by K. K. Allen
Desmond leads me down the stairs instead of up toward the way we came in, and my steps feel heavier the closer we get to the field. “Where are you going?” I hiss.
He looks at me like he’s confused. “It’s faster to get through the tunnel this way. Why?” Then he sees my face and sighs. “Shit. I mean, you can stay here if you want, but I have to stop by the locker room before we leave. It’s tradition.”
He pulls out two field passes, and I want to smack him. Instead, I fold my arms across my chest and sit. “I’ll stay here.”
Desmond nods. “I’ll hurry. Don’t move from this spot.”
I watch him leave without acknowledging his request. I can’t be mad at him for doing what comes naturally, but what comes natural for him feels so wrong to me. How did our lives become so embedded when we weren’t even trying?
The stadium seating is clearing out fast as I take in the field, the lights, and the glory. I should have never come to this game. Coming here only made me miss something I’ve worked so hard to forget. And I was successful until today.
“Mags?”
The familiar voice is an instant blast to my heart, and my body begins to shake as I turn my head in my father’s direction. He looks the same, with a few extra grays tossed like tinsel throughout his full set of hair. Just the sight of him tightens my throat.
“It’s really you.” He’s smiling, despite the way I must look—shocked, terrified, and teetering on the edge of a waterfall of tears. “You haven’t responded to any of my calls or texts.”
I’m still angry at Monica for just giving him my phone number like it belonged to him.
He searches my expression like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m struggling to find the right words. I don’t know how to greet a man who stripped my childhood from me without a second glance.
He takes two steps up the stairs, slowly, like he’s testing the waters. I’m still too surprised to move or speak.
“Did you enjoy the game?”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. He asked a direct question. I can manage an answer to that. “It was great. You’re quite the coach.”
He lets out a chuckle, the tone riddled with nerves rather than actual humor. “Well, I try, but these boys certainly keep me on my toes.”
Are we really trying to have a normal conversation now? Are we going to pretend it hasn’t been over a decade since we last exchanged a single word.
“Mags—” he starts.
But I stand from my seat as fast as I can. “I can’t do this.” I turn toward the aisle and take two steps up the stairs when he’s behind me.
“Maggie, just give me a minute.”
“You don’t deserve a minute. I shouldn’t even be here right now.”
“But you are,” he says, his tone still hopeful.
“Not for you.” And that’s a lie. It’s a straight-up, hurtful, blatant lie. But I can’t give him the truth. He doesn’t deserve to know how many nights I cried for him or how much I missed him when he was busy making a parallel life because the one he already had wasn’t good enough for him.
I pivot so fast, I feel the wobble in my brain.
“Maggie, wait.” This voice doesn’t belong to my father. Desmond is by my side before I can take another step. He slings an arm over my shoulders. “We’re heading out, Coach. Great game tonight. Give Balko a reaming about those penalties, though.”
“I plan on it,” he says, his tone now sullen. “Drive safe, Des.”
“Always.”
Desmond leads me out of the stadium, and as soon as we hit the concrete sidewalk, I shake him off and walk furiously in the direction of the parking lot. “You told him I was here, didn’t you?”
Desmond jogs to catch up. “Wait a second. You’re mad at me? I mentioned I had to hurry to get back to you. How was I supposed to know that he would practically start running to you?”
I suck in a deep breath and whip around to face him. “It wasn’t your business to mention me. I wasn’t ready to see him.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Desmond throws his arms in the air. “I’m fucking sorry.”
“Are you? Because you continue to be pretty adamant about the fact that I should just forgive the man since he was so great to you.”
Desmond lets out a heavy breath and takes my hand in his. I don’t have the energy to yank it away. “I’m not telling you how to feel. I have no right to do that. But you don’t need to keep everything so damn locked up inside you.”
“There’s nothing locked up inside me, Desmond. That’s the problem. I’m empty. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll stop trying to see more.”
He’s still holding my hand when he pulls me toward his chest, and my tears threaten to spill. “You are so wrong.” His eyes search mine. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Maggie?”
I slam my lids together and shake my head. “No.” I can’t see him, but I feel his lips slide against my ear. I suck in a deep breath in response.
“You hide behind your beauty like you need protection from the world, when really, it’s the world that needs protection from you. You’re fierce and unapologetic about your worth, which is why it’s absolutely crazy to me that you find it so hard to believe you’re worthy of love, even when there are people out there in the world who beg you to love them back. Your father isn’t perfect, and he made some shitty decisions, but he’s a good man. And he wants another shot.”
I’m shaking so hard, I swear even my breath rattles. “Here’s what you don’t seem to understand. There are years of my life I can never have back. Why should I forgive a thief?”
With that, I turn and march the rest of the way to Desmond’s car. And I don’t make another sound until I’m in my new apartment, alone, with nothing but the walls and windows to hear me cry myself to sleep.
18
Picture Perfect
Desmond
I’m flipping an omelet on the Edible Desire stove when I hear light steps approach from the back room.
“Hungry?” I ask without looking up. There’s only one person it could be, and it looks like she located the back elevator.
Maggie shuffles over, fully dressed for the day in white jeans and a bright-green cotton shirt. Her long hair has been curled, and it falls around her in waves. I could snap a picture of her right this second and it would belong on the cover of a magazine. Then again, she is always picture-perfect.
Her long lashes bat down to see what I’m cooking, and then she raises her gaze to me, steadying those gorgeous eyes like she’s trying to light me on fire. “Don’t you have a kitchen in your apartment?”
I smile. “Yes, but I doubt you would have accepted an invite to my place for an apology breakfast. Sit.” I nod across the island to a stool and flip the eggs one more time before slipping them onto a plate.
Her nose wrinkles as she eases herself onto the stool. “What’s in that?”
“Not much.” I focus on dressing up her dish. I drizzle some fresh queso over her eggs, sprinkle some paprika across the top, then drop a couple pieces of fresh parsley to finish it off. “It’s just eggs, mozzarella, spinach, and mushroom.” Then I look up. “Is that okay?” I really should have asked her about any food allergies on her application.
Her mouth parts slightly when I slide the plate in front of her. “It’s fine, but who makes gourmet eggs at seven in the morning?”
I grin and turn back to the stove to finish my omelet. “Me.”
After unloading my food onto my plate, I stand across the island from her.
She peers up at me between bites and narrows her eyes. “You always stand when you eat?”
“You always talk with your mouth full?” I give her a close-mouthed grin and stick my fork in my eggs.
Her cheeks lift slightly and I would do anything to see her full-on smile. “So what’s the scoop with Mondays around here? What’s on the agenda?”
I do her the honor of swallowing my food bef
ore responding. “We’ll head to the market to grab the ingredients for some delivery orders. Saturday was the start of our month, so the rest of the week pretty much follows suit. You’ll run registration, create more welcome packets, and you’ll get faster at it all too, except we don’t have classes on Mondays. It’s kind of an inventory, cleaning, and prep day around here. Then there’s all of the usual daily stuff. Check the mail, voice mails, update the booking calendar on the website. And at the end of each day, I like going over everything we need to do the next day so that I’m not waking up surprised.”
“Sounds pretty laid back,” she says before placing another bite in her mouth.
“Usually, it is, but today will be more chaotic than normal.”
“Why’s that?”
“You remember that woman who was observing class the other day?”
She squints. “You mean Five-Star Faye? I never did ask you what she was doing here. Seemed like you two knew each other pretty well.”
I ignore the way Maggie studies me after her comment.
“Well,” I say, easing my way into the conversation. I’m not sure how Maggie is going to take it when she finds out that not only is Edible Desire a candidate for a television show, but that she is the prime inspiration for why there are a dozen or so women on their way to the kitchen right now to possibly cohost a show with me. “Faye initially came in a few months ago to check out my food in case it was a fit for her show. It wasn’t, but she thinks it could be a different type of cooking show.”
“Wow, Desmond, really? You’re going to have your own television show? That’s incredible.”
I bite down on my lip before deciding to polar plunge into the subject. “It would be, but she doesn’t think me alone is enough for great television. Ridiculous, I know.”
Maggie laughs softly. “I bet that was a blow to your massive ego.”
The way she teases me with her tongue between her teeth and amusement on her face revs me up inside.
“So then what?” she continues. “You get a cooking assistant or something?”
“Exactly. Faye already put a call out to casting agents, and she’ll be bringing some potentials by today.”
“Cool.” Maggie swallows her last bite of eggs and gets up from her stool. The plate in front of her is completely clean, causing warmth to spread throughout my chest. She liked it.
“Hungry much?”
She looks up, and her eyes widen after she realizes that I noticed. “Yes, actually. I don’t have food at my place yet.”
I stuff a final bite of food into my mouth and take the dishes to the sink a few steps away. “We’re heading to the market now if you want to grab a few things for yourself.”
“Sure,” she says. “Since you won’t be cooking my every meal after this week. Thanks for breakfast, by the way.”
I shrug. I decide to bite my tongue when it comes to who actually won the bet. She seemed to have a great time during the game, but not so much at the end. I still feel awful about last night. I pushed the issues with her dad too hard when I should have just stayed the fuck out of it. “No problem. And no, you get one week of meals from me, and then you’re on your own. Next bet, you’ll be cooking for me.” I wink at her, and her face immediately changes color.
She snorts and steps around to join me at the sink. “That definitely won’t be happening, but I do know my way around a dishwasher.”
I grin and move away. “Look at that. Maybe we’re the dream team after all.” I don’t have to glance at her to know her squinty eyes are currently throwing darts at the side of my head. “I’m going to go grab the grocery lists, and then we can head out.” I snap my fingers as I remember something. “That’s something you’ll start doing too. Every night, you’ll pull the next day’s recipes and make a grocery list for us to shop in the morning.”
“Okay.” She slips our breakfast plates into the dishwasher and catches me smile. “What?”
I shrug. “I didn’t even have to ask you to rinse those before you stuck them in the dishwasher.”
She laughs, and I can tell I’ve triggered something. “My mom would have murdered me if she caught me sticking dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
“You’d be surprised how many people do it.”
When she’s done, she grabs her purse, and I grab the cart. We start down the short slope and head around the corner to the market. I can’t help but notice the way her eyes grow wide when she sees the main entrance to Pike Place.
“I thought we were going to a grocery store.”
“Nope. Why go to the store when you can walk one block to the best farmers market in the Pacific Northwest?”
We start down the main road, walking slowly as she gazes around. “This place is like a street market on crack.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Welcome to the farm-to-table life, Maggie. Everything is fresh and local. As in, I know exactly where everything is coming from. And whatever I can’t buy fresh, like the condiments, we make in the kitchen.
For the first time since I’ve known Maggie, she looks deeply awed by the way I run my kitchen. My chest puffs with pleasure, knowing I just accomplished something monumental.
“Want to pick out some fresh flowers while I start down the produce aisle?”
She nods emphatically, and I feel like I’m two for two. Maybe working with Maggie won’t be so bad after all.
“What’s on today’s menu?” she asks as she returns with a handful of flowers and rests them in the cart.
“Besides a private party I’m delivering food for, I want to try out a new recipe: meatloaf with a side of mac and cheese, fresh salad, and green beans.” I peek at her to see if she has any aversions to any of the mentioned foods, but she doesn’t give anything away.
“Simple enough.”
I chuckle. “You should know by now, nothing in my kitchen is as simple as it sounds.”
A smile teeters on her lips. “Guess you’re right, but how hard can making meatloaf really be? It’s just a slab of meat, some onions, ketchup—what else?”
“Oh, Maggie. You just earned yourself a cooking lesson when we get back to the kitchen.”
She moans and throws me a look that tells me I’m trying to do her dirty. “Really? I thought I had all this training to do.”
“Consider this part of your training. I still need to test this recipe, so you’ll be my sample student.”
“I don’t suppose a certificate comes with that?”
I snort. “Not a chance.”
We finish our first shopping experience together and manage to make it back to the kitchen without sharpening our claws. In fact, this may be the longest we’ve been around each other without getting into some kind of fight.
She helps me unload the cart, and then we immediately start on today’s recipe. I guide Maggie like I would in a normal class. I don’t want to tell her that this actually isn’t part of the job. Gretta never helped me cook and test my new recipes. The only time she would sample anything I made was when she would steal food from the refrigerator during her lunch hours.
“Sun-dried tomatoes and basil? Really?” she asks when I hand her the jar of tomatoes I dried yesterday. “That’s different.”
“It’s not all that’s different. Instead of breadcrumbs or crushed Cheez-Its, we’re going to use the oatmeal we grabbed at the market today.”
She makes a face but starts slicing the tomatoes into slivers. I watch the way she holds the knife perfectly, with her fingers tucked back toward her hands so she doesn’t cut herself. It looks like Maggie picked up more from my classes than she ever let on.
“Now what?” she asks, resting the knife on the cutting board.
“Do you remember how to cut the basil?”
She makes a face. “I don’t think so. Show me again?”
I force back my smile, loving the way she just asked me that. Then I step behind her and wrap my arms around hers. It’s completely unnecessary, but I tell myself that this wil
l give me a feel for her technique. In fact, this position is becoming all too familiar when Maggie and I are in the kitchen together. When I’m this close to her, I get to smell the mango scent that rises from her skin and the cherry lip balm I’ve seen her apply too many times.
“Stack,” I say while helping her gather enough basil for the recipe. “Then roll, just like this.” I move her hands in mine, ignoring the way my heart pounds heavily in my chest. “And then snip.”
She takes scissors to the stems as I step away from her, knowing that at any second, she’ll feel closer to me than she ever wanted to. But if I could describe my biggest turn-on, it would be this. Cooking with this woman. There’s something about it that’s so innocent and intimate at the same time. Yet it’s something I’ve never done with a girlfriend. Not that I’ve had many of those.
“I bet the ladies you bring home love this.”
There she goes, reading my mind again.
“Love what exactly?” I want to hear her say it.
She eyes me with amusement. “A man cooking for a woman. The whole reverse-stereotype thing.”
“Is that still a thing?”
“According to the men I’ve gone out with, yes.”
“Well, clearly you’ve been going out with the wrong men. I promise you, that is not the way we all think. And I’m not just talking about guys like me who happen to own a cooking school. I’m talking about every guy I know that does most of the cooking at home.”
Maggie blushes and shrugs before turning back to the stove, where she has the freshly chopped ingredients slow cooking. “I guess I didn’t know those kinds of guys really existed.”
I watch her face intently as she stirs, wondering who Maggie Stevens really is. Who is the woman behind the camera-ready makeup and trendy clothes? There’s no question in my mind that there’s more to her than first appearances. I may have neglected to see that before, but now that she’s here and unavoidable, I have an intense desire to peel back more and more layers.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do.
