Page 10 of Shades of Red

This morning, Chef Matis tasked us with making a soup. It sounds simple, but it’s a dish that can take the entire day if done right. Soup is something that can be crafted from even the sparsest pantry, and it’s one of the first things I remember experimenting with in the kitchen. There were days when we barely had enough to pull together to make a meal. I would make a game of it with my sister—we would dig through the nearly empty cupboards and search the corners of the fridge to find things that could be thrown together to make something resemblingdinner.

Through a little trial and error, I discovered that you could add picked through chicken bones and carrots or potatoes—or whatever vegetables we were lucky enough to have—to water and cook it long enough to make what we called soup. Sometimes there was even a spare can of peas to make it extra special. Soup is something that connects most culinary cultures in spite of region or economic class, and I think it’s a highly underrated dish.

My ham hocks and duck confit have been simmering with a handful of cloves, onions, garlic, celery, and fresh herbs for about six hours. I’ve come a long way from boiled water and scraps, and the smell wafting from the gas stove is euphoric. I’m sautéing my root vegetables in duck fat in one pan and boiling water to blanch cabbage in another pot as I try to remain focused and not look over at Aurélie’s station. With such a slow challenge, I’ve struggled to ignore her with the same determination that she’s remained oblivious to my presence for the whole day.

She’s been cold and distant since our indiscretion in the alley. We came in second place that day, just barely losing to One and Two because they decided to take a risk and nix the starch source in their recipe. Chef liked their flavors enough that he allowed it, and the omission meant their coq au vin was a lower cost than ours. When I suggested we grab a coffee afterward to celebrate our almost victory, she told me to fuck off before being picked up in a black Cadillac and leaving without a word of goodbye.

And she’s barely spoken a word to me since. I feel like she’s perpetually punishing me for giving her the punishment sheaskedfor. I’ve thought back to that moment over and over, worried that I took it too far. Maybe I hit her too hard. Maybe I shouldn’t have stripped her cunt bare and feasted on her like an animal in the middle of a dirty alley. Maybe I should have held her afterward instead of throwing myfocus directly into the challenge. Maybe I should have thanked her or apologized or asked her to be my girlfriend. I’ve got no fucking idea.

If I’m honest, I’m inexperienced with the protocol for post-spanking and orgasms, but Aurélie’s chilly attitude leaves me with the assumption that I’ve fucked it up in some capacity.

She looks strange today. Instead of her usual fresh-faced glow, her face is caked in makeup. Her lips are still a bright cherry red, but the cheeks that used to match have been painted a rosy color, and there’s no warm flush to her skin. It makes it harder to read her expression when her face is so covered. And I miss getting to see her blush when I taunt her in the kitchen.

She catches me staring, and instead of shying away, I challenge her. “You look different,” I say, careful to keep stirring my wooden spatula to prevent the leeks from getting too dark in the pan.

“Quoi?” she retorts, not even looking up from her pot. She’s chosen bouillabaisse, and the scent of seafood clashes with my garbure. Even our palates are out of sync at the moment.

“Your face,” I explain further. “You don’t look like you.”

She scoffs as she adds a squeeze of lemon to her steaming pot. “I hadn’t realized that three weeks was enough for you to become so well-acquainted with every facet of my face. I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or scared by your obvious obsession with me.”

“Three weeks was long enough for me to get pretty well acquainted with your cunt,chérie,” I bite back. Her head shoots up in panic, her wide eyes scouring the kitchen in case someone heard me mention how she came against a wall with my tongue in her pussy. The poor little thing is so scared that someone will know she stooped to grace my face with her spoiled French ass.

I kill the flames on my stove with a little more aggression than necessary and take my pan of vegetables off the burner. After checking the temp of my stock, I walk over to Aurélie’s station, invading herspace because I know it will make her blood heat. “And if you continue to ignore me, you should beveryscared of my obsession with you.” I cross my tattooed arms as I lean up against her stove. “Who knows what I’ll do.”

“Donotcome into my station and threaten me,connard,” she seethes as she takes a step back, stirring spoon still in hand. The chances of her using it to beat me over the head when she gets frustrated enough are higher than the chances that she won’t.

I disregard that possibility as I take a step closer to her. “Why are you ignoring me?” I ask, sounding indifferent even as irritation at her bratty attitude threatens to consume me.

“I’m not,” she huffs. Another step back.

“Yes, you are,” I growl, closing the distance between us. Looking to make sure no one is watching, I smoothly slide my hands over her hips, rubbing my thumbs over the white material that has the audacity to keep her soft skin from my touch. “Why?”

“You’re a distraction,” she answers, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. “We lost the challenge because we can’t focus when we’re together.”

“No, we lost because of adamnpotato,” I grit out. She’s making excuses, and we both know it. I use my grip on her hips to draw her closer, pressing her against the firm erection in my pants, letting her feel what she does to me. If anyone is a fucking distraction it’s her with her swollen cherry lips and her wide, periwinkle eyes that would look so pretty filled with tears. If we weren’t in a kitchen full of people, I would put her on her knees and fuck that red mouth until they were.

“Grey, I can’t,” she whispers, her words a plea. Her hands land on mine, but she doesn’t push me away.

“Yes, you can,” I tempt, feeling a devil’s smile pull at my lips.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she sighs, and I can hear the resignation in her tone.

“But you’ll enjoy it.” Besides, a little workplace fuckery never killed anyone.

She bites down on her pretty lip, considering my offer. Then something wicked sparks in her blue eyes. “Win a challenge.”

That isn’t at all what I was expecting to come out of her mouth. “What?” I ask, wondering what the challenges have to do with the dark things stirring between us.

“Win a challenge,” she repeats, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Prove that you can succeed in spite of us being near each other. And I willconsiderletting you touch me again.”

The conniving bitch. She’s asking me to win a challenge to earn the privilege of touching her because she thinks it’s impossible. She’s cocky, and she’s underestimating me, and both will be her downfall. “Promise?” I ask, my voice full of false sweetness, like the weak, inexperienced boy she so clearly thinks I am.

“Yes,” she answers, her small hands gripping mine tighter. She thinks she has me in her grasp. It’s kind of adorable how wrong she is.

“Pinky promise?” I taunt, reminding her of the day I got to taste her cunt.

“Espèce d'imbécile d'Américain,” she groans in French as she pushes me away.

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