Through the Lens

by K. K. Allen

  “I already told you I’m meeting with that job recruiter you hooked me up with from BelleCurve on Monday. She thinks she has something for me. Maybe there’s some sort of radio job out there, or maybe I can jump on the fashion-design bandwagon like you.”

  Monica laughs. “Really? You’ve never sewn a damn thing in your life.”

  I huff out a breath as I continue pounding the pavement beside her. “I can learn. How hard could it be?”

  She shrugs. “You can learn. You know the industry. You’ve got an eye for fashion. Open enrollment is coming up at the Art Institute. Maybe you should consider it.”

  I scrunch my nose at the mention of school. “I don’t know. I guess that’s an option if I can’t figure things out on my own.”

  With BelleCurve’s creative connections, I have high hopes. Moving from one state to another definitely put a kink in my sudden need for a career change. At least in LA, I had connections—so-called friends who knew someone that knew someone. But moving back is not an option, not yet anyway.

  “I don’t understand why you even need BelleCurve to help you. When you moved here, you had your sights set on acting. You went and got that agent and everything.”

  Ugh. If there is a subject worse than my exit from modeling, it’s this one. “Well, nothing has come of that yet.”

  “Are you still auditioning? Don’t give up if that’s still what you want.”

  I shrug, desperately wanting to move on from this conversation. I haven’t minded that Monica has been too caught up in her own situation to realize I’ve made a shit storm out of my own. When I moved here, I didn’t correct Monica when she thought I would focus on pursuing acting in Seattle. It’s what she thought I always wanted to do. Hell, even I had made myself believe that lie. There’s just never a right time to tell her the truth.

  “I’ll find something soon. Trust me. I want off your couch just as much as you want me off.”

  “I just want to see you happy, Mags.”

  I give her the side-eye, once again realizing that my sister has grown up a hell of a lot since she moved here, away from my mother and me. I feel a twinge of jealousy at what she’s been able to accomplish free of our mother’s clutches—the same clutches I should have broken free from ages ago.

  The tables have definitely turned, and I can’t seem to find my way out from underneath them.

  We start up the stairs to get to the second floor, where the cooking school is, when Monica halts and swivels around to face me. “Promise me you’ll have fun today. This certificate means a lot to me.”

  I bite back a laugh. “What’s the deal anyway? I thought you were just doing all this cooking stuff to impress Zach. You already got the guy.”

  She releases her hard look, and her eyes soften. “It’s not all about Zach. I actually enjoy this cooking stuff now. It’s fun, and it’s nice to not blow my paychecks on takeout all the time.” She sighs. “But don’t worry. After today, you never have to come back. I only invited you because I thought it would be fun for us to do together.”

  My shoulders sag with my exhale as guilt tranquilizes my mood. “I know. So did I. But that was before the instructor turned into a major asshole.”

  Monica chuckles as we stop at the top of the stairs in front of the main entrance. “Desmond is not that bad.”

  I huff, not budging from my stance. “You’re just saying that because he’s Zach’s best friend.”

  “No.” Monica shakes her head. “I’m saying that because I’ve gotten to know Desmond, and while he may be a little rough around the edges, he’s actually a good guy. Zach wouldn’t have chosen him to run the cooking school if he wasn’t.”

  I roll my eyes at the millionth mention of her boyfriend today. I’ve officially lost my sister to lovesick-puppy status. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange to be so fond of two guys who Dad has spent more time with than us? After Dad abandoned our family when we were kids.”

  Monica cuts me a glare. “Please, not this again, M.” Our dad gave us the nicknames M&M when we were little. For some reason, Monica became M and I became Mags.

  “Why not this again? That’s the reality of it, isn’t it? Dad disappeared and got himself a new family. Then he took Zach and Desmond under his wing.”

  “Stop talking about Dad like he’s a bad guy. He messed up, but Mom wasn’t perfect either, which you’d know if you gave Dad a chance to explain. Just talk to him, and—”

  I narrow my eyes, cutting her off, then push my way through the entrance. There’s no way I’m letting her go on about what a great guy our dad is now. Having an affair is one awful thing, but starting a new family while completely abandoning the one that already exists? There’s no forgiving him for what he did to us.

  I shake the negative thoughts from my mind as Gretta, Desmond’s assistant, beams at me when I approach. “Hey, Maggie. You ready for certification day?”

  Already spun out of shape, I’m about to tell her exactly what I think about certification day when Monica pushes against my side and starts gushing about her excitement. I snort my disdain.

  “What’s the matter, Maggie?” calls a deep voice from the front of the room. “Sad today’s your last day with me?”

  My eyes snap to find Desmond Blake—full beard and man bun on point—in all his cocky glory, currently leaning over a countertop while chatting with another female student. Flirting, no doubt. It’s what he does. It’s why the class is filled with ninety percent women and a few grumbling husbands.

  Last month when I first laid eyes on his hot, tall, Southern bod, I couldn’t peel them away. Our flirtation was on another level, but it didn’t last long. I came to find out his flirtation wasn’t reserved for me alone. The batting eyelashes, undress-me stare, wicked smile, and syrupy sweetness were all part of his schtick.

  “It doesn’t have to be, you know?” he continues with a grin. “You could always come back next month.”

  My laugh is instantaneous, bubbling up my throat before I can stop it. “The only way you’ll ever catch me in this kitchen again will be in your dreams, Desmond Blake. I’ll take my certificate and be on my way, thank you very much.”

  “You’ll have to earn it first.”

  The smug challenge in his tone can’t be ignored, and neither can the rattling in my chest as our fierce eyes meet. His are a sharp blue. Mine are a shade of light brown that the camera always loved. The mere fact that this guy can get under my skin is starting to bother me more than his bad jokes.

  “Ignore him, Mags,” Monica says softly. “He just loves to get you all flustered. I think he likes you.”

  I bark out a laugh and follow my sister to our side-by-side stations. “We’re not in kindergarten, M. Twenty-six-year-old men don’t tug ponytails and joke about your incompetencies. Real men will let you know they like you. They’ll call you on the phone, open your doors, compliment you for all the little things. Real men act like fucking gentlemen.”

  Monica bites her lip around her laugh. “It’s good to see you still have your Southern roots.”

  I smile at that, feeling warmth in my chest just thinking about back home where we grew up in Texas.

  “Couldn’t shake these boots from me even if you tried.”

  She grins, and for a split second, I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at her for dragging me here. At the end of the day, my sister is my best friend. She’s the only person who will ever understand the real me and where I came from. She’s the only one who could ever understand the hurt we shared together as young girls. And I would do anything for her, including suffering through another dreadful cooking class.

  I look at the empty cooking station in front of me and know I need to suck it up. “All right, one last session of torture, and then you’re buying me a drink. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Hey, Maggie.”

  I jump at the deep voice and turn to find Desmond resting against my cooking station with a wolfish grin. My entire body instantly hea
ts. His bulky arms are clearly visible beneath his short-sleeved black shirt. His teeth are white enough to belong in a toothpaste commercial. And the man looks so good in an apron that I won’t be able to look away if I try. I don’t even attempt to.

  “Desmond,” I greet with all the syrupy charm I can muster. “I can’t imagine what I did to deserve the honor of your close proximity.”

  He tilts his head in a gesture that tells me he’s accepting my challenge. Banter. Insults. Witty comebacks. It’s our thing, which somehow makes this class a little bit more bearable.

  “Just thought you should know, I looked you up online the other day. Monica mentioned you used to model, and I was curious.”

  No. My heart rate spikes with fear of what he’s getting to. The amusement in his expression nearly confirms it all.

  “And I found a very interesting video,” he continues, his arrogance starting to smell like a bad cologne.

  Shit. I haven’t even told Monica about my fall on the runway, not that she would breathe a word about it to anyone. But she’s been so consumed in her own love life that I haven’t even attempted to broach the subject. In fact, I’d hoped that video would just disappear right along with my past.

  But Desmond knows. Desmond looked me up online and found the fucking viral video. He surely had a laugh at my expense.

  “Hope you got enough material for your spank bank because those days are behind me.”

  “Oh, I got enough material all right, but not for my spank bank.” He chuckles. “I had no idea you were so viral. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t call me out, but he says enough for me to know that he saw too much. Then he winks and backs away from my station like he didn’t just poke at one of my deepest, freshest wounds.

  He points a finger at my shirt. “Don’t forget to put on your apron. Wouldn’t want you to ruin those fancy clothes.”

  10 minutes later

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” I shriek as Desmond walks away after setting a pinchy crawler at my workstation. With his little beady black eyes and long thick whiskers, the lobster looks more like a character from The Little Mermaid than a meal I’m supposed to prepare. I just know he’s going to start singing and dancing at any moment.

  “Um,” I call out, not daring to look away from the moving critter. “It’s still moving.”

  He glances at me from over his shoulder. “That’s what your boiling water is for.”

  My peripheral gaze catches on my pot of boiling water, and I cringe. “You want me to kill Sebastian? Is Scuttle next?”

  I hear his deep chuckle, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the longest whiskers I’ve ever seen. “If you’re referring to the crab in The Little Mermaid, then you’ve got your sea creatures confused.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not killing that thing either way.”

  I knew we were cooking a seafood dish today from scratch, but I didn’t think Desmond was going to make us kill the damn ingredients first. I glance at an amused Gretta who is setting down the recipe on my stainless steel workstation.

  “I don’t blame you,” she whispers with a shake of her head. “I could never do it.”

  I can feel my insides trembling. “This is inhumane,” I hiss back at her.

  She just chuckles and walks to the next station.

  I straighten my spine and glare at the set of broad shoulders now making their way to the front of the room. “I won’t do it.”

  Desmond swivels around, locking eyes with me. “If you can’t prepare the meal, you’re free to leave, but you won’t leave with a certificate.”

  My jaw drops. I shouldn’t even care, seeing as I never wanted to come to class to begin with. But I’m less than two hours from putting closure on the last three months of classes I’ve endured. I’m not going to just walk away. I’ve earned that certificate. “Give me something else to make. You can’t make me kill a live lobster.”

  There’s chuckling around the room because, apparently, I’m the only one having a hard time with this. Even my sister is biting her lip with amusement, the traitor.

  “I’m not handing out individual assignments. I’m sorry, Maggie, but no lobster means no certificate.”

  My chest puffs as heat wraps around my body like a raging fire.

  “C’mon, Mags, you can do it,” Monica says with a gentle nudge. That’s her, the eternal optimist. I swear there’s never been a dare my sister hasn’t accepted in her life.

  I don’t know how long I stand at my station, fuming, but at some point, Monica is by my side, setting her cooked lobster on my station. “Take mine. He’ll never have to know,” she whispers. “Now start on the shallots, or you’ll get too far behind.” She grabs my lobster and plops it in her still-boiling pot.

  When I raise my eyes to hers, she just winks and goes on about her mission. I do as she says and prepare the pan and shallots to get them cooking. Then I stare at the poor cooked lobster and contemplate becoming a vegan.

  It’s not like I eat much meat anyway. I’m more of a salad-with-a-dash-of-olive-oil kind of woman. My one indulgence is pasta on the odd occasion. Besides the whole kill-a-lobster part of class, I find my mouth watering for the ravioli part of the meal.

  I manage to mix up the shallots with the lobster and some ricotta and Parmesan cheese for the filling. Then I lay them in spoonfuls on a pasta sheet. Easy peasy. Once my raviolis are boiling, I start on the lemon-garlic sauce then set it to simmer.

  This whole cooking thing isn’t entirely bad, but it doesn’t mean I would want to come back here again. After today, I’ll be set free, and I can go back to spending my Saturdays on the couch, flipping through fashion magazines.

  I’m leaning over my workstation, tapping my fingers on the stainless steel, bored out of my mind, when I hear my sister’s frustrated growl beside me. I look at her over my shoulder, noting her flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

  She swipes her forehead with the back of her hand as she looks my way. “How are you done already?”

  I shrug and stand up, glancing quickly at the lobster ravioli I made from scratch. “It was easy after the whole lobster murder.”

  She winces. “Don’t say that. I’m the one who did the murdering.”

  “Twice,” I remind her, only to receive a heartfelt frown. Just because my sister is braver than me doesn’t mean she enjoyed boiling the damn thing. Neither of us have had much experience with cooking, and while she’s much better now than she was three months ago, I know she wants to prove to herself that her skills extend beyond fashion design.

  I attempt to get off the subject of murder. “Anyway, there was nothing to it. Shred the lobster, prepare a garlic-lemon sauce, and let it simmer on the stove.”

  Monica turns her focus back to me and squints. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I look at my countertop and shrug. The hardest part of it all is timing everything perfectly so that one thing doesn’t cook sooner than the rest. As a matter of fact, I am quite pleased with myself. The only thing there is a wine bottle chilling in a bucket of ice. I pull it out and flash Monica a grin. “Guess I better crack this baby open.”

  I dare a look at Desmond while I pour myself a glass. He’s at the front of the room, observing the class. Then his eyes meet mine with a narrowed challenge, as if he can’t believe I accomplished anything, much less prepared an entire gourmet meal from scratch.

  Monica clears her throat, turning my attention back to her while I sip from my glass. “I meant the bread. Did you start your loaf?”

  Her words are like a bash on the head. “Oh no.” I set down the wine and smoosh my face in my hands. “I completely forgot. Crap. No.” That should have been the first thing I did. But I was distracted with the thought of killing the lobster.

  I swivel in a circle, suddenly drawing a blank. I don’t remember what I’m supposed to do. “Shit,” I squeak, a little too loud.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  H
air spikes on my skin, and a wave of heat rolls through my insides. That’s pretty much the effect Desmond Blake has on me now. It used to be flutters in my tummy and flushed cheeks just from looking at him. Then he had to go and open his mouth.

  Okay, so his mouth is pretty nice. He even has one of those deep voices that could work me like a vibrator if placed in just the right spot. But the words that come out of it tend to make me want to clench my fists and spew a rebuttal.

  “Of course not.” I try to control my voice, but I can feel my insides quivering. “Everything is parfaite.” I push my fingers together and kiss the tips of them. “Trés bien.”

  “This isn’t a French dish, Maggie.”

  “Oh.” I can feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment, but I quickly turn my fluster into confidence. I push Desmond aside with my elbow in an effort to reach the stove. “Excuse me. You’re distracting me.”

  He catches my elbow before I can completely turn away and narrows his eyes. His look continues to harden as it travels down to my apron.

  “What?” I ask, finding it impossible to hide my utter annoyance. His frozen gaze forces me to look down at the apron I found online. I was sick of wearing the blue-and-yellow Edible Desire aprons, so I opted to buy a bundle of my own. This one is black and reads, “Fuck me, I’m the Chef” in gold metallic lettering. “Oh.” I quickly realize Desmond doesn’t find it the least bit funny.

  Then his eyes snap to mine. “There are kids in here.”

  I toss my head to the right and look at a young girl with her mother a few stations over. They’re laughing and mixing something on the stove, totally oblivious to the scolding I’m getting.

  “No one even saw it.” Frustrated, I reach around Desmond and pick up my wine. I place the cool glass against my lips, my forehead lifting when I realize he’s not walking away. He’s just standing there. His brows are furrowed, an angry dimple has popped in his cheek, and wisps of curly auburn hair have abandoned his otherwise perfect-looking man bun. I can’t remember the last time I got under someone’s skin like this, but I recognize the look because he has the same effect on me.