Cooking Up A Storm
Colbie Dunbar
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Also by Colbie Dunbar
Copyright © 2019 Colbie Dunbar
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
One
“I said broil not boil!” Chef Bellamy peered into the bubbling pot where a piece of fillet steak was now a disgusting gray. Leaning over the stove, he sniffed and crinkled his nose.
I agree it’s nasty. My attempts at cooking were a disaster. This was why I’d signed up for classes with the renowned chef who conducted lessons in a specially designed kitchen next to his restaurant.
“Everyone take a ten-minute break while Greg cleans up his mess.” The beta stalked toward his office. “And don’t pour that greasy water down the sink.”
Judging by his reaction, you’d think I’d peed in his cereal. But as I glanced around the huge kitchen and wondered how I was going to get rid of my latest cooking disaster, a voice at my shoulder said, “Let me help you.”
“Thanks, Brandon.”
The alpha Sous Chef who was in charge of the restaurant while Chef was teaching, often popped in to see how the students were doing. Or perhaps coping would be a better word. Brandon strained the liquid into a glass jar and set it to one side. “Wait for it to cool and then put on the lid and throw it in the garbage.”
I stared at the fragments of meat in the bottom of the saucepan.
Brandon poked at what was left of the steak with a fork. “It’s barely recognizable.”
A flush spread over my face as I mumbled, “Thanks for rescuing me again.”
“Tell me why you’re learning to cook, Greg? Something tells me your heart isn’t in it.”
The mention of my heart put a smile on my face. “It’s for a guy. A cute alpha who lives in the apartment next to mine.”
“You believe the way to an alpha’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Ummm I’ve never thought of it that way. I really want us to have something in common.”
“How many dates have you had?”
“Can I let you in on a secret?”
The alpha glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze. Chef was in his office yelling into the phone. Brandon turned back to me and nodded.
Our heads almost touched as I whispered, “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”
“Am I missing something?” The alpha crossed his arms and his forehead crinkled. “You said he was cute.”
“His scent is sharp and spicy, so I’m sure he’s gorgeous. There’s always a hint of it in the elevator and… well… it drives me crazy and you know…” Now my cheeks were burning and I refused to look Brandon in the eye.
“And if you passed the guy in the street, you’d recognize his fragrance?”
“Definitely. It’s unmistakable.” As the words echoed in my head, I realized how ridiculous I sounded.
“Where does food come into your relationship?” The alpha used air quotes when he said the last word.
“Brandon, are you making fun of me?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. But you’re doing an awful lot for a guy you’ve never met. What if he’s mated?”
“He’s not. I’ve never heard anyone else in his apartment.” The thought of my alpha neighbor being bonded to someone else struck terror in my heart. “But getting back to the food. I’ve seen the deliveries from the grocery store and that alpha is serious about cooking. I tried to catch a glimpse of him when he opened the door, but I only saw his long, slender fingers as he gave the delivery guy a tip.”
“That’s it?”
“Listen, if you caught a whiff of the aromas that waft through my window when he’s making dinner, you wouldn’t think I was nuts. You’d be telling me to go get him.”
“I didn’t say you were crazy, but it worries me you’re putting so much effort into this. The guy could be an ass!”
“No one who makes cooking smell like a symphony is a dick.”
“How are you going to get beyond, ‘Hello. Your food makes my heart sing’?”
“Once I’ve got the hang of the cooking basics, I’m going to dawdle around the elevator and strike up a conversation about the latest food trends.”
“Which you’re familiar with?”
“Oh yeah. I follow lots of influencers and read blogs and articles about food and cooking.”
“And then what?”
“The guy is a serious foodie, so…”
“Greg, we do not use that word in my kitchen.”
Damn he’s back. That was a quick ten minutes. I mouthed to Brandon, “Here comes kitchen Nazi.”
The alpha slapped me on the arm and put a finger to his lips. “Behave,” he whispered.
“What was that, Greg?”
“Nothing, Chef. I was just wondering what we’re going to cook now.”
“Béchamel sauce.”
I glanced at Brandon and shrugged.
“White sauce to you, Greg.”
Ewww. My stomach heaved just hearing the words. One of my aunts loved hiding pieces of meat or fish in white sauce and having us guess what it was. She called it adventurous eating while to me it was torture.
“And there will be no lumps.” Chef waggled his finger in my direction and glared. “I’m talking to you.”
Plastering a smile on my face, I gave a thumbs up but glanced at the clock on the wall and wished the lesson was over.
After I’d burned the butter on my first attempt and had to start again, the lesson went smoothly and I produced a half-way decent Béchamel sauce.
As Chef droned on about the following lesson on Sunday, I let my thoughts drift and imagined I was cooking for the alpha next door. He’d be sitting in my tiny living room savoring a delicacy I’d whipped up. And as he licked his lips, he’d grab me around the waist and pull me closer. I’d inhale his vanilla and lime cologne and… “Mmmm.”
“Greg!”
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Of course, Chef.” I glanced at Brandon, but he was doing paperwork and I couldn’t catch his eye.
“Chicken, Greg. I’m anticipating the succulent roast you’re going to prepare on Sunday.”
There were sniggers from some of the other students and I was thankful it was time to leave. As I hoisted my messenger bag over one shoulder and headed out the door, Brandon appeared at my side.
“Everyone loves roast chicken, Greg. I’m sure your mysterious alpha would be impressed if you could learn that.”
“Mmmm. I should practice making one at home and surprise Chef with how good I am, but my oven’s so small, I doubt I’d fit a chicken in there.”
“I can help.”
“How?”
“My mom has a huge oven in her kitchen. She and my dad are on vacation so their place is empty. We can roast a chicken together.”
“That’s kind of you but I don’t accept pity invites.”
“What?” One corner of his mouth lifted as he tried to stifle a smirk.
“You have an ulterior motive because you don’t want Chef’s yelling to disturb you in the restaurant.”
“Nah. His shouting doesn’t bother me. But I’m intrigued by your story and want to help. Come on. It’ll be fun. We can drink wine and bitch about reality cooking shows while the bird’s roasting.”
“Aren’t you scared I’ll burn down your parents’ place?”
“
They have a fire extinguisher,” he deadpanned. “Actually, they have two.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Come on. If you master it, you’ll shock the pants off Chef at the next lesson.”
I winced. “Now I’ll never erase the picture in my head of Chef half-naked.”
We were both silent and then said in unison, “Ewww.”
Brandon handed me his phone. “Add your number and I’ll send you my address. I have Saturday off. Are you free in the afternoon?”
“Yeah.” It might be fun to cook with someone else and not be obsessing about my neighbor and how I was going to set up a date.
“I look forward to it, Greg. See you Saturday.”
“Should I bring something?” I yelled.
“Just yourself.” He waved and raced across the road. Nice butt. I’d never paid attention to Brandon’s looks before. He often appeared in the kitchen when Chef yelled, and he helped ease the tension between the beta and me. But now as I eyed his long legs and cute ass I wondered if he was mated and if not, which of my friends could I hook him up with.
On Saturday afternoon I found myself outside a 1950s block of low-rise apartments. I used to walk past the building on the way to school when it was in a bad state of repair. But now it had been restored to its former glory. This is fancy.
Being an older building, there was no elevator, so I trudged up to the third floor.
Brandon leaned over the ornate staircase. “Sorry about the climb.”
“No problem.” As he ushered me inside the apartment, I eyed the high plastered ceilings with their intricate swirling designs and the huge windows overlooking the park opposite. “Nice place.” I thought of the cheap bottle of wine in my bag and wished I’d bought something more expensive.
“Thanks. My grandparents bought the apartment when the building was new, but while it’s beautiful, it’s expensive to maintain, especially in winter. The heating bills are horrendous.”
I handed over the wine. “Ummm maybe you can use it for cooking.”
He didn’t bother glancing at the bottle. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He’s so polite—and kind. I was determined to match him up with one of my friends. I followed him into the kitchen and once again, took note of his ass. It’s adorable. But after admiring how his tight jeans emphasized the curve of his butt, my gaze shifted to my surroundings. “Wow!”
The old world feel had been retained with wooden flooring, marble countertops and what I guessed were custom cabinets. And there was a delicious fragrance of freshly baked bread wafting around. “Your mom has two ovens.”
“Cooking is her passion.”
“Is that why you became a chef?”
“Probably. I was always in the kitchen helping her after school.” Brandon grabbed a chicken from the fridge and I made a face.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like chicken?”
“The skin is a weird color and I don’t want to touch it. It looks sort of clammy.” Goosebumps spiked over my arms and I took a step back.
“Picture it when it’s all crispy and golden brown. Yum.” He licked around his lips. I’d never noticed how pink and plump they were, and my body tingled. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I scratched behind my ear and stared at my feet.
“Shall we start?”
“Sure, but I should wash my hands.” He showed me the bathroom and I inspected my face in the mirror. My dark hair was messy and there was a bristly five o’clock shadow covering my jaw. I’d worked on a project all night and gone to bed at dawn. After sleeping through the alarm, I’d had to make a mad dash for the bus.
When I got back into the kitchen, one oven was on and Brandon had the chicken under running water. “Based on your earlier reaction, I thought I’d better rinse the bird.”
“Thanks.”
He plonked the chicken on a wooden board sitting on the huge island and handed me a roll of paper towels. His laptop was open and the recipe was listed in point form. Seems easy enough.
“Pat it dry.” His hand brushed over mine as he showed me what to do. I’d never noticed his slender fingers and the well clipped nails. Does he get a regular manicure?
“Can you read the next step?”
“Rub the outside with butter.” He cut a knob of butter and placed it on a plate beside me.
“You can put butter under the skin but we’ll keep it simple for today.”
“This is simple?”
“Making the perfect roast chicken isn’t complicated, but so many people get it wrong.”
“That would be me.”
“Not with me to help you. You’re going to ace this.”
“Glad you have confidence in me.”
“Always.”
What does that mean? We hardly know one another. I dipped my fingers into the creamy, yellow butter and placed them on the chicken. I kept my eyes on my hands as I massaged the butter over the bird. It wasn’t as clammy as I thought and my rubbing was sort of meditative. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the texture of the bird’s skin, and the scent of yeast from the bread mingled with the clean, sweet, buttery aroma.
“Now the skin will be gorgeous and crisp.” The way the alpha pronounced the last word had shivers going up and down my spine. He jerked his head toward the sink. “Whenever you touch raw meat, you have to wash your hands otherwise you’ll contaminate the rest of the food.”
His mouth was moving and words were coming out but my attention was on the way his hair curled over his ears. As we stood side by side at the huge double sinks, his scent stirred a memory inside me. But it was so faint, I couldn’t remember what it was. “Now what?”
“Drizzle lemon juice over the skin.”
After slicing two lemons, the alpha and I squeezed the plump halves over the birds and the sharp, sour fragrance had a prickling sensation rippling over my body. I love that smell.
Brandon pointed to the chicken. “You have to shove the lemon halves inside.”
“In there?” I flinched.
“Do you want me to do it?”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “Sorry about this, chicken. It’s a huge invasion of privacy.”
Brandon burst out laughing and I joined in as I yanked my hand out. “Okay, that was a first.”
I read off the next step. “Salt and pepper inside and out.” I raised a brow and turned to the alpha who was standing right beside me. He smells amazing. I must ask him what cologne he uses. “Again? I have to go back in there a second time?”
“I’m afraid so.” Brandon’s long dark eyelashes fluttered as he gave me a sideways glance.
“What I do for love.”
The alpha gave me a strange look, and his smile faded. Did I say something wrong?
“Truss.”
“Sorry?”
“Tie up.”
I’d like him to tie me up. I reeled backward as the thought popped into my head. What? No! That’s ridiculous.
Brandon took over, and I observed him using string to tie the legs together. After inspecting his handiwork, I blurted out, “You’ve tied things up before.”
“I might have.”
He caught my eye, and I froze. This is awkward. “The chicken. I was talking about the bird.”
“So was I.” He winked and cold shivers spread over me. I swallowed hard and glanced over my shoulder wondering which kitchen utensils could be used for bondage and domination. Returning my attention to the alpha, I stared at his long fingers yanking the string tight and cutting off the ends.
“You’re showing me the ropes.” Fuck! Why did I say that?
“Huh?”
Change the subject. “Are we done?”
“If you mean is the chicken ready to be cooked? Yes.” The alpha shoved the roasting dish in the oven. “I thought about doing vegetables but didn’t want to overwhelm you with too many new recipes. We should take it slow.”
Sweat dotted my upper lip, and I wasn’t sure if it was warmth from the stove or so
mething else. “Slow is good,” I mumbled. My heart didn’t understand the word slow and it thumped and hammered in my chest.
Brandon grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses as I raced into the living room, anxious to remove myself from the heat and to clear my thoughts. The alpha’s presence was driving me insane. The emotion was familiar but it was usually when I was imagining intimate scenarios with my next-door neighbor.
Determined to change the subject, I inspected the family photos on the mantel piece. “Are these your parents?”
“Yeah.” The alpha handed me a glass.
“Your mom looks familiar.”
The tips of Brandon’s ears were pink as he replied, “She does a lot of charity work so you may have seen her photo in the society pages of the newspaper or online. And she also writes cookbooks and stuff.” He waved his hand distractedly, and his voice trailed off.
Is he embarrassed? “That’s where I’ve seen her face. Of course, and she has a blog.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Every week. I’m obsessed with her.” Shit! “That came out wrong. I mean I love what she writes.”
“Many people feel the same way.” The alpha raised his glass. “Let’s make a toast to your first roast.”
I giggled.
“Is that funny?”
“It rhymes. Toast and roast.” He must think I’m a child. “Ummm how long before the chicken’s done?”
“About an hour or so.”
I have to sit here with him and make conversation for sixty minutes?
“We have to plunge a skewer into it and check.”
I fixated on every word coming out of his mouth and tossed the rest of the wine down my throat. The idea of something long plunging into soft flesh had goosebumps prickling over my skin. “A-And w-why do we d-do that?”
“If the juices are clear, the bird is done.”
My knees buckled when he mentioned fluids. And I sunk onto the couch.
“More wine?”
“One glass is enough. I don’t have much of a head for alcohol and if I drink any more, I’ll be wobbling home.”
Cooking Up a Storm Page 1
