Page 40 of For Butter or Worse
“Good, more deep breaths,” he encouraged.
“This is why I don’t hike,” she joked.
He breathed in slowly, then out slowly. And she mimicked his breaths, in and out. They breathed together, and then she relaxed, letting her body fall back against his. He was solid and she was shaky, but he held her so tight that the weak feeling melted away.
“Let’s focus on something to help with the dizziness. Did you always want to be a chef? Come on, tell me a story,” he added.
She’d been asked this question countless times in dozens of interviews. People were usually curious about how her career began. Her mom was why she’d wanted to be a chef. She loved telling this story.
This was a happy memory. Why not share it with Leo?
She kicked at a rock under her foot and it skipped along the road, stopping short before tumbling off the side of the mountain. “When I was a kid, I used to eat cubes of butter covered in sugar...as a snack.”
She hesitantly looked up at Leo. If he hadn’t judged her for crying while eating, she was giving him another opportunity to show his true colors.
“Impressive,” was all he said in return.
“My mom was a dental hygienist, so she was livid when she caught me, and told me my teeth would rot out of my head. I didn’t care, though. I loved butter and sugar—why not combine the two?”
“Amen, sister.” Leo held out a fist in solidarity, which made her smile.
“She bought me a Julia Child cookbook from Bart’s Books, this really cool outdoor bookshop in Ojai, where we grew up. She said if I was going to use up all the butter and sugar, I needed to make something she and my sister could eat, too. Cooking together became a Sunday tradition. My mom worked a lot during the week, but on Sundays I always knew she and I would be in the kitchen. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we’d make a recipe from the cookbook. If we couldn’t afford an ingredient, we’d improvise and make our own special version. We’d spend all morning, and sometimes into the afternoon, perfecting a dish from Julia’s cookbook. I fell in love with French cooking after that.”
“Truly an unexpected journey you just took me on.” His arms tightened around her.
And she liked the way his muscles pulsed gently—holding her, but not pressuring her, which made her feel like she was truly supported. She continued to rest against him, easily fitting in the space he’d made for her, a mildly disturbing realization.
“My love for cooking started in the kitchen with my mom. That became my favorite place in the world to be.” She tried to bring her mind back to the story, and away from thinking about how easily her body fit against Leo’s. “Sometimes I can still feel her next to me when I’m cooking.”
She went quiet and so did he. Had she said too much?
“My dad comes back to me, too, especially when I’m at Vinny’s. It’s important to have those memories.” He leaned down, and his lips brushed against her ear again. “How are you feeling? Any better?”
His espresso scent gave her an abrupt shot of energy. “Better,” she said.
“Ready to try standing on your own?”
No, I’m actually fine with you holding me up indefinitely. “Yes,” she said.
His grip on her loosened enough so that she could push off him. Her legs weren’t shaky anymore. She bent, then straightened her knees, trying them out.
She turned to face him and she had to bite the inside of her mouth. Because the way he looked at her...there was almost something like a heat burning in his eyes. Her cheeks flushed. She’d been resting against his half-naked body, felt his sweat on her...
“Hold on.” His eyes roamed across her face.
Great. Had she accidentally drooled and left a mark?
His hand came next to her cheek as he brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. The lightness of his fingertips, paired with the cool air, sent a spark through her. She inhaled deeply and looked down.
“Thanks,” she breathed out.
When she looked back, they locked eyes. Then Nina’s gaze went to his lips. His mouth parted, as if noticing the attention.
She knew that if they were ever going to kiss, it should be now. They were framed by the sunset at the top of a mountain. The cameraman was waiting. They couldn’t have asked for a better time to be caught in the act.
She’d be able to lean in and nibble his bottom lip as easily as biting into a croissant.
“Tom’s suggestion...” she began.
