by Vivien Vale
How could he, right? He has better things to be doing right now. He has a high-end restaurant to run.
He'd probably rather have a filling replaced, or get a flat tire on the freeway than be here right now.
And my mom practically held his hand to the flame, and blocked the door, which is so embarrassing it makes me want to die a little inside.
But Palmer just flashes me a smile and something tells me he really doesn't mind. It's as if he does want to be here.
"Can I help you with anything?" Palmer asks my mom.
"Why don't you come in here and help me peel these potatoes."
I roll my eyes. Why can't my mom be a normal human being and just let him sit here as our guest.
This is Palmer we're talking about… a world-class chef. The kind of chef that people have to pay hundreds of dollars just to eat with.
I love my mom. I really do. I love my entire family.
But you don't ask guests like that to peel and wash potatoes, you know?
But again, he's a gracious guest, and I watch him walk over to my mother, wash potatoes, and hold a sharp paring knife in his hands.
He peels the skin with ninja-like speed, and my mom's impressed. Really impressed. I can see it in her eyes.
I hear them make small talk. She's asking him about his restaurant, and where he grew up, and all the normal mom stuff, and he continues to smile and answer everything he throws at her.
"Kitchens aren't always serious and stressed out places," Palmer says, and I crane my neck to hear what he's saying. I'm still sitting there, petting the dog, and pretending to not pay attention, but the truth is I'm trying to listen in harder than I've ever eavesdropped in my life.
He continues, "This one time, a dish guy stretched a heavy duty yellow scrubbing glove over the entire top of his head—I don't know how he did it, but he did—and it looked just like a cock's comb. He proceeded to strut around the kitchen like this."
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Palmer tuck his arms into his chest in the shape of chicken wings and bob his head, back and forth.
I can't help but smile at that, and even my mom is cracking up. I mean, she's laughing so hard that she's wiping tears from under her eyes.
"I kid you not, the dish guy was flapping his arms around, bobbing and tilting his head, and clucking like a chicken. It was one of the funniest things I've seen in my whole life."
My mother is barreled over, clutching her sides.
It's so surprising, seeing Palmer like this. He isn't the arrogant asshole chef I knew him to be.
He's funny and warm. And he's charismatic.
And when it's all time for us to sit at the table, even my father seems to love him.
"I'm a huge Buffalo Bills fan—always have been," Palmer says, and my father slaps him on the back.
"A man of my own heart!" my father says. "Any Bills fan is a friend of mine."
For a minute it almost feels like I'm in some alternate universe. Who are these people, and what have they done with my parents? Who is this man?
Things are going so well, and everyone is getting along better than I could've ever hoped for.
For some reason it's stunning… having man like Palmer, sitting here and sharing a simple family lunch with us, in this humble home because of his extreme wealth and fame… and what I thought was arrogance.
But he isn't arrogant at all. He's captivated my family, and they're a tough crowd to please.
This man… Chef Palmer could eat anywhere in the world. He could eat with any chef, and any celebrity.
But he's here. In my childhood home. Sharing a simple meal with a simple middle-class family.
And I love him for that.
Palmer
"Excuse me while I take this call," I say, pushing my chair back from the table.
My cell phone is vibrating in my pocket as I grab it and walk out the front door.
"Palmer speaking," I say, pacing the front porch.
"Finally—there you are. You're a hard man to get a hold of. Look, I'll get straight to the point. I have some bad news." It's Roger Mills, my business manager.
Any time I get a call from him, I brace myself and expect anything to come out of his mouth because he always gives it to me straight. But now the words bad news bounce through my brain like ping pong balls and I don't know what to think.
"Give it to me."
"The bottom line is that investors are feeling shaky about your restaurants, not just The Pearl on Park," he says.
"Why now?"
"It boils down to all the bad coverage you've received."
I know exactly what coverage he's referring to. Percy Whitman.
"I already know about those reviews—they're bullshit. Unfounded garbage and—"
"Unfounded or not," Roger says, cutting me off, "investors are freaking. Those are some of the worst reviews a restaurant has ever seen."
"It's all lies, they can't be believed."
"Tell that to the rest of the world," Roger says. "I'm serious. This is bad. Real bad."
"Look," I say, "I'm actually in the middle of lunch and I'm busy, can I—"
"We don't have time," he says. "We need to act now."
"I don't want to talk about this right now. I'll figure it out and I'll call you back soon."
"Palmer, wait, Listen, I think—"
But I don't give him a chance to tell me what he thinks. Instead, I end the call and the connection goes silent.
It's strange. It seems my entire business is in jeopardy, but being here with Nicole and her family—I'm happy. I gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and enter the house.
"I was just telling Nicole's father about your chicken story," Nicole's mom says. The entire table is laughing.
I smile. "There are more funny stories where that came from. I could spend hours telling you stories."
"Well, we aren't going anywhere," Nicole's father smiles. "Tell us what happens in those kitchens of yours."
"Well, in this business, we get every kind of customer you can think of. One day, many years ago, when I was first starting out, we got a particularly difficult woman. She orders the soup of the day—a French Onion.
“The waiter brings it to her. She says it's too cold. So, no problem, right?
“This is a typical, routine sort of complaint, if you will. The waiter brings it back into the kitchen, and we give her a new, piping hot batch."
"Was she satisfied?" Nicole asks.
"Oh no—the story doesn't stop there," I laugh. "So, the waiter brings it to the woman, but now she says it doesn't taste right and that we must've changed our recipe. The waiter assures her that isn't the case, but she keeps badgering him and badgering him. He tries to change the soup again, but to no avail.
“The woman is insistent that again, it isn't right. She's really digging into him now, saying things like How hard is it to make soup, and Isn't this your job. So finally, the waiter reaches a breaking point. And I kid you not—he grabs that soup bowl and saucer and flings it across the dining room like a Frisbee.
“The entire thing smashes against the wall and everyone is stunned. And what does that waiter do? He leaves without a word. We never saw him again."
"You have to be kidding!" Nicole shrieks. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but we got a good laugh out of it later."
The entire family is laughing now, and as I turn to look at each of their faces, I realize that I'm having the time of my life. I never expected to enjoy myself as much as I am.
It's as if the worries of the world—my restaurant, my health, Percy Whitman trying to sabotage me at every turn—fades away.
I like Nicole's family. They're simple people and that's refreshing.
Her family has completely managed to charm me.
"Here, try this," Nicole says, passing me a small, chilled glass.
"This looks interesting."
"It's Limoncello—my grandmother's recipe."
"Then I bet it's good
. Your grandma seems to have the best recipes."
I take a sip, and it's better than I imagined. It's the perfect palate cleanser—the citrus infused, lightly sweetened alcohol couldn't get much better.
Nicole can sense the satisfaction on my face and she smiles.
"Glad you like it," she says, and under the table I can feel her slide her hand up my thigh. "Because there's more where that came from."
I don't know if it's the hint in her words, or her touch… or maybe both, but my cock twitches and I shift in my seat. Letting my dick get hard, right here, at a table surrounded by Nicole's family, is not something I want.
But Nicole seems to understand this, and a devious smile forms on her lips.
Just as her mother's asking me if I'd like a second helping of food, Nicole drags her fingers up my thigh, coming within inches of my cock.
I can feel it harden with the proximity of her touch. Within seconds, I'm going to be harder than a steel rod.
"I'm, I'm fine—I uh, the food was, well, it was great—it really was—but I'm full, thank you," I stammer stupidly.
God, can I sound anymore ridiculous?
Nicole grins wider.
"I think I'm going to show Palmer the house—give him a tour," Nicole says, and her parents nod.
Then she turns to me.
"I want to show you my childhood bedroom."
My heart kicks in my chest and my cock leaps.
"Show me the way," I smile.
Nicole
“This is…” he starts, trailing off as he looks around my bedroom. I close the door behind us as we step inside, eager to have his arms wrapped around me, but I stop as I look at him.
His eyes seem to linger on my childhood pictures; slowly, he then heads toward the full body mirror I have on the corner.
“That’s my grandmother,” I tell him as he reaches for one of the pictures taped to the mirror.
In the picture, she’s standing in front of a red brick wall, wearing a loose apron over a faded dress. Her dress is blue, the kind of blue that reminds me of the restlessness of the ocean in the first days of winter, and only the whiteness of the polka dots splattered all over it break those memories of early winter.
Her cheeks are flushed, the lines around her mouth carved deep by years of easy smiles and generous laughs.
“A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell,” I whisper, and Parker looks at me. “That’s what she used to tell me,” I continue. “She’d tell me that all the time. She made me believe in hard work.”
Those memories are the reason I left home in the first place. They’re the reason I abandoned the dappled shade of the trees, the comforts of home, and the lazy afternoons when the whole horizon would stretch to accommodate a warm sunset.
I gave all that away and replaced it with the stern shadows of buildings smudged by the fog, the quick-fire chatter of city dwellers, and by the rapid pulse you’d only find in a big city.
“I like that,” he whispers, plucking the picture from the frame and staring at it, his thumb grazing over it. I stand there in complete silence, just taking in the scene. He’s looking at my grandmother’s picture as if he yearned for something like that, for family, for comfort.
“I’ve never met my grandmother,” he tells me matter-of-factly, and the casual tone in his voice makes my skin prickle.
I wonder about him. He seems… lonely.
The kind of man that’d push family, friends, and lovers out of his life, only so that he could focus on his goals. A man whose ambition burns so bright it devours everything around him.
And that doctor’s appointment he told me about… I don’t even know what to think about it. I can't imagine how that's affecting him. He seems to believe death’s jaws are snapping at his heels, and he wants to go out with a bang instead of fizzling out.
That thought makes my heart ache. I try to push it away from my mind, but I can’t imagine a world without Palmer.
It hurts too much to think about it.
“Come here,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and pulling him into me. I need to feel him close to me. I need to hold him tight, just to make sure he won’t disappear like a forgotten dream.
I look into his eyes, my heart drumming wildly inside my chest. He smiles then, caressing my face with the back of his hand. Leaning into me, he brushes his lips against mine. It’s a simple kiss—tender and kind—but it’s enough for me to lean in and press my forehead against his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper.
I lay one hand on his chest, and I stay like that for a long time, just listening to his pulse. The warmness of his body seems to spread into mine, and it doesn’t take long for this feeling of comfort to turn into something more.
“Me, too,” he replies, and that’s all I need.
I can do without the flourishes and the pretty words. I can do without declarations of love and flowers. I can do without all that.
All I need is Palmer, his lips against my hair as he whispers those words.
I grow wet, and I can already feel my drenched thong sticking to my skin. My heart is racing furiously inside my rib cage, pumping desire through my veins as if I just received a shot of adrenaline. The blood that runs through me is charged with lust and sinful thoughts, inflaming that burning need I have for his body.
I tried to avoid this. I knew how… stupid it would be for me to be near Palmer. He’s my one and only weakness—handsome, dangerous, and relentless. But here I am now… revealing all my childhood secrets to a man I was sure I’d hate.
I don’t even know how any of this happened.
The moment The Pearl on Park moved into my neighborhood, I started nursing a special kind of hatred for a man I saw as cold and calculated. A man who didn’t know the meaning behind the word heart.
And yet, here we are.
I surrendered to him.
I gave him my body and I gave him my heart.
I take one step forward, my eyes never leaving his, and I grab him by the scruff of his shirt. Pulling him into me, I press my mouth against his, parting my lips and brushing my tongue against his. I start unbuttoning his shirt, my eager fingers flying down the fabric as I bare his chest.
With one hand on my waist, he takes the other to my hair, grabbing it viciously. He pulls my head back and starts kissing down my chin toward my neck; once there, he starts nibbling the soft skin gently. I close my eyes as I feel his lips against my neck, my rational mind slowly drowning in an ocean of pleasure.
With jerking movements, I tug on his shirt and make the rest of the buttons pop out. I run my hands over his chest, feeling his warm skin under my fingertips. It's absolute perfection. Good Lord, I just want to feel every single inch of his body and surrender myself to him.
And there’s nothing stopping me.
Grabbing the fabric of his shirt, I pull it down his shoulders and throw it to the floor. I pull back from his kiss and take one hard look at him, my eyes wandering over his chest. I can’t even hear my own thoughts over the loud drumming of my heart.
My lips curl into a smile as I look back into his eyes, and I let my hands slide down his chest until they meet the hem of his pants. I unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly, sliding my hand down his pants and caressing the bulging shape that’s tenting his underwear.
I start stroking him over the fabric, my fingers curled tight around his cock. He’s gigantic, his member pulsing against my hand in such an intense way that my insides clench in anticipation.
Leaning into him, I lay my lips against his, and then start kissing down his jawline. I trace the contour of his neck and go down to his chest, feeling his hard and ripped muscles against my lips.
I go down on my knees then, pushing down his pants and boxer briefs as I do it. His cock springs free in a heartbeat, jumping eagerly into my hand.
My fingers curl around it once more, feeling its warmness against my skin. I start stroking him slowly, my eyes locked on his as my ha
nd goes back and forth at a low teasing rhythm.
I open my mouth wide, leaning forward and taking his tip inside my mouth. Sucking on it, I let his flavor—a salty and manly one—inundate me.
My eyelids droop and, before I even know what I’m doing, I’m moving forward, his whole shaft sliding inside of my mouth. I start to suck, bobbing my head back and forth and twirling my tongue around his dick. It tastes amazing, the scent of manhood crawling up my mouth and lodging itself on my brain like a perfect blanket.
Cupping his balls as I suck him, I caress them and roll them over my fingers. Then, as he kicks off his shoes, I push his pants and underwear all the way down and push them to corner of the small room.
Pulling back for an instant, I stroke him as hard as I can, my eyes widening as I try to comprehend the huge member right in front of me; it doesn’t matter how many times I see it, I’m always amazed by his size.
My skin prickles as, slightly leaning forward, he places both his hands on my shoulders and pushes the straps of my dress down. The fabric droops over my torso, baring my chest, and I immediately take my hands behind my back.
Blindly, I find my bra’s hook and unclasp it, letting it fall down my arms and onto the floor. There’s no need for instructions—the moment my naked breasts come into view, he grabs them gently, his fingers brushing over my hard nipples.
I lean forward so that I can start sucking him again, his shaft rolling over my lips easily. With my hands on his ass cheeks, I start bobbing my head back and forth as fast as I can. Matching my own rhythm, he starts thrusting, his fingers running through my hair as he ravages my mouth.
I close my eyes, half-expecting him to not resist the way I’m sucking him. I wouldn’t complain if he came in my mouth, not at all.
But, of course, men like Palmer are never satisfied with one simple blowjob. They want more, always more.
And I love him for it.
He grabs my wrist, making me stop my stroking motion, and gently pushes my head back. I let his cock slide out of my mouth, and then allow him to pull me up to my feet.
He places his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back against the wall. I go willingly, simply looking at him as he goes pushes his body against mine, his chest pressed against my breasts.
