Chapter One

I could truly say without being dishonest that it started innocently. It really did. I knew Cal from work– just as a client. I ran one of those businesses that did all-around human resources and any business-to-business processes, and communiqués. Distribution, sourcing temps, finding loan officers, supply orders, public relations, and social media. I couldn’t say I liked the job overall, but it did mean that I invariably met people who were passionate about their work. Often they’d begun a business at something they were both talented at and in love with but didn’t know how to do the business part. Cal was one of those clients. He was clearly fiercely intelligent, and definitely competent. He was willing to learn the ropes of anything. If I showed him once that he could do it himself he never asked again. He was never as chatty, needy, or strange as other clients. He was quick-witted and organized and moved easily for his height. But he’d certainly jumped feet first into his restaurant with little preparation or foreknowledge beyond being an exceptional chef. I did like him, but we were merely polite. Less even than polite, more professional for a while. Not that he was capable of the kind of coolness I was. Because he liked to talk playfully, with everyone as far as I could see. I’ll admit that in particular, I liked how he called me “honey”– it seemed so old-fashioned and down-home from a slick, cigarette-smoking man. He had a particularly sparkling and charming smile and I began feeling my face light up in response to him when he came in. About once a week we figured out orders, and farms to work with, and passed pleasantries. Weather, sports, and moved on. I didn’t think we thought of each other outside of those brief interactions. 

He came in one afternoon, saying, “Hi hon” and flopping into the chair on the other side of my desk. He usually didn’t sit, unlike everyone else who came into my office. Very frequently they seemed to almost collapse into proffered chairs. He tended to stand, hands braced on my desk or pacing back and forth. Too full of energy to rest, too busy to talk long. Maybe one in six visits he’d be there long enough to take a seat. We discussed a new butcher he wanted to work with. I wasn’t sure why I even decided to expand our conversation. I hadn’t even patronized his restaurant. But today I decided to draw him out.

“What do you stuff your mushrooms with?” I asked. Dark eyes brightening to floodlights he was off. A more ebullient conversation than “rain” or “baseball” certainly. I knew he cared a lot about cooking. He was careful about sourcing ingredients, he occasionally overspent on supplies. And I knew he worked on his recipes because I knew he spent the bulk of his hours at his restaurant. I consider myself a fairly capable to good home cook and adventurous to boot. Willing and interested in talking about it, but for whatever reason I hadn’t thought about opening him up like this. Instead of meaningless small talk, every visit became “what are you making?” conversations and interactions became less brief. He’d still come in once a week, stride around my too-small office handling whatever business brought him in. And then sit and we’d talk. He was clever, with a smooth sense of humor. He made me laugh often, but I felt a little slow compared to him. Making jokes easily and often, grinning sideways when he felt particularly naughty. 

One day I showed him a picture of a boule I had made the previous evening, asking for troubleshooting on crumb. We started talking bread, and then he put up a hand, pausing us. I realized we were both hunched over the desk, facing each other closely. Drawing closer and closer as we fell deeper into conversation. He shifted in his seat, pulling out one of his business cards. Heavy cardstock with a twee logo, it was not something I’d done for him.

“Text me, huh?” he said, pushing the card across the desk. “I’m writing down my cell.” He scribbled in his bad handwriting. “Don’t leave me waiting. I want to see how much better your next try is… If you follow my advice,” he finished, teasing. He glanced up from his near-bent position, up toward me. Almost through his lashes and I had an instant flash of what he would look like, looking up at me, from his knees or between my legs. He’d always been attractive, and charming, or easy to be with anyway. But I’d never evaluated him in that particular fashion and the sudden whiplash of lust was surprising in the extreme.

“I will… I mean, I won’t… Leave you waiting,” I stumbled through a response, thrown off balance for the first time in my own office. 

“Good, hell, now that you have my number show me what you’re working with tonight,” he said. Sensing a little uptick of flirtatiousness my breath went a little faster. Because, yes, that pointed-eyetooth smile was being directed at me. Seeing how I responded. I smiled back at him, delighted with this turn of events.

****

That evening I plated nicer than I ordinarily would. Especially for just myself. I cooked dinner every night and usually a dessert too. Cooking was my unwind. It was my mind blank time. I liked being alone in my silent kitchen, finally getting to focus and get into a flow. Work was a series of never-ending interruptions. Hours of multitasking. Never getting real downtime or time to think in clear, linear passages. So doing things process by process, setting everything up mise en place reorganized my brain. Tonight, however, I listened to dancing music, sexy music while I was cooking. Did just a little more work than I’d been intending when I was mentally planning dinner this morning. 

I sent him a very nicely lit, carefully turned plate, with a thrill. Realized after five minutes I had neglected to say *who* it was who was sending him pictures of onion risotto. In a fit of *oh god, he’s looking at his phone in utter confusion* panic I texted him again.

-This is Nina.

And then another minute later, singing a little song called “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as I scooped my phone back off the counter.

-From the office. 

-What I cooked tonight.

I sat down to eat my cooler-than-usual meal and fretted. For one it had been… Well, I didn’t want to put a number on it or think too deeply about the matter, but it had been a while since I’d attempted to flirt with anyone. Not that it hadn’t been attempted with me, but it was certainly never worthwhile. I was more used to verbally wiggling out of flirtation than attempting to begin it. Also, I was used to texting with my sister and friends, and the near-immediate responses I got from them. Or even if they weren’t immediate I didn’t care. But I was getting impatient waiting for him. I decided I was not going to be upset if he didn’t get back to me speedily or even at all. Because it was seven on a Thursday and I got the distinct impression that Cal’s restaurant– Sage Tart– would be busy and date-filled. Based on place settings and other things I’d sourced for him, it was a bistro-style third-date kind of place. I had finished dinner and long ago turned off the music when the phone buzzed on my coffee table. I dove for it and then gently put it back down. I counted to a hundred and then turned it face up again.

-Looking good Nina. Looks like you took it slow. I counted another hundred count before responding.

-You have to, to make good onions and then to make good risotto.

-You’re right. Can’t be rushed. Good to know you’re a patient woman, he texted back a lot faster this time.

-I can be when I think it’s worth it.

Chapter Two

From that point on we were texting all day. I was sending pictures of rice and eggs, he was sending pictures of meringues and pork bellies. I left my personal phone on my desk even at work. Thrilled every time it vibrated. 

One evening he finished a late-night hand-made pasta text with -see you tomorrow.

I scrambled to make a challah and dug out a “special occasion” bottle of honey from the pantry. I wanted to have some physical little thing to give him. Some exchange beyond text and pictures. 

****

My head snapped to the door frequently all morning. Thinking there was his shadow crossing in front of my glass door. But it wasn’t ever him. Finally, he came in at about eleven– a perfectly standard time for him. Hardly late, but I’d been so looking forward to seeing him again. Carrying a pretty little paper plate he slid across the desk for me. I laughed and handed him the challah and honey in a tote bag. He laughed in answer, glancing into it.

“Saved you some of the dessert I did for last night, hon,” he said. He’d sent pictures of the German chocolate cake he’d been working on. I licked some frosting off my finger and I made some little sound of pleasure. 

“Will you finally come by my place tonight?” he asked, using my enjoyment as an opening. “You can eat in the kitchen with me when I take my dinner.”

“About when is dinner?” I asked back, trying to narrow in on his schedule a bit better. Curious now about how he lived his life. 

“Whenever you walk through the door, honey.”

I was more thankful than I ever had been that no one could read my mind. If he could see behind my forehead right now he’d know that I’d been playing back the memories of him saying “honey”. 

“Are you just going to feed me whatever leftovers and scraps you dine on yourself in some dingy little back room?” I asked playfully.

“Oh hardly. Something good. Something I’ve been planning for you.”

“Oh my! How could I possibly decline in that instance? I’ll definitely be by,” I said, trying to continue the casual mischievousness but terribly excited. 

****

Nervous as a cat by the end of the day I vibrated around my house. I was unwilling to change from the work clothes he’d already seen me in– I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. But I let down my hair and switched from pink to red lipstick. From 3-inch heels to 6-inch heels. I wasn’t incorrect about Sage Tart. On the trendy side of town on the newly-created Main Street. Dark wood and burgundy awnings, and matching curtains along the lower half of the windows to give diners privacy. Mellow golden light from the doors and windows. Black iron patio furniture being brought back in. It was definitely a date night kind of place. Small tables, cushioned chairs, candles, and wall sconces. I was impressed, he’d dressed it well. A stunning girl was standing at the front, wearing good clothes, smoothly professional with an ironed smile. She gave me a slightly more sincere one as I glanced around though.

“Oh! You must be Nina. I’ll grab Cal for you,” she said, doing a quick little heel turn toward the back of the restaurant. I was surprised he’d apparently given his hostess a lookout command. How had he described me to his employee, I wondered. I had almost been expecting him to be wearing whites, but he came out in what I always saw him wearing. Expensive jeans, chambray button-up, high-shine wingtip boots. The only real difference being a thick linen apron over all. One of those posh ones with the leather straps and his logo embroidered on it. He was either vain or just willing to spend money on things, but I liked his curated casual look. Even sitting across from him in my office I loved how he smelled good even though I knew he smoked. His dark stumble on his very light skin. I liked his clean, strong hands, his good teeth, and how tall he stood. I couldn’t get over his muscled forearms, sleeves pushed up past his elbow. Especially watching him reach out with both hands to shake mine. I realized all these thoughts had come crashing in at once. Wondering whether or not the crush had developed over time or was breaking over me just now. I hoped his hostess couldn’t read me, in the fashion that women can read women. See how I was reacting to my hand being folded into his. This was the first time we’d ever made contact. As he shook my hand his left slid over the back of my right as he held it tight, running it up over my wrist and enclosing that as well. Enclosed and oddly at his mercy now. 

“Come on back,” he said, nodding his head toward the swinging door toward the kitchen. I followed him through the lowly lit tables. He talked with nearly everyone we went by, dropping smiles left and right, shaking hands, and slapping shoulders. He looked broad, capable, and at peace. Very at home, endlessly appealing. 

As we approached the swinging doors he placed the flat of his hand against the small of my back, ushering me into the kitchen before him. Keeping the door from whipping back into me. Pulling me in close, hip to hip his mien changed from his winning little emcee act on the floor. Snapping orders but still smiling. He didn’t seem to be performing anymore like in the dining room. In fact, he was utterly comfortable and ready to jump in where needed. Leaning in close to speak with people, watching intently. Raising his voice as necessary over clanging, sizzling, and steaming. Whoever was working on plating glanced up at both of us, unsurprised to see a stranger in the kitchen, and grinned up at Cal.

“Forget it, boss, we got things under control, take dinner already,” he said, smiling at me, rolling his eyes and letting me in on the joke that Cal was a workaholic. 

His office was a squared-off back corner of the kitchen, separated from the rush with something like a confessional booth lattice. Dark wood like the paneling, tables, and chairs in the dining room. It had a red leather upholstered door like a classic bar and was dark inside.

“Go on through, turn on the desk lamp, I’ll be right in,” he directed.

I pushed through the door and walked hesitantly in, blinded by the dark. Surprised by the suddenness of it, considering how bright the kitchen was just outside. I tugged on a green banker’s lamp pull chain that was sitting on the wide L-shaped desk. As I started peeping around he hip-checked his way through the door with two plates. 

“Sit down, honey,” he said, gesturing toward a chair. I dropped promptly into the leather armchair on the “guest” side of the desk. Laughed as he set the plate down– stuffed mushrooms.

“I’m so glad you started the conversation with mushrooms. First, they are such a wonderful thing. Secondly, my preparation for them is particularly outstanding. Please eat,” he said. I took a bite and began praising.

“I’m glad you gave me your number,” I said shyly, after finishing my first one. Eating quietly with him was strangely easy. I wasn’t social like him or good at banter. But I was glad he was even capable of quietude. 

“Thank god you gave me an excuse to,” he grinned back at me, pouring drinks. I enjoyed being in the same space with him, outside of work. Smelling his soap or cologne, watching him move and sit sprung and relaxed in his chair.

“So… how’d the girl at the front know it was me? She said my name when I walked in.” I asked. Curious but not expecting an exact answer. He scoffed into his glass and glanced up. That same way, through his lashes, eyes flashing and dark and impossible to not react to. I hoped the light was low enough that he couldn’t see the blush rush to my face. 

“Oh… I don’t want to ruin this perfectly lovely evening,” he said, trying to not answer me. Which of course made me ravenous for the answer.

“Well, now you have to tell me. I’m dying to know. And after all, you’ve already shit all over my mincing and chopping in the past. Nothing else could hurt my feelings, at this point,” I said. Referring to his gentle chiding about how inconsistent I was. He laughed low, eyes flicking to and from my face.

“Honestly?” he asked.

“Yes!” I cried. 

“I said I had a brick house coming in to have dinner with me, and I was impatient for her,” he said. 

“Good god, Cal!” I said, dropping my fork.

“Oh no, I’ve ruined the perfectly lovely evening,” he said.

“Mmm… not necessarily,” I said back quieter. He pushed the plates away from us with a forearm, reaching across the desk. Something like aroused-panic filled me from toes to throat as he gripped my elbows, pulling me in tight to his desk. Trapping me again. And I liked it. 

“I love looking at you. And I was a little too honest talking about it,” he said. I noted it wasn’t an apology. Just an explanation I suppose. My throat went dry and tight as he kept a hold of my arms and eyes. When his hands began to relax I stood. Felt his eyes on me and it felt good. A little vulnerable, but good, as though I wanted to put on a show. Nothing like a lecherous stare from a stranger. Just someone taking honest pleasure in something that delighted the eye. I opened my mouth, about to say I love looking at you. Especially your smile, and when you look at me sideways and up to no good. I want to see what trouble you can cause me. 

“Thanks for coming, honey.” He stepped out from behind his desk and I nodded wordlessly, sucking in a bigger look at him. Stocking this moment away. Firmly putting his hand on my back again, warm and distracting. He wasn’t stopping movement, he just seemed to want to make contact again. I definitely wanted it.

“And come back soon. Whenever you want. Whenever you have some time. But soon,” he added, free hand trailing up my forearm.