He might be absolutely infuriating sometimes, but he’s a good teacher. A really good teacher. He’s treated every ingredient we’ve worked with like something special, but I notice, from the moment he makes the first cut into the firm flesh of the chicken, that he’s being extra careful. He shows me where the joints are. How to section off the pieces of meat. He explains how to remove the spine and break the breastbone to flatten it, and how to use the bones and castaway pieces to make stock. In a few minutes, the chicken transforms from a whole object into neatly separated pieces, ready for cooking, and my hand is cramping from trying to scribble down his running monologue.
“There, see?” He washes his hands and the cleaver he used to cut through bone and sinew. He raises an eyebrow at my expression; Imust look nervous. “It’s not that bad, you can handle it. I won’t let the cleaver chop off your fingers.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“It’s different.” I struggle to find the right words to explain the squirming sensation in my stomach. I think I understand why he wanted me to experience this. “It was alive.”
“Yes, it was.” He angles the cleaver in my direction. “Alive in a way plants aren’t. It deserves a particular kind of respect.”
“Have you ever killed a chicken?”
He nods.
“And you didn’t feel bad?”
“No.” He studies me. How he can look so intense while wearing bifocals, I have no idea. “If you’re going to throw up, do it outside.”
“I’m not going to throw up. I’m not grossed out, I’m just...”
“Realizing for the first time that a lot of the food you eat used to be alive? Running around and breathing?”
“No,” I snap. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Sorry,” he says, and he seems to mean it. “What is it, then?”
“You acted different than I thought you would. Gentler, almost.” I bite my lip, belly doing a somersault. “Like you cared about it.”
“It’s part of back of house. Part of being a chef.”
“How so?”
“We respect the ingredients we’re using. We respect the process. We respect the patron, even when they’re annoying and demanding.” That last part sounds pointed, but I don’t say anything. He sets the pieces of chicken on a plate and pulls out another from the cold storage underneath the table. “It’s a craft, and I care about doing it right. Try it.”
I hold up the cleaver. My grip is so tight, my fingertips are going bloodless. It reflects my face back to me. Jack steps around the table and stands behind me. He curls his hand around mine, adjusting my grip.
It’s the closest we’ve been to each other since he taught me how to caramelize onions. I suck in a breath as his body heat seeps intomine. He smells pleasant, like flour and salt. If I turned my head to the side, and our lips brushed, would he taste like honey and jam?
I was tipsy that night. Hurt by how fast Ryan moved on from me, even though I kept denying it. I’d have kissed Jack even before I got a taste of his grilled cheese, if my inhibitions were just a little lower.
“Start here.” His breath disturbs the little hairs on my nape. I shiver. His hands look impossibly large like this, scarred and ink drawn. “Come down with full force so you get through the bone.”
He doesn’t pull away, instead guiding my arm up and down while he takes over most of the effort. The cleaver cuts through smoothly. I gasp. His free hand clutches the edge of the table, caging me in against his broad body. If I leaned back half an inch, I’d meet a wall of muscle.
“What are you doing?” I manage to squeak out. I’m trapped between him and the table, struggling to find my breath. Imaginary butterflies tickle my ribs.
“Making sure you don’t cut off your fingers.” His voice sounds strained. Raw. An echo of that night, although it’s possible I’m imagining it. “Tell me which part we cut next.”
Chapter 19
Burnt
Poppy
Somehow, I get through the chicken butchering without cutting myself or doing something extremely reckless, like finding out what Jack’s beard feels like against my skin. He’s all business by the end, shrugging into his chef’s jacket and rolling up the sleeves. He moves to the stove to heat a large sauté pan drizzled with olive oil, scowling when I bring out my phone.
“No.”
