“I don’t think so, Wonder Bread,” she said, her tone low, almost taunting, and so sexy. “It’s my turn to call the plays.”
She lifted herself carefully off my lap, the movement loosening the towel I’d tied around my waist in anticipation of the shower. Then ever so slowly, she unclasped her bra and let it fall to the ground, never once taking her eyes off me. The sight of her in nothing but black satin underwear and knee-high boots sent heat blazing across every inch of my skin.
Gwen placed one foot strategically on the bench between my knees. “Can I get some help here?” she asked coyly.
As I tugged off her boot, I trailed my lips up her thigh. Gwen sucked in a few short breaths when my mouth reached the crease where her leg and hip bone met, and I smiled at the way her stomach muscles tightened with each jagged inhale. I repeated the same pattern with the other leg, then gripped her hips and pulled her toward me.
Looking intensely into her eyes, I hooked my thumbs around the top of her thong and slid the flimsy material over her hips until she was completely naked before me. My breath caught as my gaze roamed over her body. No matter how many times I’d seen her like this, it was never enough. My hands twitched to touch her, to take charge of the situation and her, but I knew she wouldn’t allow it.
“Hey, Wonder Bread.” Gwen tangled her fingers through my hair like she’d done moments ago, only this time she yanked at the roots and tilted my chin up. “Eyes right here.”
Fuck, I loved it when she bossed me around.
Unwrapping the towel from around my waist, she straddled me again and recaptured my lips. We kissed as if we’d been drugged, frenzied and almost feverish, our hands seeking and grasping, stroking and teasing. I cupped her breasts, massaging the tender flesh, and flicked my thumbs back and forth across her nipples. Whimpering, she arched into my palms, then leaned forward to let me suck one peak into my mouth, then the other.
A groan escaped from deep in my throat when she rocked her hips against mine and slid her slick heat against where I was hard and throbbing. Over and over and over, each pass eliciting a moan from both of us as she used my body to seek out her own pleasure. I was moments away from losing all control. All it would take was one upward thrust and I’d be deep inside her, but I forced myself to let her lead.
As if Gwen sensed my thoughts, she guided my hand between her legs and whispered, “Touch me.”
Which was enough for me to nearly come undone. I pressed my thumb to her most sensitive spot, both of us looking down to where I rubbed purposeful circles. Our skin shined with sweat, our breathing labored, as Gwen continued to slide back and forth over me. I intensified my movements, and her thighs shook and stomach muscles quivered as she neared the edge. Little pants and sounds filled the air. I turned my wrist, and with a wild jerk of her hips, Gwen cried out and slumped on top of me.
Before her body could fully relax, I wrapped her legs around my waist and stood, walking us to the community showers and bracing her against the cool white tile. “Playtime’s not over. We’re just getting warmed up.”
Gwen gently bit my earlobe. “That’s what I hoped you’d—”
She gasped as I lifted her up and glided into her. I let out a low grunt and held myself still for a moment, allowing her to adjust to the sudden feel of me inside her without a barrier—while Gwen was on birth control, we’d used a condom. Until now. Then I began to thrust, driving myself deeper and deeper into her, muttering phrases like so good and fucking perfect and gorgeous into her neck. Gwen’s head fell back against the wall, her moans and insistent urging for me not to stop echoing off the tile.
As my pace quickened and my thrusts grew harder, more desperate, she held on to the shower head for support, while the other hand clutched my back, her nails digging into the skin along my shoulder blades. Suddenly I felt an unexpected wetness on my forehead and realized that Gwen’s hand had slipped from the shower head and hit the knob, accidentally turning on the water.
“Sorry,” she said, barely audible, as the hot spray beat down on us.
I pulled out of her and lowered her feet to the ground. Before she could ask questions, I spun her around and spoke into her ear, my voice rough, “I was dirty anyway.”
Gwen shivered. I traced a finger from her neck down the length of her spine, all the way to the dimples at the small of her back. Lust pooled low in my gut and blood pumped fast through my veins at the way she angled her body into mine. When she let out a breathy please, I tilted her hips and pushed into her from behind, groaning. Gwen pressed her hands against the shower wall, and I placed mine directly on top of hers, interlacing our fingers.
The locker room faded around me, nothing existing but our bodies moving together, steam enveloping us. And while I couldn’t see Gwen’s face or read her expression, I’d never felt more connected to a woman in my whole life.
It should have been the worst sort of cliché—shower sex after a tough loss. How many times had some other player been caught with his pants down with a fan, settling for any victory he could find? But Gwen didn’t feel like a consolation prize, like something I could use to salvage my day.
Instead, she felt like the beginning and the end, the person I rose from bed in the morning hoping to see and the person I went to sleep thinking about. When I was with her, like this, things were startlingly simple. So much so I had to wonder what was really important.
Heat built inside me, the pressure becoming unbearable. Gwen’s movements grew more erratic and I clutched her hips tight. She moaned and writhed against me, and just when I thought I couldn’t hold on any longer, she called out my name, slapping a hand against the wall and clenching around me. The intensity of her orgasm vibrated through my body, bringing on my own, and I came with a shout, pressing my face into her wet hair as tiny white stars exploded behind my eyelids.
Together we collapsed against the tile, completely spent and out of breath. I found the faucet knob and shut off the water. Gwen turned to face me and crossed her arms around my neck.
“You still have a grass stain on your cheek,” she said, her voice loud in the sudden quiet. “I guess we’ll need another shower then.”
I flashed a wolfish smile. “I’m game if you are.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Gwen
The week following the Blizzards’ loss to the Browns, and two days after the team had won against the Kansas City Chiefs, I sat in the sun-drenched breakfast nook in my mother’s house, the oversized bay windows that surrounded the cushioned banquette providing a picturesque view of the frost-tipped trees in the yard and the snowy mountains beyond.
Chris had purchased the four-thousand-square-foot McMansion that looked straight out of Architectural Digest for our mother after he’d signed his latest contract, and while the property as a whole held no appeal for me, the massive kitchen with a custom-designed Lacanche French range, ample counter space, and endless cabinets full of tools was another story.
It was also the ideal spot to buckle down and get work done on this cold, clear mid-November day, especially since I had the place to myself for the time being. I’d spent most of the morning editing draft after draft of the sample menu for my audition for the TK Hospitality Group. Spread out on the large oval table was an old journal describing my travels from around the world that had often acted as recipe inspiration, sketches of plated food to help me picture the dishes before executing them, and pages and pages of near-illegible notes.
But no matter how many versions I shuffled through, I couldn’t seem to settle on the perfect concept. Trent Keller hadn’t offered any guidance in terms of the type of cuisine he wanted for his newest venture. Anything was fair game as long as the flavor profile was cohesive, inventive, approachable, and showcased my particular brand of cooking.
Sighing, I dunked a piece of homemade biscotti into a double shot of espresso and popped it into my mouth, st
udying the discarded drawings scattered around me. In theory each dish met Trent’s basic qualifications, but they all felt like something that could be featured on the tasting menu at Brindille. The dishes were all too . . . perfect. Too suited to high-end palates. And while I knew the food would taste delicious and pull in the crowds, every time I fingered the edge of one of the sketches, I couldn’t bring myself to formalize the recipe or even test-run it in the kitchen.
I didn’t want to make any of these dishes, let alone serve them. They weren’t me. Problem was, I’d spent the entirety of my classically trained career preparing other people’s culinary vision that I’d failed to discover my own distinct style. Even the nightly specials board at Stonestreet’s that Logan had given me permission to create had to fit into the confines of steakhouse fare.
When I’d contacted Trent to tell him I was interested in moving forward, I’d reasoned with myself that I was merely keeping my options open, exploring every avenue. Though deep down, I’d made that phone call because a part of me really wanted to prove that I wasn’t what Stephen had claimed—that the successes I’d achieved in my career thus far had been hard earned and deserved and not built on the reputation of another.
But now, as I struggled to come up with a menu that represented my personality, I wondered if I was truly cut out to be more than an executive chef under someone else’s name like my father believed.
I dragged my creased and worn Moleskine toward me, flipping through almost two decades of entries, going all the way back to my first overseas journey to Modena, Italy, when I was ten years old and tried balsamic vinegar at a family farm straight from the wooden barrels. Even as I scoured the yellowed pages filled with memories and tidbits from my various trips, I couldn’t find a thread linking them all together, couldn’t find the thing that made me . . . me.
Still, I smiled at the random comments my father had scrawled in the margins in response to some of my earliest observations—Uni is considered a delicacy in Japan, Gwendolyn, he’d written when I’d noted the custard-like texture of sea urchin had reminded me of rotten peanut butter; or, In Brittany, the crepes are referred to as galettes not “deflated pancakes,” he’d corrected, scribbling over my words with his favorite red pen. There was so much youthful exuberance and silly imagination spilling forth from each entry. Where had it all gone?
I shook my head, tucking my legs underneath me and straightening my posture. Maybe I was looking at this all wrong. Because, really, the question before me was simple: What did I want to cook?
As I soaked the last bit of biscotti in my espresso, something Logan had said came back to me—I think what made Mom’s food so great was that at the end of the day, she fixed what she most enjoyed eating and genuinely wanted to share with the people around her. It was all so obvious I laughed—the answer had been right in front of me this whole time.
When I cooked for myself at home or went out to restaurants, I almost always chose modern farm-to-table cuisine that favored the old-fashioned arts of pickling, curing, smoking, and fermenting. And while I also loved experimenting with scientific techniques, loved incorporating gels and foams and powders into my dishes, I did so not to intimidate or to be ostentatious, but to highlight the natural flavor of the food.
And that was exactly what I needed to present to Trent—a menu that encompassed my culinary travels while staying true to what I loved to create. A full smile split my face both from excitement and because I knew with confidence that I was finally on the right path.
I heard the low rumble of the garage door, followed by a trunk slamming shut a few moments later. My mother had returned from her errands. I supposed now was as good a time as any for a break. Tossing my pencil onto the pile of papers, I stretched my arms above my head and hauled myself out of the breakfast nook, meeting her at the back entrance to help her carry in any bags.
“Oh, Gwen, you’re still here,” she said, eyes wide in surprise. “I thought you’d be at Stonestreet’s preparing for the dinner service.”
Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold, but instead of making her appear as if she were wearing clown makeup like it would on me, the color accentuated her blond hair, blue eyes, and fine features. It wasn’t fair that Chris and I both ended up with our father’s pale complexion, dark hair, and brown eyes.
“I called in sick,” I said, the first time in seven years.
“You seemed okay this morning before I left,” my mother said, removing her glove and pressing the back of her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”
That’s because I wasn’t actually sick. But since I still hadn’t told Logan about the audition, I couldn’t develop the sample menu on my day off since he’d most likely be around, not to mention the kitchen in my bungalow wasn’t big enough to test multiple recipes at once, so I’d had no choice but to lie and sneak over to my mother’s house when I knew Logan would be at practice.
“I just needed a mental health day,” I mumbled, snatching the groceries out of her arms and walking back down the hallway. I set the bags on the island and immediately started arranging the items into pantry, refrigerator, or freezer categories, avoiding her gaze.
“And what, pray tell, has you so wound up?” my mother asked, her tone laced with disapproval. She removed her coat and scarf and draped them over the back of a bar stool. “From what I’ve seen, Logan has done nothing but smooth your path forward since you left San Francisco and that awful boss of yours.”
I put the milk and orange juice in the fridge door. “I’m not ‘wound up.’ I’m just organizing my thoughts.”
“Which is exactly what your father said every time he was about to throw away everything he had for something he thought he wanted.”
“Yes, I’m aware. I was there, remember?” I snapped, then inhaled a deep breath. “But I’m not him.”
A knot formed in my stomach as I spoke the words. Because what my mother didn’t understand was just how well I understood that I was only ever one bad decision away from becoming my father. That I was terrified of failing, of succumbing so thoroughly to my passions that one day they would destroy me the way they had him. He was a reason I hadn’t branched out on my own, why I was always so cautious. But this opportunity from Trent felt different. I hadn’t gone searching for it like my father had done. I hadn’t tried to make it happen. It had come to me.
“If that’s the case, then do you want to explain why you’re still pursuing this?” My mother gestured to my journal, food sketches, and papers strewn across the breakfast table.
“I’m developing ideas, keeping my creative process fresh. It doesn’t mean I have to go through with it,” I said, wondering why I’d been dumb enough to tell her about the audition in the first place.
“And you’ve chosen to do all this at my home because . . . ?” She turned on the electric kettle and added two tea bags to a mug, never once taking her eyes off mine. I hated when she stared at me like that, like I was such a predictable disappointment. My mother rarely looked at Chris that way even though he was the spitting image of our father.
“I needed a bigger kitchen to work in.”
“And the restaurant is off-limits why?” she asked, though I was certain she already knew the answer.
Pulling out the spice cabinet, I added the jars of cinnamon and chili powder and said, “It’d be a little inappropriate to use my current employer’s kitchen to prep for a future employer’s interview, don’t you think?”
“You know, I’ll never figure out why you believe you have to move halfway across the country—or the world, as you’ve done in the past—to show that you’ve accomplished something great or reached the pinnacle of success.” Her voice trailed away on a sigh as she poured boiling water into her mug. “You’re so focused on chasing some dream that you miss what a worthwhile thing you have at Stonestreet’s. Or here in Denver.”
I couldn’t win with e
ither of my parents. One wanted me to conquer the culinary world all on my own and the other wanted me to settle for ordinary.
“But it’s your life, Gwen, so you do whatever you want.” My mother discarded her steeped tea bags in the trash. “Just don’t say I never warned you.”
“Warn her about what?” Chris asked, poking his head around the doorframe, a dopey grin on his face. His hair was slicked back with more gel than a Bachelorette contestant, and he reeked of cologne. It was baffling how he managed to attract such a steady stream of women.
I groaned internally. What was he doing here?
“Sweetheart!” my mother gushed, wrapping him in a hug. Where I was required to use the doorbell, Chris could let himself in. “How was practice?”
“I took the day off,” he said, grabbing a spoon from the drawer beside the stove and the almond butter from the pantry, popping the lid off and digging right in. “I earned it after Sunday’s game. Everyone knows we won because I dominated the offense.”
Chris said it as if the five-thousand-dollar fine for skipping practice was a no-brainer, a drop in his money bucket. As if he didn’t have Logan and an entire franchise counting on him. With seven weeks left in the regular season, now more than ever the team needed to play as a cohesive unit. But that was Chris for you, always looking out for number one.
Our mother tsked. “Both of my children behaving like delinquents?” Shaking her head, she busied herself with sorting the mail.
Chris glanced at me, waiting for an explanation.
“According to Mom I’m following in Dad’s footsteps,” I said.
“New job already?” he asked, well acquainted with our father’s history.
“Potentially. For a new venture in New York,” I said, folding the reusable grocery bags and hanging them on the hook on the pantry door. “I’m still in the tryout process, but I’m working closely with the restaurateur.”
Intercepting the Chef Page 18
