James flashes that smile that makes my stomach drop right through me. “Pretty giant.”
Wilson laughs at us and takes our order. There’s more wine for me. James cuts himself off at the one beer. Every inch of my skin is tingling. I take a chance and place my hand on James’s knee. He twitches briefly, but doesn’t move my hand away.
“Thanks for bringing me here.”
He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Food’s good.”
“Even though you’re not on the line anymore?”
He holds his beer out in the air and salutes the mouth to the kitchen. “Damn straight.”
“Where did you work before this?”
He licks his front teeth with his tongue and looks up like he’s looking at a visual calendar in his mind. “A few places.”
“How about before culinary school?”
He scratches his head, leans in to me. “Mostly pubs.”
His short answers are so frustrating. “You said you went overseas?”
His puts his arm on the back of my chair and leans in to me. “I went to Italy with Nunzio when we were 21. It was amazing. His family makes their own wine. I guess every family makes their own wine over there. It was sweet like juice that gets you hammered.”
“So you were actually able to drink it?”
He ignores my jab. “It’s like everything there revolves around cooking. The family gardens in the morning so they have vegetables for the season. They make their own pasta that would feed the whole country. Everything is so fresh and clean. It’s a different life. It’s simple and pure. I loved it. I probably gained fifteen pounds in my first month there.”
I lean into him and wonder—is James Hughes the kind of guy who would be okay with a simple life? Most people don’t go on TV for simple lives. They don’t get hooked up with celebrity chefs to live a nice quiet life in Boston.
“It sounds perfect. I’ve never been outside the country.”
He looks genuinely surprised. His mouth is open but he doesn’t speak.
“What do you want to ask me, James?”
He sets his beer down on the bar and rubs his thigh until he reaches where my hand is on his knee. My entire hand looks tiny in his. I can’t remember a time when a touch this small made my heart race like I was seconds away from a heart attack.
“Don’t get mad,” he says. “But you really don’t get help from Stella? I mean, you could have seen the world and back by now.”
“On her alimony? Pass.” I shake my head and take a sip from my glass. “Why is that hard to believe? I really don’t. After my dad died, my mom remarried in a second.” I snap my finger to emphasize my point. “Before I had a chance to really get used to that fact she got divorced. Husband #2 was the only smart one. He had a prenup. We moved back to Boston for him. Before that, up until I was thirteen we lived in this tiny place in Westchester. Husband #3 fell madly in love with her. No prenup. He was a chef in L.A. and had ins with T.V. people. He thought Stella had a face that needed to be seen.”
“So do you,” he tells me.
“I didn’t make the wedding to Husband #4. Didn’t even get to meet him.” My laugh is bitter. “Obviously, it ended in divorce because how else is it supposed to end, you know?”
A wave of hurt crosses his features. “I hope you don’t always think that’s true.”
I have to breathe really hard to push down the well I just opened. “Jesus, when did I become such a downer?”
And how did I end up spilling my guts when my objective was to get James to spill his? My phone rings and Bradley’s face comes on the screen. I ignore the call and shove the phone in my back pocket.
James looks uncomfortable. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure you’re not with that guy?”
“If I were do you think I’d be shoving my tongue down your throat?” I ask, a little louder than deemed polite for such a small place. I guess Bradley and I are attached at the hip when I’m in town.
James squeezes my thigh. “Okay. He’s no good for you.”
He’s the first person who has ever said that. “And you are?”
“Nope. But at least I’ll admit it.”
I take a sip of my wine. Liquid courage. “What about you? Any recent exes stalking your Facebook?”
“Just one. She’s a little…crazy. Which is why I don’t have a Facebook. Do we really want to talk about exes?”
I answer him with a kiss that leaves him stunned and the hostess red in the face.
“Well,” he rubs his thumb across the top of my hand. “Here comes something that’s going to make you the happiest girl. If only until all the food is gone.”
The runners bring out my lobster roll and James’s stuffed flounder in a creamy sauce that begs to be licked. Wilson makes room for our tower of oysters. I grab the tiny fork. When James holds it, he looks like a giant holding a pitchfork. He clinks his with mine. “Cheers.”
“Oh, before I forget,” I say, trying for casual but ending with awkward. “Felicity needs a final head count for the tasting. You know, if you want to invite your family.”
James chews on an oyster for what feels like hours. “They won’t be coming.”
“I already told you about my fucked up family. You think you can top that?”
“Let’s just say I can top it through the stratosphere.” His eyes turn sad. I squeeze his hand. “Now I’m the downer. Eat, before I finish them all for myself.”
We eat the oysters like they’re our last meal. I don’t even care that some of the tables look at us like we’re savages. He’s a budding handsome chef dipping bread in drawn butter and licking his fingers like a five year old with a melting popsicle.
“I wish I could have lobster for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“I wish I could have lobster for dessert,” I say. “How about we add chocolate covered lobster to the menu?”
“Leave the cooking to me.” James leans in to my. He kisses the corner of my lips. “Can’t waste good lobster.”
I wish I would rub food on him so I can kiss it off as well. “Well, I never claimed to have table manners. My debut was a travesty.”
“Shut up, you were one of those debutant girls?” His touch lingers on my arms. I realize that since we sat down, he hasn’t stopped touching me. My knee, my thigh, my arms, my face. It’s a constant touch that make me more drunk than any of this wine.
I close my eyes and dip the last morsels of lobster in the clear, yellow, butter. “So was Stella. My dad was a business man with the heart of a hippie.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell, Lucky.”
I roll my eyes. “It was a strange match, but it worked. I’d like to think that was when my mom was the happiest. Like she actually loved us and didn’t care about all this shit.”
He reaches out and touches the end of my ponytail. I follow his muscular arm all the way to his eyes. Oh, oh, oh, this is so dangerous. Like Belle’s cocktails. It’s so pretty and delicious, and when you don’t expect it, boom, you’re professing you love to everyone around you.
“What about your folks?”
“My folks were the same for a while,” he whispers, looking off to the side to hide his brilliant eyes from me.
“What happened?”
He licks the salt from his lips and looks at me as if he’s actually surprised that he’s telling me the truth. “My Ma and Pa were high school sweethearts. Technically my Pa was a high school dropout, but my Ma married him right after her graduation. I’m talking the day after. He put her through a two-year college for secretary work. The neighborhood was pretty rough back then. You walk down the block I grew up now days and there’s a fucking Starbucks everywhere you look. When my Ma—”
He shuts his eyes and I can feel him count the seconds until the memory goes away. “When she died, well, after that my dad fell apart. There are few things worse than a man who’s lost the love of his life. One of those things is a man that can’t look at everything he has left and try to
make the best of it.”
“You mean you and your brother?”
“And my sister.”
For a moment, we’re quiet. I know we grew up in different places. Maybe if we had been in the same high school we might not have been friends. But somehow, despite it all, we have similar pains and as he stares into my eyes and the warmth of it spreads through me, I know he feels the same way.
“Come on,” he says, reaching for his wallet.
Wilson sees him and makes a face. “Get the fuck atta here. Put that thing away or you’ll poke someone’s eye out.”
“Stop,” James shakes his head.
“If you leave money down here, I’ll fucking burn it, bro. For real. I got you. You can make it up to us at the opening of that fancy new place ya got.”
“Good man,” I say, shaking his hand, not even caring that it smells like oysters.
We find his bike and I shiver in the chilly wet night. It’s the kind of weather that keeps threatening to storm, but all we get is muggy drizzle. I rub my arms to get rid of the goosebumps.
“Here.” James holds out his jacket for me to slip into. I let myself fall into the warm softness of beaten leather and the smell of him for the second time this week—sunshine and sea spray. It’s five times my size, but I want to wear it every day. That’s when I realize I must be drunk.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, sliding on to the back of his Fatboy and wrapping my arms around his chest and holding on to something I’ve never experienced before.
He revs the engine and knocks the kickstand back. The initial bounce makes me yelp as I secure my hands around his hard body. He turns for a second and catches my eye. “Are you ready for dessert?”
Chapter 25
Riding on the back of a motorcycle would not have been on my list of things to do when in Boston. But as the great metallic monster that is James’s Harley Fatboy zooms down the streets, the cold air whipping my ponytail back, I let myself fall into the thrill of it.
I’m disappointed when we show up at The Star.
“Why are we at work?”
“Not telling.” James parks in the back alley, where the kitchen exit faces the brick wall of the building next door. It’s just us and two giant garbage bins, the kind where they always find the bodies at the beginning of Law & Order. This is where he met his brother earlier.
James turns his key in the kitchen door. He presses the security code and waits for me to follow him inside.
I make a face, but follow. My phone buzzes and Bradley’s name pops up on the screen.
Bradley: Only in town for a few days and you’re already stirring up trouble.
Me: It’s not a visit unless I leave a pile of broken glass on my way out of town.
Bradley: When do I get to see you? I’m not used to you having a job when you visit.
Me: Me neither. How about Wednesday or Thursday?
Bradley: Come on, Luck… I need my drinking partner.
“Everything okay?” James asks when I just stand at the entrance, texting.
“Yeah, I’m not used to having a regular phone and a company phone. I hate that people can reach me any time they want.” I step into the kitchen. James flicks on the white florescent lights.
“That’s why I leave my phone home when I go out,” he says. “I remember when my brother had a fucking pager. He’d check it every five seconds and would always get the codes for the girls messed up.”
I run my hand across the smooth metal of the counter tops. This is the biggest kitchen I’ve ever been in. Most are so cramped and the line cooks and chefs are sweating all over each other.
“At least now he can save their names properly,” I tease.
James shakes his head. “Nah, he’s a one-woman guy now. My niece Dee.”
“No mom?”
“She’s not in the picture. Thank God.” Gahd. James’s features go dark. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Why are we here, Chef James?” I take off his jacket and hang it on a hook.
“We’re going to break in the ovens.” James starts taking things out of the pantry. Flour, baking soda, vanilla extract. “Can you get the milk, sugar, and sour cream?”
I’m a little confused, but I’ll roll with it.
“McKenna’s a great pastry chef,” James says. “But you have never had a cake until you try one of mine.”
There’s something playful in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Not when he kissed me the first time or I kissed him the second time. Or the third. It’s a different kind of pleasure that comes from doing the things that he loves. I completely underestimated Chef James.
He preheats the oven. I stand back and enjoy the way he moves around the room. This is his space and he knows it. He grabs mixing bowls and lifts the head of the giant stand mixer. He winks at me and that shining green eye pulls on the chords of my heart. “Can you hand me some eggs?”
I go to the fridge. When I bring it back the carton he’s just watching me. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Like my every movement should be remembered, etched into his subconscious. This isn’t my typical one-night stand. Granted we haven’t actually had sex, but the way that he kissed me yesterday—that kiss was more intimate and passionate than any kiss I’ve ever had. The memory of it has me tripping and nearly breaking a dozen eggs.
“Thanks.”
James Hughes is fast. His hands crack the eggs on the silver edge of the mixing bowl. He eyeballs sugar and flour and oil. He runs off to the pantry and grabs an orange to zest. When all that’s left is the white rind, he slices it in half and squeezes the sweet juice into the batter. I love watching him. The way he moves his arms is sure and confident, but delicate. I can tell that this is what he loves to do. Even during the tasting the other day, the food was mouthwatering delicious. He’s creating something that’ll make someone happy. That someone is me…
He pours the batter into a brand new pan lined with generous amounts of butter. Then it goes into the over and he returns to me. I watch as he moves slowly. His shoulders slightly hunched, predatory. His eyes are radiant and green and I take a step back, but there’s a long metal table in the way. He stops just a foot away from me, eyes trailing my face, my neck, and my bare shoulders.
“I thought you’re a savory guy all the way,” I say.
“I can be sweet.”
“Sweet like a lemon, maybe.”
He smiles, and my stomach fills with butterflies because I put that smile there. “Any chef worth his salt knows how to bake a little. I’m not saying I can beat Mckenna’s éclairs, but I think this cake is going to change your life.”
“That’s a pretty big statement, Mr. Hughes.”
It’s the slightest shift in his mood, a shadow that comes out of nowhere and is gone just the same. Does he not like being called Mr. Hughes? Maybe it reminds him too much of his dad.
“I would like to wager,” I say, “that my buttercream frosting is going to change your life.”
The smile returns and he takes a step closer. I can feel the heat from his body radiating. Or maybe it’s the oven.
Sure, I haven’t baked or cooked a single thing in months, living mostly on take-out. But I dropped out of culinary school because I couldn’t handle the pressure, not because I don’t know how to cook.
I press my hands against James’s chest. “Don’t try to distract me.”
He shrugs innocently. It’s strange watching this side of him. The sweetness that is buried beneath tattoos and a head-chef scowl. It’s discombobulating. But I want to show him that this is something I can do. My dad used to say that the way to his heart was through his stomach, but since my mom didn’t know how to cook back then, he would settle for her wonderful smile.
I know this recipe like the back of my hand. It’s the most basic thing ever, but it tastes so good. I cream the butter, add the heaps of powdered sugar and vanilla extract. I can feel his eyes watching my every move.
I’ve never been this self-conscious about my body. I have a small waist like my mom, but the women on my dad’s side of the family have healthy derrières. I glance at him over my shoulder. My insides are like a champagne bottle ready to pop, the way his eyes appreciate my back, my waist, my ass. Then I get an idea.
I run out of the kitchen and into the bar, grabbing a chilled bottle from the fridge, and returning with my heart jackhammering in my chest.
He raises a curious eyebrow and I put my finger to my lips.
With the mixer on low speed I add the bubbly to my batter. There’s an initial fizz and then it blends perfectly.
“Mmm,” I say, licking the icing off my finger.
He moans a curse. He turns from where he’s checking the oven. It’s like his body is stuck between motions. He glances at the door leading to the alley behind, then at me, like he considers making a run for it. Then he looks at me, really looks at me with eyes sparkling like New Year’s Eve, his body wading across the room to get to me.
James stops inches from me. “Lucky—”
“Yes?” I swallow the nervous ball lodged in my throat.
His hands grab my waist, hard and sure, squeezing a gasp from my lips. He picks me up like I’m light as a feather, and sits me on the long metal table. We’re eye to eye. I pull at his shirt because he’s too far away and I welcome him between my legs, squeezing his hips with my knees. He nuzzles my neck with his warm lips, trailing them up and down. I rake my nails across his chest, his shoulders, then let my hand wander down.
I bite his ear playfully. “Hello there,” I say, cupping his hard bulge straining through his jeans. I rub it slowly until he moans into my neck.
“Lucky.”
I don’t answer. He reaches over to the whipped batter of buttercream and scoops it with his index finger, then holds it up to my lips. I lick a tiny bit. Shut my eyes at the pleasure of decadent sugar melting on my tongue. He presses into my center and the friction of our clothes sends sparks through my body. I take his finger into my mouth and swirl my tongue around the icing. I keep my eyes on his face, holding his wrist, leaving his finger clean.