Through the Lens

by K. K. Allen

  “Hey,” Desmond says. “That’s my room.”

  Monica’s eyes shine. “Well, then maybe you two can share. Y’all are best friends now, right?”

  Desmond chuckles while I feel a look of horror painting my face. I want to strangle my sister.

  “Not quite,” I say, narrowing my eyes in Desmond’s direction. “But it looks like I’m starting work today, so…” I ignore the huge smile Desmond throws me and continue. “We’re just here to grab some stuff and then pick out what I want the movers to bring over later.”

  Monica looks between us and nods. “Okay. Well, your suitcases are in the living room, and the guys will drop the bed and couch off when they’re done here. If you want anything else, just let them know. Whatever stays on the truck will go to storage.”

  With that, Desmond leads me down the stairs, carrying my suitcases. I hop on the moving truck and label a few select items with the Post-its Monica handed me, and then we’re back at the car.

  “What’s the deal with you and your sister anyway?” Desmond asks as he loads my suitcases into his small back seat. He manages to squeeze them in somehow. “You two are nothing alike.”

  “Let me guess. She’s the nice one, and I’m the bitch?” I pull open the passenger door and wait for him to walk around to his side.

  He makes a face at me. “I never said that. She just seems more… outgoing and happy, while you’re…”

  I cringe as he tries to find the right word to describe my contrast to my sister.

  “Not,” he finally says. Then he pulls open his door and sinks into his seat. I follow suit with a sigh.

  It wasn’t the first time someone had called us out on our stark differences, especially since being in Seattle. Thankfully, I never take offense to it. “We’ve always been that way. Every experience we’ve faced has shaped us differently, I guess. But I think her moving here alone forced her to mature quickly. She’s grown stronger and more independent throughout the years, and I’ve just become more hardened to the world, less forgiving.”

  Desmond nods, making me wonder if he truly does understand. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Uh, no,” he says simply. “Zach’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother. We’re pretty opposite too. He’s always been the super successful one, and I…” He shakes his head, telling me he’s not going to finish his thought.

  “You don’t think you’re successful?”

  “Nah, it’s not like that. I just feel like I’ll always be paying for some crime or another. If it’s not for being a total jackass as a kid, it’s being a shitty son now, or being a boss whose employee wants to skip out on him. I’m in a perpetual cycle of trying to do better, give back, but I’ll never escape my past.”

  My heart is beating fast as I listen to him speak. Desmond gives the air of arrogance like no one I’ve ever met. I never would have thought his thoughts would be filled with such darkness.

  “That’s a dangerous outlook, Desmond.”

  “Yeah, well, you asked.”

  I have so many questions, but there’s one that is already rolling off my tongue before I can prioritize them all. “How could you possibly be a shitty son now? The way you made it sound, your dad gets himself into trouble quite a bit.”

  He shrugs as he speaks. “In lots of ways.” He squeezes the steering wheel and blows out a breath. “I could have stayed in Dallas to continue taking care of him. Instead I moved here, built a business, and started a different life. Sure, I visit him every few months, but is that enough?”

  “Yes, Desmond. That is enough. Your father isn’t your responsibility. His mistakes aren’t your burdens.”

  “No, but then whose responsibility is he? He has no wife, no other children. He has doctors and psychologists, and police officers. My dad isn’t just an addict, Maggie. He’s an addict with severe ASD.”

  “ASD?” I’m racking my brain, but for the life of me, I have no idea what that stands for.

  “Autism spectrum disorder. He’s considered high functioning, but his ASD combined with his alcohol problem is not ideal. Social situations cause him severe anxiety and make his need for drugs stronger. Alcohol fuels his impulses and since he’s not interested in treatment of any kind—” Desmond stops abruptly and shakes his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you. It’s just an ugly cycle that seems to only worsen as time goes on.”

  My hand wraps around his right one as it squeezes the gear shift. “I don’t mind. I still don’t think you’re being fair to yourself though.”

  “The guilt is overwhelming sometimes. It’s like, I know I should be with him, but…”

  Emotion thickens in my throat. “But what?”

  Desmond shakes his head, like he’s working himself up to respond, but he never does. Silence falls over us, and I squeeze his hand to tell him that’s okay. The air feels heavy, and it suddenly dawns on me that he isn’t just the cocky chef with a chip on his shoulder. There’s a darkness to him that I feel like I can relate to, even though I know nothing about him at all. I don’t know how he grew up or why he quit football after high school to attend culinary school. I don’t know why he can’t see past his guilt or why it’s so crippling that he can’t seem to escape it. Maybe Desmond Blake isn’t as bad as I’ve been wanting to believe. Maybe he’s just… lost. And I can relate to that feeling.

  We pull into the parking garage beneath Edible Desire, and he cuts the engine, gets out, and grabs my suitcases from the back seat. Once upstairs, he sets my bags inside my condo door then walks away without a word. I don’t see him again until I enter the kitchen an hour later, ready to start my shift.

  I can see his shoulders sag with relief when he looks up and spots me at the front of the room. Did he think I wouldn’t show up? That Gretta chick sure did a number on him by bailing on him all the time.

  “There’s some paperwork you need to fill out. Handbook stuff. Tax forms. Direct deposit info if that’s how you want to get paid. You can tackle all that first, and then I’ll show you how to use the registration system. That will be the biggest help for me today.”

  As soon as I turn in my paperwork to him, he immediately starts training me on how to work the touchscreen computer at the front of the room. It’s the one I always saw Gretta tapping on when Monica and I walked in at the beginning of our classes.

  I can’t help but wonder if he trained Gretta the same way he’s training me. He’s currently hovering behind me, close enough for me to take in his crisp, woodsy scent again. His right arm is reaching around my body to show me what each button on the touchscreen monitor is for. Every now and then, his arm brushes mine, shooting a current of electricity through my body. That’s not distracting. Jeez. I should be focusing on everything he’s showing me, not the way his words are breathing into my hair.

  “If we happen to have an opening for a class due to a cancelation, then you can register them here.” He points at a button that says Register on the touchscreen monitor and walks me through how to gather a person’s information and take payment. “But everything’s booked up for the next few months, so make sure you let them know about future availabilities.”

  He shows me where he keeps his inventory so that I can start creating welcome packets for today’s class. I’m quickly starting to understand why he was so desperate to get me to start today. It’s the first day of the month, which means everyone gets a new menu, some recipes to use at home, and some cooking swag. Then he walks me through the menu and explains how he begins to gather all the ingredients he’ll need for the day. It seems simple enough.

  An hour later, while I’m folding aprons to go into the welcome packs, the kitchen door opens, revealing a familiar woman. She has blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a black-and-white pinstripe, halter-style dress that looks like it was made for the runway. The deep V-neck of her top calls attention to her healthy chest, making me wonder if she knows Desmond and dressed like this for him. A jolt of something rushes through me
, a feeling I don’t recognize completely. I don’t even know this woman, but she’s clearly on a mission. And I’m afraid that mission has everything to do with Desmond.

  Her heels, I have to admit, are impressive. They’re almost as high as the ones I was wearing when I slipped on the catwalk months ago. Only this woman would never fall. She’s too poised, too perfect to ever let something like that happen to her.

  I don’t know why she looks familiar, though. Perhaps I’ve seen her in one of Desmond’s cooking classes. Or maybe she just has one of those recognizable faces. But she struts forward like she owns the place. “Hello,” she says with a bright smile and wandering eyes. She seems to look everywhere but at me until her heels halt in front of me.

  That’s my cue. I stand straighter and plaster a smile on my lips, ready to deliver the words Desmond trained me to speak. “Welcome to Edible Desire. Are you interested in registering for an upcoming class?” It’s what I’m supposed to say if I don’t recognize them as a student, but I’m not at all surprised when the woman finds this amusing.

  She chuckles and glances around the empty kitchen again. Desmond slipped into the back at some point to finish stocking the pantry, but I’m assuming he’s who she’s looking for. I wait for the woman’s eyes to return to me before raising my brows to let her know she still hasn’t answered.

  “No, that’s quite all right. I’m here to observe class today, actually.”

  “Oh.” I don’t hide my surprise. Maybe that’s a normal thing that happens in Desmond’s classes. But I don’t remember any observers from the classes I took.

  Something in the woman’s tone triggers something in my brain, and her features start to morph in front of me. She becomes more and more familiar until I know for certain I’ve seen her before. But from where? It’s on the tip of my tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Do I know you? I recognize you from somewhere. I swear I do.”

  Her smile turns syrupy and proud, like she doesn’t get the question often enough. “Maybe. Do you watch my show, Five-Star Faye?”

  My answer would be a definite hell no since I hate cooking, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize her from magazines and talk shows. She’s the epitome of a food goddess. “Holy shit, you’re Faye. I do know you. I mean, I’ve seen you before. Obviously, we don’t know each other, but—” I snap my mouth shut before my word vomit can continue.

  She laughs and reaches out a hand to shake mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself when I walked in. I was expecting Desmond.” She tilts her head, examining me closer. “And you are?”

  “Maggie Stevens. I’m Desmond’s assistant. Today is my first day, actually. I’m just filling in temporarily to help Desmond out since he lost Gretta.”

  Her eyes narrow as familiarity reflects back on her face. Suddenly, I want to cower in a ball and hide under the nearest cooking station. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You look familiar too.”

  I guess it’s possible Faye recognizes me from my modeling days. I’ve been in plenty of advertisements that she’s been featured in. But since I’m doing everything to move on from that life, I decide not to say anything about it.

  I give her my most convincing headshake. “I doubt that. I just moved here.” I start to back up while a blush creeps up my cheeks. “Do you want me to grab Desmond, or…”

  She waves a hand in the air. “It’s okay. Like I said, I just want to observe. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Somehow, I think that will be impossible.

  12

  Impossible Duo

  Desmond

  Faye didn’t mention that she was stopping by today, so when I step out from the back room and see Maggie welcoming guests while a familiar blonde watches her from the kitchen island in the front of the room, I can’t help but panic a little. Why did Faye have to stop by today? My stress levels are already so high from having to train someone who has absolutely zero desire to be here.

  I step around the island and grin at the woman with poised everything—posture, eyes, smile. She’s a walking, talking sex pot, but that’s not why my chest feels like it might explode. She would only be back if she had good news to share. Maybe she has a good update on the pitch.

  “Well, well.” I speak up to let Faye know I’m in the room. “She’s back again. You should warn me next time. I’ll tip off the paparazzi to start a little buzz.”

  She laughs breezily and flips her short hair so it swivels around her face. “Oh, trust me. You’ll have plenty of buzz the moment promo starts up. Your pretty face is sure to rack in a whole lot of ratings.”

  I know she’s being flirty, but there’s something about the way she entirely omitted the mention of my food that irks me. “Just wait until they see what’s on the menu.”

  “Well,” Faye says with a perk of her brows, “I was hoping we could start talking logistics after your class today. Maybe over a glass of wine at Shooters?”

  My eyes flick over to Maggie, who appears to be stealing glances at us. Discomfort snakes through my chest as I’m forced to answer Faye. This is business. “Sure. But you still haven’t told me how the conversations are going with your network. You’re talking like we have a show. Do we?”

  A slow smile spreads across her face. “Yes and no.” She must see my smile fall, because she jumps in quickly. “But hear me out. I’ve only primed them. I told them all about my rough concept for Edible Desire. So far, they’re intrigued.”

  “Intrigued?” The excitement in my chest deflates like a worn-out tire.

  She’s quick to catch my disappointment and steps forward with a raise of her brows. “Yes. That’s a great thing, Desmond. Trust me. I still haven’t delivered a solid pitch to them. I’m still brainstorming that one, which is why I’m here. I’m going to sit through class for inspiration, and then we can discuss next steps.”

  Disappointment is still heavily weighing on me. I’m afraid I started to think this was a done deal. What if she can’t find her hook? What if the network nixes my kitchen show before she’s able to give a proper pitch? What if the past three months of dreaming about the kitchen’s future has just been a big waste of time?

  “Okay.” I draw the word out slowly, my mind still reeling. “Feel free to take a seat at the island, and just let Maggie know if you need anything.” Then I glance at my new assistant, whose eyes are now glued to us. “I assume you already met Maggie?”

  Faye nods, and I can sense there’s a question on the tip of her tongue in regard to my new assistant. Or maybe it’s a feeling I’ve made up in my mind after seeing the way Maggie is scoping us out from the other side of the room. I would say Maggie looks jealous, but that thought is laughable. Until an hour ago, the two of us couldn’t be in the same room without yelling at each other.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve met. She wanted to know if I was interested in booking a class with you.” Faye’s flirtatious laugh and squeeze of my bicep don’t sway from her usual style, but for some reason—in front of Maggie—it’s making me want to crawl out of my skin. Maggie’s expression as she watches the exchange doesn’t help either. Her face turns bright red, and she looks away as if she thinks she’s intruding.

  Shit.

  Faye speaks up again. “Actually, I wondered if it would be okay if I brought in a cameraman today to take some footage home with me for inspiration.”

  That makes me feel really uneasy. “I don’t know, Faye. My class isn’t prepared for that.”

  “The camera will be focused on you. We don’t have to show any of your students’ faces. And this is just for me. It’s nothing we would actually air.”

  I pause, thinking deeply about what Faye is suggesting. It sounds harmless enough, and if I’m serious about this show prospect, it would be smart to give Faye whatever she needs to create a hard-hitting pitch. I cringe in preparation of my response. “Okay, but only one camera. And you need to be discreet. My students are paying for a class, and I can’t have disruptions.”

&n
bsp; Faye flashes me her brightest smile. “Deal.” She walks to the door and lets in a guy with a professional video camera. I’m happy to see there’s no big crew with them—it’s just a guy, his camera, and Faye giving him instructions.

  “What’s the camera for?” Maggie hisses to me when I approach her again.

  “Faye wants to record me teaching class today. It’s just for her, for research purposes. Can you let the students know when they walk in? Assure them that the footage won’t be used for any commercial content?”

  Maggie doesn’t look very reassured, but she nods in agreement.

  As students begin to enter the kitchen, I chat them up one by one. I like making real connections with my students. Not only does it make them want to come back, but I genuinely love knowing what brings them in.

  There’s a mother-daughter pair who hasn’t missed a Saturday class in the past six months. They started coming in because the daughter was moving into her boyfriend’s house and wanted to be able to cook for him without embarrassment.

  At the workstation beside them is a newlywed couple who received a voucher for a class as a wedding gift. It’s their first day, and they both seem excited to be here. Admittedly, most of their meals are consumed outside of the home, and they want to change things up now that they’re on a budget.

  There are a couple of singles that I paired together based on the interest questionnaire that came with their registration packets. And then there are older married couples looking for new adventures to help rekindle the romance. Every story is different, and I love hearing them all.

  I definitely luck out with the students who walk through my door. Most of them come because they want to try something new or get better at skills they already have. And with every single story, I feel honored they chose my kitchen to get that experience.

  I’m halfway through class when I catch Maggie flipping through a magazine, looking utterly bored. I spent all my time training her on registration that I didn’t have time to show her what would help me during the actual class.