes sense. A little bite, with something pretty sweet. It’s all about finding a balance.”

  Tristan had dropped his fork and was pressing crumbs onto his fingers, then licking them off. “Is this something you learned in culinary school?”

  “The balance, yes. The cake, no.”

  Tristan glanced up in question.

  “It’s just not the type of thing my teachers at the CIA were into.”

  “CIA?” Tristan asked, startled.

  “Culinary Institute of America. Not Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, eyeing Tessa’s half-eaten piece. She pushed it his way, in love with the way his lips lifted on one side. She would give him every piece of cake she ever made if he smiled like that every time.

  “So what did they teach you at the CIA?”

  “Trust me,” she answered, “if you’re not into cooking, most of it would bore you to death. Long story short, you start by perfecting the basics, like knife skills. The science of cooking. Then get into the more technical stuff. For me, it involved traditional French techniques. Puff pastry dough, basic pastry cream, breads.”

  “Bread, huh?” Tristan’s half-smile was gone, a faint blush in its place.

  Tessa cleared her throat and stared at the weave of the blanket. “Yeasts and starters make or break your bread. With cooking, if you make a mistake you can often correct it, save the dish. Your sauce isn’t working? Throw in some butter. T
he flavor has cooked out? Toss in salt. Or maybe even some sugar. Baking isn’t like that. The margin for error is much smaller. If you kill the yeast before you start, your bread will never rise. Once it’s risen, if you knead it too much, it becomes tough. It will be like a brick when it comes out of the oven. So you learn how to know when something is ready. When the water is just warm enough to make the yeast bloom, not die. When the dough pulls away from your hands, leaving them just clean enough, telling you to stop kneading.”

  Tristan was quiet. Tessa glanced up at him. He was staring out across the water, his attention far, far away. “How do you know?” he said after a minute.

  “Know?’

  “When it’s enough, and not too much.”

  “Practice,” she answered. “By knowing what to look for, what it should feel like to the touch. And trust.”

  Tristan looked at her.

  “When you do it enough times—fuck up a cake, over-bake bread, curdle the cream, over-beat the eggs—you learn when to stop. When to be patient, when to go a little slower. You learn to trust your instincts. You trust you’ll know when to turn off the burner the split second before your caramel burns. Or just before the chocolate goes past being melted and becomes gritty. Baking is half science, half faith.”

  “Like life.”

  Tessa considered for a second. “Yes, I guess.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t plan on getting philosophical.”

  “Don’t be.” Tessa touched his knee, drawing away when he startled slightly. “I just hadn’t thought of it that way. For me, being in the kitchen, working, it’s simple. Not necessarily easy, but certain. Life…well, it’s—”

  “Messy.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tristan found her hand where she’d dropped it on the blanket. He traced the curve between her thumb and forefinger, back and forth, his eyes tracking the movement. Tessa reminded herself to keep breathing.

  “Is that why you do it? Because life’s messy and baking isn’t?”

  Tessa smiled. “When you put it like that it doesn’t sound right.” If nothing else, their bread lesson had taught them both that life in the kitchen could be incredibly messy. “But, no. I do it because I love it. The process, putting flavors together, it makes sense to me. Always has. But the reason I bake is because I love feeding people. I love when someone takes a bite of something I’ve made and it makes them smile. Doesn’t matter what it is. Could be the most complicated French pastry on the planet, or a perfectly toasted piece of bread with just the right amount of butter. Food is a basic requirement of survival, but it can also be a source of great joy. And I feel incredibly lucky that something I create with my hands can make someone stop and sigh, in happiness, in comfort. In satisfaction. There are a lot of things in this world that bring sadness. And for me, baking, feeding people, it’s my little form of resistance against that. The thing I can do every day to make life a bit better.”