by K. K. Allen
I take a slow sip, my stare leaving his glassy blue one. Dang, he’s attractive. It’s unfortunate his appeal ends there. What a waste of a great-looking man.
The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile. “Let me get this straight. You’re cool with us drinking but not expressing our creative liberties through our fashion? You should really make up your mind.”
Desmond shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter because you’re disqualified.”
I squint to focus a little harder on his sexy mouth, which made absolutely no sense. “Come again.”
“If you think I didn’t notice you use your sister’s lobster, then you’ve underestimated me. And I don’t see any bread, which guarantees you won’t have a finished meal in the next twenty minutes. So…” He backs away before turning completely. “No certificate.”
My jaw falls in shock. I don’t think I can call it disappointment. I have never loved this class. So why am I pissed the hell off?
“Come back next month if you want to take this class seriously,” he says as he walks away.
Rage fills my body, causing my muscles to launch forward in his direction. “Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” I step around him, causing him to stop walking. “Look, I may not be your star pupil, but I deserve that certificate.”
“Oh yeah?” He leans in closer, and I’m fully aware that every eye in the room is on us now. “How so?”
I let out an outraged breath. Is he serious? “Because, Desmond, I’ve put in the time. I made the damn dish. I did everything except kill the poor lobster.”
“Yet you’d eat one?”
I growl in frustration. “It’s not the same thing.”
He shrugs. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I have rules, and I stick to them. If you can’t prepare a gourmet meal from scratch, then you can’t take home the certificate. Simple as that. What do you care anyway? You don’t even want to be here.”
“But I have been here. Every damn Saturday for the last three months.”
“The good news is you don’t need to retake all three months. One month will do.”
“What?” I screeched.
He rights his shoulders. “That’s the deal.”
“You’re such a prick.”
The corner of his mouth tips up as he backs away. “I’ve been called worse.”
It’s official. I may have disliked the guy before, but now I fucking hate Desmond Blake.
When One Door Closes
Desmond
Maggie was the first one to leave class, and I would be lying to myself if I denied the fact that I hated to see her walk away. She’s a feisty one, enjoyably so. Getting a rise out of her has become the highlight of my Saturday classes. When I first laid eyes on the bronze-skinned vixen with sun-kissed hair three months ago, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances. She was the definition of gorgeous: tall, slender yet curvy frame, bold stare, full pouty lips. She looked like one of the girls on my pinup calendar from when I was in high school and far too curious for my own good. But it became clear after a few short weeks that whatever charm I’d initially had on her had already waned.
The more I learned about the former LA model was enough to keep my disappointment short-lived. For one, Maggie hates my kitchen with a vibrant passion. Two, she dresses like she’s expecting a runway show to pop up at any moment. Three, the permanently poised look about her tiptoes the line between arrogance and class. Nothing would be wrong with any of the above if it didn’t come with a flashing neon sign that screams disrespect for me and the cooking school I practically built with my own two hands.
“Hey,” Gretta, my assistant, says as she rushes over to me with a flushed face.
“What’s up?” I mumble without looking up. I have my camera poised in my hands, and I’m snapping pictures at every angle imaginable of my finished ravioli dish. One day, I’ll do something with all these photos, but for now, I like to take the best ones and hang them on the walls of Edible Desire.
“Is it okay if I jet? I’ve got this school thing that I can’t miss.”
I look around at the mess left behind by everyone and let out a frustrated sigh. What can I say? No? “Again? The materials for the new shelving finally came in, and I was going to work on the storage closet tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Her face appears crestfallen, like she’s genuinely sorry, which she might be. But she’s not sorry enough to avoid repeating the same behavior day after day. “I can come in tomorrow to clean everything.” Her eyes float around the room, and I can practically see the dread buried beneath her expression.
I wave her away while pulling the camera and strap over my head and setting them gently on the front counter. “I’m not letting the mess sit for a day. Just go. Good luck. Maybe warn me next time?”
She lets out a relieved breath and nods. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
She rushes off, and the front door closes, leaving me alone to finish my photo session before I pick up a rag to start cleaning. Lucky for Gretta, I’m in a good mood. I usually am after I get done with a class. It’s just like that feeling I used to get in high school after winning a football game, when the adrenaline was so high, I couldn’t sit still even if I tried.
Who would have thought I would trade in my football gear for an apron? Certainly not me. In high school, I was the ultimate jock. I was the guy chicks stood in line to date despite my frequent spikes of anger and bad reputation for getting into fistfights. And usually, it was me who started them.
Looking back, I didn’t have a calm bone in my body until my football coach swooped in and taught me how to release my negative energy on the field. Coach Reynolds gave me a fresh start, a home, and a family. I’ll forever be grateful for the way he helped me carve a path to my future. Unfortunately, the man who saved me was the same man who abandoned Maggie when she was younger.
The chime on the door dings, and I curse myself for forgetting to lock up after Gretta left. I’m never going to finish cleaning this place if I can’t control the interruptions.
“Looks like you need more help around here.”
I look up to see Maggie’s sister, Monica, approaching me with a smile.
I return her smile with an amused one of my own as I start to wipe down a workstation in the front of the room. “Looks like you’re right,” I say without looking up again. I’m already dreading what Monica came here to talk to me about. Surely, it has everything to do with her sister. Maybe if she sees that I’m busy, she’ll go easy on me. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Maggie.”
I bite down my retort while she continues. I’ll need to tread this conversation lightly. Monica is dating my best friend, Zach, so I have a soft spot for the girl, one that doesn’t mix well with her troublesome sister or my anxious mood.
“I know you two have this… tension, but are you sure you can’t look past the whole lobster thing? She really wanted that certificate today.”
“Well, then she should have done the work.” My retort is snappier than I meant it to be, but as much as I love getting under Maggie’s skin, she sure gets under mine too.
“Really?” Monica challenges. “Is it really so bad that she didn’t want to kill a lobster? I think it’s kind of sweet.”
The term sweet and Maggie Stevens do not go together, but I refrain from letting that comment slip from my brain and out my throat. I’m not an idiot.
I stand straight, right my shoulders, and stare back at Monica with as much firmness as I can muster without coming off as a complete asshole. This will undoubtedly get back to Zach, and then I’ll have to explain myself to him too.
So be it.
“Look, Monica, it’s not just about the lobster. It’s about the past three months. She’s half-listening in every class, distracts the rest of the students with her heckling, and she makes it obvious to everyone that she doesn’t want to be here. Not only that, but she criticizes everything—the food, the kitchen, me.” My
eyes widen, hoping that I’ve made my point. “I can’t give a certificate to someone who doesn’t want one.”
Monica is biting her lip, and I can tell she’s holding back a laugh. Clearly, she doesn’t agree with anything I just said. But she eventually sighs and tries again. “It’s not like the fate of the free world is resting on Maggie’s cooking ability. Come on, Des. She’s going through a hard time right now, and you’re right—she doesn’t want to come to these classes—but she does it for me. The least you can do is give her the stupid certificate.” Monica’s eyes go wide at her own words. “I shouldn’t have said stupid. I’m sorry.”
I know Monica didn’t mean anything by it, but her words still sting. “It’s fine. I get it.”
She tilts her head, her smile morphing into a desperate plea. “So you’ll hand it over? You probably already printed it.”
I raise a hand and let out a sigh. If there’s one thing I have a weakness for, it’s a well-meaning pouty woman. I just don’t have the heart to disappoint Monica too. “Fine,” I growl. Then I walk around the island, slide open the top drawer, and pull out the single certificate that was meant for Maggie. I approach Monica and hand it over. “Tell her congratulations for me.”
Monica squeals, oblivious to my sarcasm, and hooks her arms around my neck in a hug. “You’re the best, Desmond. Thank you. Now why don’t you come have a drink with us downstairs at Shooters? Zach’s coming too.”
I scrunch my face. “Really? To the bar? He’s got a game tomorrow.” I know it’s preseason for the NFL, but Zach doesn’t mess around with his football schedule.
“He’s just stopping by for a minute. We haven’t seen much of each other lately. But you should come. Give the certificate to Maggie yourself. Maybe you two will even hit it off and stop fighting so much.”
I chuckle. “That sounds too much like a double date. I think one of us dating the coach’s daughter is enough, don’t you?”
Monica folds her arms across her chest. “It’s not a date at all. Just a hangout.”
Backing away, I shake my head. “I can’t. I really need to clean up the kitchen, and then I have a torn-up storage closet in the back room that’s screaming for my attention.”
Monica relents with a smile and backs away. “Okay, fine. But you and Maggie can’t avoid each other forever. She and I are kind of a package deal.” She raises her hands in a cute shrug. “You two should just kiss and make up already.”
“Ha,” I burst out. “That’s funny. Zach says the same thing.”
“With all the tension between you two, I’m surprised that hasn’t happened yet.” She sticks her tongue between her teeth and reaches for the door handle behind her. “If you change your mind, we’ll be downstairs.”
I watch her leave, but thoughts of Maggie linger on my mind as I go back to work. I can’t get over how Zach found someone so ridiculously perfect for him. And Monica has a point. Maggie will be unavoidable, at least until she moves back to LA once she realizes Seattle isn’t made for a woman addicted to the limelight.
Ugh. I don’t know why Maggie Stevens has the power to get under my skin the way she does, but I should be damn happy she’s not stepping foot in my class again after today. Except I don’t think I am happy, and it has nothing to do with the certificate she didn’t earn. I’ve spent my life staying away from women like her, women who are never able to sit still. Maggie is the type that cruises through her damn life without slowing down to experience the natural beauty of the world. Maggie Stevens wears her beauty like it’s a mask, and I don’t do charades.
Unable to settle my nerves, I reach for my camera to look through the photos I took in my class. The students signed a waiver when they first registered, allowing me to photograph them so that I could use the images for my website or other promotional material. But for some damn reason, the lens found Maggie more often than not.
I had photos of her tying back her hair, chopping herbs with a concentrated look on her face, and stirring the lemon-garlic sauce. At one point, I even aimed the camera at Monica but caught Maggie stealing a taste of her dish. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are parted. Dare I say, she looks to be savoring the moment like she’s dreaming of the taste before the pasta hits her mouth.
I shake my head. Who would have known? Maybe Maggie doesn’t hate my class as much as she wants me to believe.
Staring back down at the images of Maggie, I can’t help but feel a bit turned on by them. I’ve never considered my food photography erotic before, yet I’m growing hard at the thought of Maggie wrapping those saucy lips around my—
“Shit,” I curse under my breath as I power off my camera and set it back on the island. I don’t have time to entertain thoughts of the woman who can’t tell the difference between a lobster and a crab. No. I need to clean and then start on the closet before my early night turns into an all-nighter.
Just then, the still unlocked door to Edible Desire opens, and I swivel around to face it.
“Well, hi there, stranger,” the woman purrs. “Long time, no see.”
I grin at the familiar blonde with the ice-blue eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away once you tried my food.”
Faye steps forward with a grin and lets the door close behind her. “Well, you were right. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Coming from Five-Star Faye herself, I couldn’t be happier to hear those words. When I last saw her three months ago, I gave her a taste test to end all taste tests. But then I thought maybe I’d ruined my chances after I let her taste-test me.
I’ve never been against mixing business with pleasure, but after three months of silence, I thought maybe that was all she’d come for to begin with.
“Happy to hear I left a memorable taste in your mouth.” I grin, and she lets out a throaty laugh, one that surely comes from years of casual encounters just like the one we had. That should probably bother me, but it doesn’t.
I’ve always had a thing for experienced women. Perhaps it’s the idea of relationships never moving beyond a fleeting encounter. No strings. No commitments. No broken hearts. It’s easy, fun, and safe—just how I like it.
“I’m actually here with a pitch,” Faye says. “Should we sit?”
The swift transition from sexual innuendo to business doesn’t faze me a bit. I knew that if she did ever come back, I would sacrifice the sex to give whatever opportunity she was handing me a real shot.
I nod toward the dining section of the restaurant that I keep reserved for private events. It’s set up like a dining room with two twenty-foot-long solid wood tables made from a vendor around the corner at Pike Place Market. They’re decorated with a long white runner down the centers and gray candles of all different sizes scattered across them.
One thing I will miss if it ever comes to firing Gretta will definitely be her decorating skills. She always knows how to sprinkle class around the kitchen and at events, which is probably why she’s been spending so much time at design school. The girl is talented, perhaps too talented for what I’ve been paying her.
Faye takes a seat on the bench opposite me, looking more businesslike than the last time she stopped by. She’s dressed in a crisp navy dress suit, and her hair is pulled up in a half ponytail.
“So, just as you guessed, I love your kitchen—the food, the ambiance. Even the location screams something I’d put on Five-Star Faye.”
For some reason, I feel like rejection is in my future, which makes no sense. Why would she come all the way here to let me down? According to Faye, she didn’t do that.
“But?” I ask.
She smiles. “But we decided on our lineup for next season, and Edible Desire didn’t make the cut.”
My heart sinks, and I’m surprised by my own disappointment. It’s not like I need Faye’s show. The kitchen does well on its own with zero advertisement, but I’ve started getting excited about all the potential growth a little extra money could give me.
Growth. It’s something that h
as been in the back of my mind since Zach and I opened the place. The initial idea was completely his, but the moment he handed me the reins, I wanted more. I still want more. Edible Desire can be so much beyond just a cooking school. I have more than enough recipes to open a restaurant and a full-scale catering business rather than the one-man-show catering services I offer now. We could even have a bakery department and open up a food truck at the public street market around the corner. But above all things, I want to hire more staff to keep the kitchen running without me working ninety-plus hours a week.
After meeting Faye, I started to believe all of the above could actually come true.
“That’s why you’re here? To break the bad news?”
Faye chuckles again. “No, Desmond. I’m not that cruel. After discussing some ideas with the network, the conclusion was that Five-Star Faye should stick to reviewing restaurants, not cooking schools. It just didn’t fit the show.”
Great.
“But,” Faye starts up again, “my pitch for Edible Desire gave us all a new idea for a different type of show. A spin-off of Five-Star Faye, if you will. One that embraces the challenges of running a successful business like yours. Farm-to-table is all the rage nowadays, and you execute that brilliantly here. You teaching your students how to cook from scratch is identifiable, which is exactly what our average viewer wants to tune in to see.
“Not only that, but you’re in a prime location, and the charities you support deserve recognition too. After the network and I talked, our ideas were endless, and we couldn’t see you slotted into one thirty-minute show, simply put.”
“But how?”
Faye shrugs. “Just do what you do, and my crew will shoot it. I’m picturing more of a documentary-style show.”
“Like a reality show?”
She nods and shrugs as though she’s still considering her options. “Possibly. We wouldn’t dig into your personal life as much as we’d be going behind the scenes of running a cooking school, mixed with the art of cooking from scratch. The ladies will love you, Desmond.”
