by K. K. Allen
I watch him carry on a conversation with my father’s two girls, and it’s clear they all have a special bond, a bond I hope to one day share with them as well. They know who Monica and I are and seem to be excited to get to know us. The one thing my father did right was telling them about Monica and I when they were younger.
An hour later, the tables are set, and all the food has been laid out, including the four large turkeys, which are a perfect golden brown.
“I can’t believe you girls did all of this,” Desmond says as his eyes scan the table.
We’re the last two still standing as everyone takes their seats, and I have to laugh. “You should have never doubted me.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and leans down to kiss me. “I never did, babe. Why do you think I was always so hard on you in class? I could tell you were a natural.”
“Aww.” My insides dance a little in my chest. “And now here we are.”
He smiles and then turns to our guests with a clap of his hands. “All right, everyone.” He waits for the group to quiet down and focus their attention on him. “Before we dig in, I just wanted to thank everyone for coming to our first annual Friendsgiving.” There’s a round of loud applause before he continues again. “Today would not have been possible without Monica and Maggie. I think we should all give them some love for all the hard work they put into our meal today.”
Desmond looks down at me and winks while everyone expresses their thanks. My face feels hot from all this attention—over cooking, of all things. But Desmond isn’t done. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he looks directly at me, making me feel like whatever he’s about to say next has something to do with me.
“As you know, Edible Desire is an accredited cooking school. We train amateurs, pros, and everything in between. And when you put in the hours and pass my final cooking exam, you receive a certificate.”
I shuffle in my stance and tilt my head at Desmond. What in the world is he bringing this up for? The thought of him humiliating me in front of our friends and family doesn’t seem like something he would do, but now I’m starting to wonder.
“Usually I hand out those certificates in class, but I thought I’d make an exception today.” He grins and leans over me to pull a manila envelope off the counter. I hadn’t even seen it sitting there. He slides out a familiar piece of white paper. A silver seal is on the top, and my name is written clearly on the line.
I gasp while my heart takes off, beating a million times a minute. “You didn’t.”
He chuckles along with most of the people in the room. By now, everyone knows our story and about that awful day when Desmond refused to hand over a certificate that I felt was so meaningless at the time even though I was stuck on the principal of it all. I’d wanted to prove a point more than I’d wanted to actually earn what I was so desperate to receive. But I get it now.
My throat tightens as tears threaten to spill.
“Maggie Stevens,” Desmond says with a grin. “Will you accept this cooking certificate?”
I laugh. “Yes,”
The room bursts into celebration as I take the certificate from Desmond and hug him tightly, not even caring who’s watching us as tears slide down my face and his lips find my cheek.
“It’s about damn time,” I say into his ear.
“I agree,” he says back. “But now you know you earned it.”
We exchange a smile before retreating to our seats and calling an official start to our feast.
It’s probably the longest dinner of my life, but I haven’t stopped laughing the entire night. My dad tells stories about Desmond and Zach as teens, Desmond retells the story about the lobster I didn’t want to kill, and I recount the story of me tripping at the end of the runway in New York. The fact that I can laugh at all the things that once embarrassed me to the core, makes me happier than I’ve ever felt. The night is entirely perfect.
“There’s only one thing missing,” I tell Monica once we’re finished eating. I don’t need to elaborate for her to know. We’ve been easing into conversations with our mom over the past few weeks to give her honest updates about our lives. It’s the only way for us all to truly move forward together, and while Matilda Stevens was furious on several accounts—that we’d reunited with our father, and that I was officially done with modeling for the agency in LA—she was beginning to accept that we’d made those choices for ourselves. One day we’ll have the conversation in person, just the three of us. But for now, we’re all moving forward.
Monica nods and pulls out her phone then scrolls to Mom’s number and dials it.
We step outside together and wish our mom a happy Thanksgiving together, tell her all is well with us, and promise her that we’ll visit her in California soon. She’s thrilled to hear updates about the television show and about Monica’s latest fashion design ventures. And in return, she brags about living the life of luxury with her boyfriend in LA.
When we’re done, we walk back into the kitchen to find Zach setting a humongous pastry box on one of the tables. Monica claps her hands together with excitement and happily skips over to her boyfriend. “Oh, I want to see what you brought.”
Zach grins and nods at the box. “Do the honors, Cakes.”
His nickname for Monica is so adorable and also appropriate considering my sister’s obsession with dessert, specifically chocolate-covered anything.
I walk over to stand with Desmond, who has his camera out to snap photos of the reveal.
Monica lifts the cover and sets it aside. Then she gets an eyeful of the cake. It’s chocolate with strawberries decorating the top, and underneath them is a message handwritten in icing.
Monica,
Will you marry me?
The look on my sister’s face is utterly priceless. Tears well up in my eyes all over again, and I cling to Desmond, needing something to support me while I watch Monica and Zach’s proposal play out in front of me.
Monica’s mouth opens wide from the shock and she turns to the man who was standing behind her a moment ago. Now he’s kneeling, and I swear he’s shaking.
“Monica Stevens, I’ve known you for years, adored you for just as long, and I’ve been crazy in love with you for the past year. There’s no other woman in the world I’d rather spend my life, or share my cake, with.” He laughs gently and then pulls out a black velvet box and opens it.
Monica’s hands fly to her mouth as she finally figures out that this is really happening.
Then Zach asks the question. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes! A million times yes.” She falls to her knees, throws her arms around him, and kisses him so hard that they both fall over laughing. He helps her up and places the gorgeous square-cut diamond on her finger, then they kiss again.
I’ve never been more moved in my life. Zach had warned Desmond and me about his plans, which is why Desmond was ready with his camera and I dragged Monica outside with me to call Mom when I did. Everything worked out better than we planned.
An hour later, the cake has been devoured, and the kitchen has been cleaned. One by one, our guests leave with their to-go boxes, until it’s just Desmond and me alone. He locks up while I run to his office for a quick minute to grab a present I made for him.
We meet back in the front of the room, and he pulls me onto the couch while eyeing the present in my hands. “What’s that?”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “Just something I’ve been working on for the past few weeks.” I swallow and search his eyes, finding the courage to say what I need to say. A lot has been going through my mind since we got back from Dallas and accepted the cooking show opportunity. Life has become a whirlwind, and this is my attempt at slowing things down, just for a second. “You inspired me to create something. Something I think you will love.”
Desmond stares at the package for a second and then starts to open the wrapping carefully, like he wants to preserve it as much as possible. He pulls out a thick hardback book. It’s tit
led Fake It Til You Bake It, and he just gives me an amused smile before he opens it and sees the dedication I wrote.
He starts to turn through the recipe book, page by page. His bloodshot eyes give away the emotion going through his heart and mind. Each recipe is one Desmond created, tested, and put in the approved folder on his computer so he could teach it in class. And each photo is one he took after preparing the dish himself.
“I thought maybe you could have it published. Not that version, exactly. You can exchange the photos, take new ones, but it could be another opportunity to grow.”
About halfway through, he gets to the first page of the desserts section and sees the recipe for guava turnovers. He shuts the book and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand then pulls me onto his lap. “I need to stop.”
He searches my eyes while I nod. “Of course. Are you okay?”
His chin tips up. “Better than okay.” Then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply, holding nothing back. I can feel the weight of the bond that now tethers us in our hearts, and minds, and souls. I can feel his pain that still lingers inside him over his father’s passing.
“This is an incredible gift, Maggie. I don’t know how you did it, but it means more than you know.”
I swallow, feeling his appreciation down to my bones. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your love for food photography, and it got me thinking about how fearful I was to get back in front of the camera after leaving LA. Photography to me always had such a negative connotation. I was just an object in someone else’s eyes, to someone else’s perspective, their vision, their direction. Intentions were never clear-cut. Then I met you. And not only are you a brilliant photographer, but you’ve reminded me how beautiful photography can be as an art when filled with good intentions. Somehow you got me to fall in love with it all over again. But this time, for the right reasons.” I laugh at my rambling self. “I just wanted you to see your talent the way I do.”
“I’ve always seen you, Maggie, even when you thought you were hiding yourself from the world and pushing people away. There was something about you that I just couldn’t tear my mind from.” He smiles. “I’m always looking for something when I look through that viewfinder. Something meaningful. You want to know why I’ve never done anything with my photos besides hang some of them on the walls?”
I nod, my heart beating so fast in my chest that I can barely breathe.
“Because they’re never good enough, so I just keep taking photos, and I just keep searching. But then I started taking photos of you, and I knew I finally found my muse. Maggie, you became my muse without even knowing it, without even trying.”
“And you became mine.” I touch the recipe book and smile. “You’ve given me a piece of myself that I never even knew existed. When I met you, I was just a scared and lost woman with no idea where her life was taking her. And then you pushed me and challenged me and never gave up. You helped me find me, Desmond, and I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”
The corners of his mouth turn up slowly. “Repay me? You’re already doing that, babe. You gave me your heart. Nothing about that is temporary.”
I curl up against him and rest my cheek on his shoulder. “And it’s yours forever.”
Epilogue
Desmond, six months later
“That’s a wrap on Season One of Desmond’s Kitchen!” Our director, Franklin, yells the words from the top of his lungs, earning a collective cheer from the production crew. It’s a crew of eight packed into the kitchen, along with all of their equipment, and by the chatter erupting in the room, everyone seems to be damn proud of the work we’ve all put in.
Between the footage being sent to Faye and her cohorts every single day and the major kudos she’s gotten from her network in response to the footage they’ve seen, it feels like everything we once agonized and fought over is finally worth it.
Maggie and I turn to each other after the final shot of our last scene of the season. As she squeals with delight, I’m raising my fist in an air pump to end all air pumps. The joy is practically exploding from me. And when I pick her up and kiss her hard on the mouth with all the production crew to see, I can feel her joy spiraling through me.
We’re two halves, Maggie and I, and we fit perfectly together. Her skills complement mine, and vice versa. Same with our love. After my father’s death, I didn’t have to ask her to step up. I never would have done that. But she did. She stepped up in the best way, picking up my slack in the kitchen, and running the business while I tried to adjust to a new normal.
What’s better? She’s fallen in love with the kitchen almost as much as she’s fallen in love with me which just makes me love her even more.
I growl low in my throat, hating that I have to tear my mouth away from hers, but we have an audience that is probably disgusted with us by now. Maggie and I have managed to get through all our shoots like true professionals, but as soon as Franklin calls “Cut,” we don’t hold back. Like now.
Maggie is the first to pull away, leaving me with a flirtatious smile and flushed cheeks, before she opens the refrigerator to grab the champagne we purchased this morning. As she’s pouring glasses for everyone, I’m making my rounds, thanking each crew member for their time and dedication to the show.
There was a time when I was nervous about what this show could turn into if I let go of the reigns, but Faye came through with her promises intact.
“So what happens next?” I ask Franklin, who is snacking on leftovers from the meal Maggie and I just made.
“You sit back and watch the magic unfold,” he says with a brilliant smile.
“That’s it?” Maggie asks, looking between us. “Isn’t there promotional stuff? And press events?”
Franklin shrugs. “Not my specialty. Faye will be in touch with next steps. But for now, drink champagne, and enjoy your time away from the camera. I’m no psychic, but if I had to wager a guess, the cameras will be back before you know it.”
That is the kind of comment I love to hear. Pride swells in my chest and after a single deep breath, I feel thirty pounds lighter.
The crew leaves after a round of drinks and I’m locking up after them while Maggie shuffles off to the back room. She returns a minute later as I’m walking back to the main kitchen. I do a double take when I spot her wearing nothing but a tiny black apron with the words “Fuck me, I’m the chef,” on it.
“Do you remember this one?” The innocence on her face is lost when I see the wicked gleam of flirtation in her eyes.
“Um.” It’s all I can manage as she twirls, revealing her naked body beneath the apron. “It didn’t look quite so—bare—the last time you wore it.” I grin and start to move faster toward her.
She bites down on her bottom lip and puts her hands on her waist. “That’s right. You said this apron wasn’t part of the dress code. Should I take it off?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” I get to her just as she starts to reach behind her to unknot the fabric, and I pick her up at the waist and set her against the island behind her. “You wouldn’t want your boss to complain that you’re a walking false advertisement, would you?”
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “No, sir. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”
I can’t help my grin. “Oh, you’ve been in trouble since the day you stepped foot in here, Ma’am.” My nose brushes against hers as I figure out how I’m going to take my time with her like usual. I’m so wound up already from wrapping the show. The way she’s looking in that apron isn’t helping matters at all.
She smiles as if she can read my mind and pulls a stool out from under the counter, then slides it out to me. “Have a seat, Sir.”
I chuckle and obey, her command sexy as fuck with the added rasp in her tone. Sounds like someone is just as worked up as I am over production completing. Now she’s eyeing me like a tiger on the prowl. When she steps in between my thighs, I can’t help myself. My hands slide around her body and grab her
perfect ass. I rub them gently, savoring the velvety soft skin while my erection fights against my jeans.
I blink up at her while I spread her cheeks and squeeze. Yeah, I’m not going to last long. “What are you going to do to me?”
She smiles softly and presses her lips to mine. She kisses me slowly while using the lower rungs of the stool to prop herself up to straddle my lap. “I’m just going to kiss you. That okay?”
“The fuck you are.” I growl and thrust my hips against her, then use my grip on her ass to slide her forward and back until I can see in her eyes that she feels the friction. I slip one hand to her front and rub on her clit as I speak. “You’re going to turn your ass around so I can get another good look at you.”
Maggie steps off the stool and turns until her bare back is facing me. I run a featherlight touch along her spine from her neck down to her luscious ass. The thin string tied together in a bow at her arch is the only fabric covering her back.
“Put your hands on the counter and spread your legs.” She does as I say as I pull my pants and underwear down and palm myself. “Now bend over.” Then I stand up and nudge my length against her opening. “I’m about to fuck the chef. You ready?”
Before she can even nod, I’m pushing my way inside her, sliding my cock between her legs while she squeezes around me. My little temptress groans out her pleasure, asking for more while I bury myself in her, over and over again.
I’m losing myself in her scent, in her pussy’s grip, in her moans and sighs. Fuck me, this will be over quicker than it started if I don’t slow the fuck down. But I don’t know how to do that. Not when her breasts are spilling out the sides of the apron. Not when she lets out a warning cry to tell me she’s about to come. And definitely not when she tightens around me and pulsates her release.
Now I’m chasing my own orgasm. I don’t want her riding this one out alone. I want to be right where she is, spiraling into our shared bliss, because we’re partners in everything, including this.
