by Kelsie Rae
“I’m sorry . . . .” He has every right to feel disregarded. I’m just so frazzled by what happened that I wasn’t thinking.
He crosses his arms over his chest as he shuts down emotionally right before my eyes.
“Our new neighbor brought you home,” he grudgingly informs me. “I work with him, by the way.”
My jaw practically hits the floor.
“You work with Rhett?”
He huffs out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Funny how you find that more interesting than my promotion, though.”
Shit.
Cautiously, I try to form a response that’ll bring the old Tony back to me. The one who made me bacon and brought memories of a happier time in our relationship, but he seems to have vanished into thin air. “Look, I’m really happy for you. Seriously. I am. Steve should know by now how freaking amazing you are at your job, and I’m glad it’s finally paying off.” Hopefully. “I just got a little down thinking about you spending more time at work. I mean, how much more time can you even spend there? Are you gonna sleep under your desk?” As soon as the sarcasm slips from my lips, I know I’ve made a mistake.
“Maybe I will, Indie. Looks like you don’t need me here,” he scoffs while pushing himself up from the table and grabbing his suitcase.
“I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” He shuts the door quietly behind him. The soft click makes me flinch harder than any slamming ever could.
I shower, take some more pain meds, and pull on a white, flowy top with cut-off shorts and a pair of flats. It’s getting colder in New York, but I’m still clinging to the idea of the warm summer heat with every fiber of my being. Even if I’ll freeze my butt off as soon as I step outside and head to Get Baked.
As I make my way to the shop and back to my apartment building, memories from last night have slowly slipped through my drunken haze, and I’m grateful I can finally piece together my little adventure.
Drinking and I have always had a pretty solid relationship. I’ve always known how to keep things in check, and in return, I’ve always escaped the terrible hangovers people talk about.
But last night got way out of hand. I was drinking because I was sad, hoping the alcohol would make me feel better. I’m not proud of that, but it’s the truth, and I can admit when I’ve made a mistake.
Which is exactly what last night was.
A huge mistake.
I knock against the solid door in front of me three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I anxiously wait for him to answer the door.
Within seconds, it opens to reveal a shirtless Rhett.
“Holy shit, Batman,” I mumble under my breath as I scan the glorious sight in front of me.
I’m so focused on the chiseled chest that I don’t notice the devilish smirk tilting his lips until said chest shakes with laughter, drawing my eyes upward.
“Can I help you?” he asks, leaning one muscular shoulder against the doorframe. The motion almost distracts me all over again, but somehow I keep from falling to the ground and worshipping the god of a man in front of me.
I decide that’s a brilliant idea. I should definitely look into creating a church that revolves around him. It’s only logical. People can come and stare at him for hours at a time, never growing tired of the masterpiece of his torso and the way it makes them feel like they’ve been transported to heaven.
On second thought, I’m pretty sure they’d have crowd control issues . . . maybe it’s for the best that he hides those muscles from public view.
Sigh.
He clears his throat, and his devilish smirk transforms into a full-on grin.
“Can I help you?” he repeats.
“Oh. Umm . . . .” My eyes bounce between his pecs, his biceps, and his handsome smile.
Damn it, he’s too good-looking.
“I just wanted to apologize. I don’t usually drink much, and last night was . . . .” Was what? A disaster? “Did you really hit a guy?”
He chuckles softly, his gaze pinning me in place. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Wasn’t sure how much you’d remember.”
I cringe, repeating my apology from earlier. “I really don’t drink often, I swear. Last night was a major anomaly. I had a rough day, and the girls suggested we go out for drinks. I wasn’t planning on the night ending the way it did, and that’s why I came over to apologize.” Sheepishly, I look up at him. “I also wanted to thank you for making sure I got home safely. I’m a big girl, and I’m sure I could’ve figured it out by myself, but it’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead.”
His gaze softens, melting my heart right along with it. “Anytime, sunshine.”
I clear my throat before holding out the paper bag in my hand. “Here. It’s the least I can do.”
He takes the bag and peers inside, and I watch as his eyes light up. “My hero,” he jokes, digging the cronut out of the bag and taking a giant bite in front of me.
I giggle as I watch him devour the whole thing in a few seconds, possibly beating a world record with his massive bites.
“It’s a good thing I had mine on the way over, or I might be jealous,” I tease. My employee, Julio, mans the store on the weekends to give me a break from the shop, and I’m grateful he set aside a few extra cronuts for me. Rhett’s reaction made the early morning text message totally worth it.
He licks his thumb and forefinger, and I swallow thickly at the sight.
“I, umm . . . I guess I’ll see you around,” I offer before taking a step toward my door.
“See you around, Indie. Thanks again for the fix.”
He watches me until I close the door behind me with a soft click. The image of him licking his fingers runs on a constant loop in my head for the rest of the day.
Chapter 9
Rhett
I spend my Sunday lounging around, catching up on a few emails, and have just finished a lazy walk around Central Park while thinking of my cronut dealer and how she’s becoming more addictive than the food she makes.
That girl is the most beautiful masterpiece I’ve ever encountered. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. She’s breathtaking, both inside and out, and I can’t get her out of my head. It’s becoming a problem.
She is most definitely not single, and no matter how unstable her relationship with Anthony is, I won’t be the sledgehammer that demolishes it. No, she and Anthony aren’t married, and they don’t have kids. And no, I’m not in a relationship with anyone, so I have no ties or obligations.
But it would still make me too much like the type of person I vowed never to be—one who ignores the basic rule of, if it isn’t yours, don’t touch it.
I refuse to be my dad.
I won’t be.
Rounding the corner of my building, I find the girl of my dreams pacing back and forth with her cell to her ear.
I try not to eavesdrop, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
“You promised,” Indie hisses angrily into the phone.
She listens to the other person while I pull out my cell, pretending to send a text. My ears perk up at her familiar voice.
“I don’t care about your excuses, Tony. We talked about this. You said you’d be home an hour ago to get ready. You promised. Yet, here I am. Alone. I can’t go to a couples' cooking class by myself. It kind of defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”
Silence.
“You honestly expect me to be able to find someone in the next ten minutes to go with me? Really?” She’s pissed. “You can’t be serious right now.”
More silence on her end.
“Rhett? You expect me to go knock on our neighbor’s door and ask if he’s free to take me to a cooking class?”
She pauses.
“I don’t care if you know him and think he’s a nice guy. I don’t care that I know him and think he’s a nice guy. The point is that you bailed. Again.”
She sighs in defeat, and her posture crumples as she listens to whatever Anthony has to s
ay.
“Fine. I’ll talk to you later,” she murmurs in defeat before ending the call.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and clear my throat to let her know she isn’t alone. She glances over her shoulder and flinches as soon as her gaze connects with mine.
“Did you hear all of that?” She lifts her cell slightly then lets her hand fall back to her side.
“Just the tail end.”
She nods. “And?”
I scrunch my brows. “And what?”
“Well? Do you wanna come?” She can barely look at me when she asks, and I know it’s a mixture of embarrassment and anger that’s splashing across her cheeks. For once, it’s a blush that I don’t find endearing. No one should ever make this girl feel like anything less than the amazing soul she is. Still, with the way her eyes are glued to the yellow cab idling at the curb, it’s almost as if she’s asking the driver instead of me, which is kind of funny.
“Are you asking me or the taxi driver?” I tease.
She looks at me with her big doe eyes. Returning my playful smirk, she adds, “Oh, Gary doesn’t get off until ten. So I’m afraid you’ll have to do.”
I chuckle, grateful her sense of humor is still intact.
“I guess so. Let me change, and you can explain where we’re going on the way. Sound good?”
She nods again, and I feel like I might’ve just lifted a tiny bit of the weight from her shoulders. It feels good. The realization hits me as I pull the door to our building open. I’d be willing to carry a hell of a lot more of her baggage if she ever decided to throw it my way. And that’s a hell of a dangerous thought.
One I shouldn’t be having.
Didn’t I decide less than twenty minutes ago that I was going to put some distance between us? Didn’t I decide that I was playing with fire by getting close to her, and that I needed to put a stop to it before we both get burned?
And I’d be an idiot to think otherwise.
I head into my apartment and change into a casual button-up shirt and some dark denim jeans. Indie is wearing a soft blue summer dress with heels that seems like semi-casual attire, so I try to match the same dress level.
I don’t really know what a cooking class entails, but I’m pretty sure I’d jump off a building to see Indie smile so . . . I guess it doesn’t really matter.
By the time I grab my keys, Indie is leaning against the doorjamb, looking positively edible. I avert my attention from her long, tanned legs and attempt to focus on her face instead. Unfortunately, that only encourages my inappropriate thoughts. She’s absolutely gorgeous. I’d like to think that I’m used to her unique beauty by now, after seeing her during our casual run-ins in the hallway and my daily cronut fixes, but that isn’t the case.
The sight of her dark indigo eyes, her naturally rosy cheeks, and her bee-stung lips is still enough to knock me off my feet every time I see her. And that damn dress isn’t helping matters. Even a saint would have a hard time keeping it in his pants with that much silky skin on display.
And I’m no saint.
It’s gonna be a long night.
“So, where are we headed?” I ask as I lock the door.
“Have you heard of that restaurant, Charmant?”
I consider her question as we make our way to the elevator. “Yeah, I’ve heard really good things about that place, actually.”
“Well, there’s this famous French chef named Thomas Arquette who opened it. He teaches a couples' cooking class every six months or so, and Tony and I were going attend it tonight. Obviously, he couldn’t make it.” Her tone is bitter, and I don’t blame her. It’s easy to see that she’s been looking forward to this class. He let her down big-time.
If I had to guess, this isn’t the first time that has happened.
“And . . . do we get to eat the food we make?” I joke. My mouth waters over the prospect.
She laughs lightly before patting my abs. “Yup. All you can eat, mister.”
“Perfect,” I moan as I rub my stomach like I haven’t eaten in days. My mouth can almost taste the delicious cuisine already.
Fun Fact: I don’t cook. I’m terrible at it. I’ve never really had the time.
But I do love eating. Maybe I can sit back and relax while I watch Indie take over the world, one flaky croissant at a time.
We’re the last couple to arrive at the industrial-sized kitchen. There are six stainless-steel workstations set up, and each one has an array of knives, cutting boards, and other cooking supplies. They also have a stovetop built into the table, and beside each is a mini-fridge that’s stocked with vegetables and dairy products. Indie and I make our way to the only open station in the far left corner of the room.
An older gentleman struts to the front as soon as we get situated. He’s wearing a white chef’s hat perfectly positioned on his shaved head, and he begins his introduction.
“Bonjour. I am Chef Thomas Arquette.” He says his name like Too-ma. “You may refer to me as Chef or Chef Thomas while in my kitchen. I am terrible with names, so I shall refer to you as Sous Chef, comprenez-vous?”
There are six couples in all. We’re scattered throughout the room, and our heads bob up and down in unison.
“Bien,” he praises. “You should now be wearing your aprons, as cooking can be a bit messy, oui?” His accent is thick, but it oozes patience as well. I like the guy immediately.
Indie and I scramble to get our aprons on as the rest of the couples silently acknowledge Chef’s instructions.
“Today, we will be making soupe à l'oignon, beef bourguignon, and chocolate soufflé for dessert. Have any of you created these dishes?” He scans the room, but only a couple of people raise their hands. Indie is one of them.
Shocker.
“Parfait. You are here to learn, and I am here to educate you. Do any of you know what soupe à l'oignon means in English?” Again, he scans the room for volunteers, and Indie raises her hand.
“Oui?” Chef Thomas dips his chin at Indie.
“It’s French onion soup.”
“Parfait! And what is beef bourguignon?”
Indie smiles, enjoying the attention. “It’s similar to a beef stew, but the meat is braised in red wine.”
“Oui! Bravissimo!” He claps enthusiastically. “And we all know what chocolate soufflé is. It is a finicky dessert that has a habit of falling, non?”
The class laughs.
“I am very excited to be with you all today. I believe cooking is language de l'amour. It is a language of love. And that is why I continue to teach couples that are in l’amour how to cook. I am a very busy man, but I must make time for these things. They remind me why I started my voyage from the beginning. You see, I’ve always had a passion for cooking, but I did not truly begin my journey until I started cooking for mon amour. My love. I firmly believe that couples that cook together, stay together. And that, sous chefs, is why we are here today.”
Subtly, I glance to Indie and wonder what she’s thinking. It’s probably awkward for her to have me beside her instead of Anthony.
It’s definitely awkward for me.
But maybe she doesn’t mind? The other night, she said they didn’t have the best relationship, and if their phone conversation was any indication, this probably isn’t the first time he’s bailed on her.
Still, I should have declined. It doesn’t really matter if she’s completely comfortable with this situation.
I’m not.
I shouldn’t be here. We aren’t even a couple. I’m already having a difficult time reminding myself of that cold hard truth. I don’t need a French guy in a chef’s hat to make me think otherwise.
Indie’s face is tinged the lightest shade of pink as her gaze darts to mine.
Leaning forward, I whisper in her ear, “Do you think we should go?” I pull back to see her genuine reaction.
Her eyes hold mine for an eternity. She licks her lips and shakes her head. “No.”
“You sure?” I ask quietly, o
ur faces mere inches from each other.
She swallows thickly. “Positive.”
“Pay attention les oiseaux d’amour,” Chef interrupts from the front of the room. His voice is stern, but his eyes are kind. “You may save the intimate conversations for the bedroom, oui?”
Indie’s jaw drops.
We’re absolutely speechless when we realize he’s talking to us. Whether it’s from his reprimanding us in front of the class or his mention of the bedroom, I’m not sure. But we both nod like two school kids being threatened with detention.
“Parfait. Commençons.” I don’t know any French, but I assume he’s said something like, perfect, let’s get started, because he dives right into the soup preparations.
Indie’s a natural, which isn’t exactly a surprise considering her profession.
I, on the other hand, am scrambling to cut the onions thinly for the soup. After I butcher the first one into wide chunks, Indie laughs at my pathetic attempt.
“All right, Rhett. You’re looking like you might need a little help,” she says, trying to cover her teasing smirk with a gentle smile. Her tone reminds me of a preschool teacher helping a three-year-old use scissors for the first time.
Funny. This outing is reminding me a lot of school.
“Maybe . . .” I drag out the word. “Care to show me how it’s done?”
“Only because you asked nicely,” she teases before eyeing my position next to the cutting board. “Here, you’re holding the knife all wrong.”
She steps behind me, wrapping her skinny arms around my front. Carefully, she places her dainty little hand on top of mine as it wields the utility knife. The blade is only about five inches long, but it’s wicked sharp.
Her other hand grabs a fresh onion and places it on the cutting board.
“First, you need to cut a little off the side so that you have a flat end. It’s a lot easier to cut an onion when it isn’t rolling all over the cutting board.” I look over my left shoulder to find Indie’s indigo eyes peering up at me. Her lips are pulled into a teasing smirk.
