by Vivien Vale
"Look," I say, "Do you see this rice? I scoop it into the prongs of my fork. It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice? And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara. It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab … a fish brick."
"Um, Nicole," Sarah says, but I don't let her finish.
"And don't even get me started about the soup again," I say. "These potatoes? You don't even—"
But Sarah clears her throat and nods her head over my shoulder.
"I wouldn't, um—I, uh—" she says, her voice catching in her throat.
But I cut in again. "Oh come on Sarah. We all know he's easy on the eyes, but that doesn't mean his food is—"
Then I stop. I notice Sarah's eyes fixed on a figure just beyond my left shoulder and I can't help but turn around and see what she's so focused on.
And when I do, my heart nearly stops in my chest.
I look over and lock my gaze on two eyes the color of the Atlantic.
They pierce me like a set of hooks.
It doesn't take me long to realize who it is.
It's Chef Palmer.
And he's … smiling?
My mind races. How long has he been standing there? What exactly did he hear? Did he hear the part about me talking shit about his food, or the part where I dismiss his Michelin star?
And how did I not know how handsome he was?
It's times like this where I wish I had an invisibility cloak, or a button to teleport right out of this restaurant. Anything to disappear.
Palmer senses my discomfort.
"You were saying?" he smiles, flashing me a disarmingly white smile.
His teeth are unnaturally white … like something out of a toothpaste commercial.
I'm in the hot seat now. I can't hide from this, or backpedal.
I need to own up to it.
"I was just expecting something … different," I say.
"I take it this isn't meeting your expectations?"
He knows it isn't. It's a rhetorical question.
"I've had better," I say, standing my ground.
His eyebrows jump in an arc. "Is that so?"
"This fish … this starch … I was expecting more from The Pearl. There's a lot of hype about this place."
I watch as he crosses his arms and I notice a black blemish on the sleeve of his chef's coat … as if it caught on fire. It looks like he hasn't had the smoothest of openings, and I find my heart going soft at the thought … as a chef, I know how hard it is to run a kitchen, but I quickly shake that from my mind.
He's the competition.
He's part of the problem in this city … overpriced, soulless food.
"Fine," he smiles, his eyes still on mine. "Come here tomorrow after closing hours and I'll show you what real food is all about."
Nicole
Whenever I'm feeling this way, I like to sit down at the small table for two in the corner of the restaurant that gets the most sunlight. I close my eyes and let the warm rays caress my skin. Today is one of those days; and lucky for me I get to share a few minutes with Kate before the lunch rush hour. She’s the best friend, and employee, I could ask for. But even she's testing my nerves today.
I take a deep breath and gaze out the window into the busy street; his words ringing in my ears. I’ve replayed them so many times, overlapping them with my own thoughts that they morphed into something else. An uncontrollable ravenous monster that is eating all my time and concentration.
I chuckle and then frown. I can’t remember what he said word for word anymore, just the gist of it. Real food. He said he’ll show me what real fucking food is. That bastard.
“You okay, boss lady?” Kate asks full of concern.
I must have a sour look on my face, because she only calls me that when she is trying to brighten my mood.
“It’s just…” I mumble, struggling to find words. “How do I put this plainly, Kate—”
“Careful now, Mrs. West is here for tea and scones with her daughter in law.”
I’m glad she interrupted me; it saved me the embarrassment of having to apologize for the long string of foul words that was parading through my head. “He’s an asshole,” I whisper. “A total asshole.”
“A rich one,” she says with a nod over her, ‘Coffee, because crack is not allowed at work,’ coffee mug.
“Sure, whatever, but I don’t have to—”
“Wait!” Kate blurts out while slamming her mug down to the table, clearly harder than she had expected as her eyes widened. “Nicole, you’re not…”
“Not what?” I say over the rattling of silverware.
Gasping, she says, “Tell me I’m wrong?”
I want to play it off, but it's like she can read my mind. Just another reason why we work so well together.
“You’re going to pull one of your, ‘I’m too busy working’ tricks,” Kate says while rudely pointing at me. “You’re gonna close yourself down and hide in that tiny office of yours all day and night.”
I was beginning to question who I was most annoyed with in the moment: Kate or Palmer. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah you will. You’ll treat last night like it never happened. You’ll pretend the most famous chef in the world didn’t just move in on your territory and issue you a challenge. Damn, girl, people got shot for things like that in the wild west. You gonna let him claim jump you? Cause I’m not going to allow that to happen.”
I laugh. “You’re not, huh?”
“Nope.”
I sit there and watch a plan formulate behind her eyes. My head is swimming. His words. My words. Kate’s words. It's all a jumbled mess. Should I just tell her to stop and go back to work, or should I pull rank and tell her it's over—to drop it? Maybe she's right. I'm not sure, and something holds my words inside my throat, so I let her keep talking.
“You like checklists, Nicole, well, let’s make one.”
Tilting my head, and narrowing my eyes, I give her a cross look. “Okay…”
“Palmer is gorgeous. I mean-yeah-hot.” Kate turns apple-red in the face as she says so. Is it the steam from her coffee? No, she's been sipping that for the past thirty minutes. “Before he came to town, I would have said you were the best-looking restaurant owner around.”
“Great. Fine. Sure, he’s good looking.” I shrug. “Yeah, hot, I guess. Why does that matter?”
Kate is mirroring my look, a habit of hers when she thinks I'm saying something off. Normally I see this during business related decisions, but her meaning in this moment is not lost on me.
“He’s a super-famous celebrity and that alone equals a ton of attention. Just think about the burst of social media awareness you’d be getting. I bet a hundred or more tweets.”
“And how would I glean from his celebrity, Kate? How?”
“Any fucking way possible.”
I nod at the nearest customers, causing Kate to grimace as she continues.
“All it would take is a couple of dates—”
“Dates?”
“Yeah, public ones. Get people interested in you two, then redirect all the attention back here to the restaurant, Nicole. You know, we could use the business.”
“I want people to come to my restaurant because the food is good, not because…”
Leaning forward, Kate begins to whisper. “Because you’re sleeping with the hottest guy in town?”
“No!” I raise my voice, nearly spitting in her face.
She shakes her head while crossing her arms and leaning back; I can tell she is frustrated with me. She wants to see me find a good man. All she wants is for me to be as happy as she is. But Palmer—yeah—he’s an asshole.
“Fine… Because you and another restaurant owner are battling it out for best of the best.” Yawning, she sarcastically says, “So scandalous…”
I think a moment. I already knew Percy was on my side. “You think the critics would compare us?”
“Haven’t they already?”
Kate is making a go
od point. But how can I compete with Palmer’s money and celebrity? I begin to wonder. The food. I realize. My food is way better. He might have more Instagram followers, but I’m the better chef.
“You’re right, Kate.” A calmness washes over me. “I’ll go to his restaurant tonight. He can spend all his time and money trying to impress me, because in the end I know what really matters.”
Kate smiles. “And what’s that?”
“The backbone of any good restaurant.” I say retuning her smile. “Heart.”
Now I can’t wait to see Palmer fail.
Palmer
I pace the kitchen, and look at my watch.
She should be here any minute. It's not like me to feel this anxious…especially not over a woman I hardly know. But this woman seems different.
Just as I think this, I look up and see her figure through the glass doors. I walk over and unlock it for her.
"You made it," I say, gesturing her inside.
"I thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself," she grins. "How could I say no?"
My eyes travel the length of her body. She certainly didn't dress up for the occasion, but she looks stunning all the same.
She's beautiful, with waves in her hair curvier than macaroni, and she smells like a garden—fruity and floral, like apple blossoms and amber and sliced peaches and sandalwood.
It's intoxicating.
Honestly, I'd fuck her if she wasn't such a smart ass.
"So what's on the menu tonight?" she says, pulling her hair over one shoulder.
"Oysters," I grin.
She rolls her eyes. "You're joking, right? Does this sort of thing usually work on the women you invite over for dinner?"
"Why do women do that?"
"Do what?"
"That."
"I don't understand," she says, shaking her head. "What do you mean?"
"Always assume a guy's intentions," I say.
"Because men are easier to read than a book," she smiles.
"Not this one," I grin. "And besides, I guarantee you've never had oysters like this before. So, suspend judgment."
She sits down. "Fine. Try me."
Before I bring out the oysters, I pour her a glass of white wine and watch as she brings it to her lips.
She's not admitting it yet, but based on the look in her eyes, she's already impressed.
I bring out a tray of freshly shucked oysters on ice. I watch her eyes light up with curiosity.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks.
"I like secrets."
"I've never had oysters like these before."
"Well then, what kind of chef are you?" I say, laughing and giving her a hard time.
"It's true. Glidden Point Oysters, right? They're rare, and I'm a little … nervous," she laughs. There's an innocence hidden in her eyes and it makes my heart kick in my chest.
I want to pull her close to me and allow myself to get drunk on her smell alone. I want to feed her the most expensive foods that money can buy.
I shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to keep this professional.
I squeeze a wedge of lemon on the oysters and watch their flesh ripple from the acidity.
"You see that?" I say, and Nicole nods. Never eat a raw oyster that isn't still alive.
I reach for her hand. It's delicate for the hands of a fellow chef, and the realization of it makes my cock twitch. "Here," I say, placing a small fork between her fingers.
She grabs it and follows my lead.
"Move it around in its own liquor," I say, her hand still in mine, and together we give the oyster a gentle swirl.
She pulls back for a second. "There are other ways to eat an oyster, you know." It's as if she's trying to prove that she knows her way around food, and doesn't need my lead.
"Trust me," I reply, locking my eyes on hers. "Taste it…and you won't want it any other way."
I take the fork from her hand and replace it with the shell of the oyster.
"Here, hold it." I watch as she grabs it with the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers, the scarlet polish on her nails flashing against the cold grey of the shell. I lean in close, speaking just above a whisper.
"Go ahead," I say.
She begins to part her moist lips, bringing it to her mouth.
"Do you suck or swallow?" I grin.
"Very funny, Palmer."
"Bad joke, I know. But seriously, you really should just take it down your throat," I say, a grin forming across my lips. "It's really the only acceptable way."
She returns the smile, and raises it back to her lips. I watch as her lips part again, and she places the edge of the shell to her mouth.
She tilts her head back, exposing her slender throat to me, and for a second, I imagine dragging my tongue across it and resting it against her pulse. I wonder how fast her heart is beating, and what her pulse would feel like fluttering beneath my tongue.
Would it feel like a trapped butterfly? Or the purr of a sports car?
Fuck, this woman is something else.
She throws her head back and I watch as her throat swells.
"So?" I ask, as soon as she finishes.
She smiles. "That was…pretty good."
"Pretty good? Is that all?"
"Fine. It was amazing."
"I'm glad. Because there's more where that came from," I say, looking down at the chilled platter. "Wouldn't want these to go to waste."
She reaches for another, repeating the process. As she does it, my eyes travel down the length of her body, savoring the deep crevice between her breasts.
"So…tell me," I say. "What's your real motive for meeting me tonight?"
"What makes you think I have a motive?"
"Everyone has a motive."
She considers this for a moment. "Well, your dishes didn't impress me opening night, and like I said, I wanted to give you another chance."
"Have I left you with a different impression?" I ask.
"Very," she smiles.
"Good. Still hungry?"
"You have no idea."
As if my cock wasn't hard enough already, now it's as stiff as steel. And as much as I want to bend her over my kitchen, I know I need to keep it professional.
She takes another slow sip of wine and carefully places the glass down.
There's a slight imprint of her lips left on the rim of her glass from her lipstick. She's relaxing…even her legs are loose and she parts them slightly. She grabs my hand and brings it to the top of her warm, soft, thigh.
"You know what I think?" she says.
"I don't pretend to know," I say, shaking my head.
Her question hangs in the air, thick and full of promise.
"I think that if you want to see real food," she says, "You should come over to my apartment tomorrow."
Nicole
What was I thinking? Inviting someone like Palmer over to my small, cramped apartment? I must be going crazy.
He's going to take one look at this place and come up with an excuse to leave.
I'm sure he owns shoe closets bigger than my apartment…and furniture worth more than anything I own.
This is embarrassing.
I sit back on the sofa and take another sip of my wine. It immediately transports me back to last night—his restaurant, the way he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, and those oysters…don't even get me started on those oysters.
They were that good. One taste and I was practically throwing myself at him.
How did that even happen? I've never acted that way before. What's wrong with me?
I grab my cell phone and immediately type a question into Google: Are oysters really aphrodisiacs?
Google gives me 128,000 results…and I immediately start reading about Casanova, an 18th century lover who supposedly ate 50 oysters for breakfast every morning to keep up his sexual stamina enough to bed over a hundred women. Can you imagine eating that many in a single day?
W
as that Palmer's plan all along…to get me all hot and bothered?
Well, if they worked for Casanova…
Then my eyes continue to scan the screen, and I see articles about oysters linked to increased fertility. The thought of that makes my face flush.
Is my face flushing from the wine…or the thought of my fertile body against Palmer's?
Oh God, I'm a mess.
I shake my head.
Snap out of it, Nicole! Now's not the time to be thinking about fertility… especially not next to the image of Palmer.
If Palmer thinks he's getting into my bed tonight, he's wrong.
Just then, I hear a knock at the door.
Shit. He's here!
I place my glass of wine down and quickly straighten my dress. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, fixing my hair and making sure my mascara isn't smudged.
Then I hurry toward the door, take a deep breath, and open it.
The sight of him almost makes my breath catch in my throat, and I stand there dumbly looking at him for what seems like an embarrassing amount of time.
He bends down to pick up something that he drops, and as he does this, I can see the muscles in his thighs flex and stretch the fabric of his suit.
A new heat flushes across my face.
God, this man is hot.
I have to keep reminding myself that I invited him here tonight to cook for him…and nothing else.
"Come in," I say, opening the door wide enough for him to enter.
He smiles and immediately starts joking with me. "You sure you want to cook for me tonight?" he says. "I'm not easily impressed."
"Well, get ready to be surprised," I say.
He walks into the living room and looks around the apartment. I can't help but feel self-conscious. My place has to be far more humble than the places he's used to.
"Cute place," he says.
"You don't have to say that."
"I mean it," he says. "It's cozy…in a good way."
"Well, the magic is in the kitchen," I say, trying to divert his attention from the mismatched furniture and worn out carpet of the living room, and he follows me.
"Is this the only place where all the magic happens?" he asks.
I know exactly what he's insinuating, but I pretend to ignore it.
"The pasta should be done," I say, changing the subject.
