Page 14 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
He hefted the basket of ingredients, careful to keep it in front of his crotch, and nodded toward the apartment. “Can I come in?”
Claire’s smooth, tawny skin darkened with a blush. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
“It is.”
She stepped back, allowing him inside.
His first glimpse into Claire’s private world had been her kitchen downstairs. Every chef was held to a high standard of cleanliness and organization, but the ones who loved it, you could just tell. There was something extra about their personal space that told you that was the space where they did what they loved. And now, looking into Claire’s home, he saw even more how special, how different she was. Against a backdrop of white walls and dark wood floors, bright colors abounded, from a teal-blue sofa to the pink throw gracing one arm, the lime-green curtains, the orange trunk that served as a coffee table. The living area and kitchen were one open room, and the colors continued throughout, with a bright floral backsplash on the kitchen walls and Fiesta-style dishes in a myriad of colors inside the glass-fronted cabinets. Black stools waited at the tiny bar, topped with lime-green cushions that matched the curtains.
“I love it.” His own home was full of soft, warm colors and furniture because Kelly had decorated most of it, but this…this suited Claire to a T.
“Thank you.” She led the way into the kitchen. “What all do you need to prep dinner?”
“Nothing I can’t find,” he assured her. “Have a seat right there and talk to me while I get it ready.”
The first thing he did was pour her a glass of the chilled pinot grigio he’d brought. A small set of cut crystal glasses waited in a top cupboard, and he brought down two, popped the cork, and filled one before setting it in front of her on the bar.
Claire sighed. “Trying to mellow me out?”
He had to laugh at that. “Is it even possible to mellow you out?”
“Nowadays?” She brought the flute to her nose and savored the aroma before taking a small sip. “It’s usually more like fatigue than actual mellowing. Running your own business is not exactly relaxing.”
He grunted his agreement. Prime had taken up most of his waking hours for years, and what it hadn’t taken, his various other projects had. He had a great manager and trustworthy staff, but at the end of the day, the restaurant had been his passion, and he’d wanted to be there. Or maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to face the silence when he was at home.
“Baking tray?” he asked.
“Lower right cabinet.”
He prepared the crostini and slid it into the oven to warm. “I found a nice farmer’s market on my way into Gatlinburg,” he said, drawing the sliced heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil leaves out of his basket. “I brought home a whole basil plant and left it in JD’s kitchen. The Neanderthal has no concept of the term ‘fresh’ in relation to herbs.” He nodded with approval at the mini herb garden on the small shelf bisecting Claire’s kitchen window.
She laughed. “Lily said he can cook, good enough for her at least. They both gorge themselves whenever I supply food for our get-togethers, though.”
“I imagine so. JD is the same when we get together in New York.”
She sobered as she watched him slice fresh mozzarella and begin layering the caprese salad. Flaky sea salt and freshly ground black pepper followed, then drizzles of the house blend olive oil and a reduction he’d made from the bacon-garlic balsamic vinegar, both of which he’d bought at the specialty shop. The smell of the vinegar tingled in his nostrils, waking up his senses in that way that he loved. When Claire dragged a finger along the edge of the plate, swiped up a dot of the reduction, and brought it to her mouth, he knew it had done the same for her. Her moan as the spicy liquid hit her tongue did other things to him, things that had nothing to do with his nose and everything to do with his cock.
He grabbed the warm bread slices from the oven, plated them, and brought them over to the bar, where he refilled Claire’s glass, then his own. “I figured something heavy after such a long day might be too much.”
“This is perfect,” she said, serving herself directly from the platters.
“I did bring dessert.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see that.”
“Hey, I might be just a regular ol’ chef, but I’m no slouch in the dessert department.”
Claire smiled as she finished chewing her bite and swallowed. “I don’t think anyone would call Lincoln Young a ‘regular ol’ chef.’”
“You’d be surprised.” The competition to stay on top of the food world in New York City was fierce, a competition he’d long since refused to compete in. If his food and his code of conduct didn’t speak for themselves, he didn’t deserve his place in the presumed hierarchy.
They ate mostly in silence, but it wasn’t strained. He wasn’t sure if fatigue had taken away her capacity to fight him or if it was something else, but he refused to question it, just sat back and enjoyed. The occasional comment, casual and exploratory, opened his eyes to more facets of Claire that he hadn’t known when he’d only seen her at the institute or at work at Prime. The more he learned, the deeper his appreciation became, and the more he knew was at risk if Claire didn’t accept his apology. He wanted to spend more time with her—and holy fuck, did he want her in his bed—but if she couldn’t forget the past…
When he served up homemade coconut ice cream that he’d made at JD’s that afternoon, topping it with grilled fresh peaches, a bourbon–white peach vinegar reduction, and roasted pecans and coconut, Claire hummed her appreciation.
“You’re definitely trying to butter me up,” she said, dipping her spoon into the creamy coconut goodness. “Trying to get out of this come-to-Jesus meeting, are ya?”
“Is this a come-to-Jesus meeting?”
