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Simon had been resourceful and inventive with the change of plans, and I was quite impressed with the young chef. It was heady standing next to him as well, even if my entire role was to use the tongs to turn the venison medallions when they reached the right degree of searing. Not that I would know. Simon would tell me when I needed to spring into action.
In the meantime, I enjoyed being close to him and watching his graceful movements. The way he moved as he cooked was like watching a dancer at work. He knew where everything was even though he’d only stepped foot in this kitchen a few hours ago and could find the right bottle or spice or utensil without turning to look. He listened to the sound of the meat on the hot pans, adjusted his seasonings by both smell and taste, and kept up a constant level of conversation that impressed me. The one time I lost my train of thought, he was able to find the loose thread for me without missing a beat, so I knew he was actually listening even though it appeared his concentration was entirely on the food.
There was something unbelievably sexy about watching him work, and I wasn’t ashamed to say, I was attracted to him. Under other circumstances… but then Simon turned and offered me a taste of the port wine reduction that would accompany the venison, and I lost myself in those dark eyes of his even as I opened my mouth to accept the proffered treat. Flavor exploded on my tongue, rich and sensual. It blazed a path across my tongue with a silky glide that was at once delicate and velvety. The contrasts of flavor and texture, the headiness of the port… I closed my eyes and groaned as the warmth in my belly expanded.
“That’s so good,” I whispered. When I opened my eyes, Simon was standing right in front of me, his gaze riveted on my mouth. I teased at him by flicking my tongue against my lips, seeking any lingering trace of that exquisite sauce, and smiled when I caught the faint huff of air that accompanied the slightest flare of his nostrils. “I would almost say you’re trying to seduce me, chef.”
The instant I’d said the words, I wanted to call them back. My face flaming, I apologized, but Simon waved it away. He also stepped back from me and returned his attention to the food, the moment between us broken until he looked at me again.
“A good meal is a seduction, Becks,” he said. “It starts with a flirtation. Why else do you think we call it an amuse bouche? Then we tease with light flavors, fun combinations to wake up the tastebuds, then pass into the getting-to-know you phase that pleases your stomach. But this,” he nodded at the stove, “is where things get dark and rich and decadent.” His eyes found mine again. “This is where I bring you to the edge of pleasure and temptation.”
It was my turn to draw in a sharp breath as my lips parted. In that moment, I wanted to be the kind of person who would close the distance between us and take his mouth with mine so I could discover how he tasted. But I wasn’t that person even though this moment lasted and stretched beyond what could pass as polite attention.
I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said, my voice husky, “I can…” I needed to clear my throat again. “I can see that.”
Simon quirked a grin at me and turned back to the stove. He shut off the burners one by one. “We’re done,” he said. “Are you ready?”
I wanted to tease back at him. Wanted to pitch my voice low and playful, and ask him Ready for what? But I couldn’t. As Richard liked to remind me, I didn’t have any game whatsoever. I settled for nodding, then watched as Simon plated the various dishes. Each one came with its own vegetable or accompanying sauce. Simon told me to take the trout into the dining room. He followed with the other dishes, then went back and returned with our glasses of pinot and two empty glasses.
“Pinot is for the trout and duck, and then I’ve got a spectacular Cabernet for the venison,” Simon said as he disappeared back into the kitchen.
I rested my hands on the back of one of the chairs and stared at the table. It was set for the romantic dinner that was supposed to have taken place here. Candles, a beautiful table runner and exquisite place settings — I’d chosen them all carefully, searching for the right linens to match the platinum and black diamond ring I had chosen for Richard. At this time of year, finding anything besides red, gold, and green decor was almost impossible, but I’d succeeded, and the table looked incredible.
Fuck it, I thought, and picked up the lighter I’d placed on the bookshelves. I lit the candles and dimmed the lights just as Simon stepped back into the room with the wine. He’d let his hair out of its confines, and it framed his face in luxurious waves. Backlit by the light from the kitchen, I noticed golden highlights I hadn’t seen before. He looked magical.
“Sit,” I said, “I need to wash my hands.”
In truth, I needed a moment to compose myself. Blame it on the food or the wine or the combination of both, or heightened emotions of which I was unaware, but something was happening to me. I wasn’t given to casual attractions and flirtations. When I was younger, I often missed the signs of interest until the guy had moved on to someone more aware. It was one of the reasons why I’d fallen for Richard. His attention had been gradual and persistent, waiting for me to notice that he kept coming back and wanting to spend more time with me.
Though, now that I had more information and some time in which to reflect, along with the attraction I felt for Simon as a contrast, I had to wonder if I hadn’t been led more by the desire to be in a relationship, as well as Richard’s desire to have someone he could bring to formal functions. His law firm handled San Francisco’s social and business elite, and my calendar had constantly had this gala or that fundraiser to attend as Richard’s plus-one. We were often pictured together in publicity photos from the events in our matching tuxes. I thought about the voice I’d heard when Richard called, his accusation that I was stepping out on him, and wondered how many less-than-presentable hook-ups he’d had while I always made myself available to be on his arm and called it a relationship. Love, even. I’d been prepared to ask him to marry me, and I cursed myself for having been an idiot.
Well, yes, I thought, but that’s old news this evening.
Sufficiently collected, I turned off the lights in the kitchen, and swung the dividing door to the dining room shut as I passed through. Simon had filled the remaining glasses and looked up at me with expectation and — dare I hope? — anticipation for my return in his expression. Or maybe I was only projecting what I wished to find in his eyes. And, yes, I was self-aware enough to admit that I did want him to find me desirable. It might have made me shallow or some other disparaging title, but I also acknowledged that there was a large chasm between hoping and actually doing. I could admire Simon, enjoy the attraction between us, and not do anything while the wounds Richard had inflicted upon me were still fresh.
I sat at the table. Simon had chosen the seat at ninety degrees to mine and rearranged the place settings, so he was next to me rather than across as I’d originally set up the table. It meant that when I picked up my fork, my hand brushed against his, that our heads nearly touched when we both leaned forward to catch the aromas rising from our plates, and that I was aware of every breath he took.
My senses heightened, my first bite of the smoked trout made me groan. The flavor was exquisite; delicate and yet hearty. It was paired with some kind of braised greens that were slightly bitter and topped with thinly sliced bits of the fennel that had been sautéed in browned butter until they were crisp.
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a better meal in my life,” I said, and was close enough to see the blush that colored Simon’ cheeks even in the dim light cast by the candles. It made him seem younger than the twenty-nine I knew him to be thanks to some internet stalking before I asked to meet with him. “Have I embarrassed you?” I asked. “You must receive praise for your cooking all the time.”
Simon shook his head. He was focused on his plate, picking at the trout without lifting the fork to his mouth. “It’s not that,” he said, and his cheeks grew deeper in color. “Becks, the sounds you make while eating are almost obscene.” He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Maybe people do that all the time, I don’t know. I’ve never eaten one of my meals with someone else.”
“That’s a shame. I’m not a connoisseur by any stretch, but your food should always be shared with people who appreciate it.”
“I think you’re more than making up for it.” He met my eyes briefly, then looked down at his plate.
I felt a subtle shift between us, a thread of tension that wasn’t unpleasant in the least. It was spiced with anticipation, and a quick silver jolt of arousal shot through my body, leaving me acutely aware of every nerve ending I possessed.
“Simon…” I reached for his hand, but at that moment my phone buzzed with a text alert. I’d forgotten to put my phone on silent and then bury the damn thing. I wasn’t going to look at it — I knew it was from Richard — but I still got up and retrieved my phone so I could make sure there were no more interruptions.
When I returned to the table, Simon was swirling his wine glass, the bowl cupped in his hand as he watched the liquid rise and fall. Then his hand stilled, and he brought the glass to his nose, inhaling before he took a sip. I could tell he didn’t swallow immediately because I was watching his face closely, my breath held until I saw his jaw flex and the muscles of his throat contract. The candlelight brought out the angles of his face and highlighted his cheekbones and the movement of his mouth as he took a bite of the duck. I held still in the shadowed doorway as he put down the pinot, picked up the cabernet, and repeated the taste of the wine and the food.
He stared out the window as he contemplated the flavors in his mouth, as beautiful as the food he had prepared for me. For us. Because this felt more like a date than a client having dinner with his chef. And I found myself wanting to believe it was a date — a very successful date in which two people who met by chance found themselves with much in common and a simmering attraction that would end with wine by the fire, and, possibly, a night in bed.
The fantasy spun itself out in my head, and when I looked at Simon again, thoughts of his naked body filled my mind and made my cock take notice. I must have made a noise because Simon turned his head. He smiled when he saw me standing there and motioned for me to come back to the table.
“It will get cold if you don’t eat,” he said, “and then all my hard work will be for nothing.”
