Page 60 of The Chef

Maybe he’s also confused about the kiss, maybe, like me, he also wants to find out if it wasn’t just a random thing but something more.

Getting ready to paint, at the same time we both lean over to pick out the paint pots. We laugh awkwardly at how we nearly bump heads. The air is electric between us. Tension. A slight awkwardness. I find myself bristling at it, feeling a pit of butterflies in my stomach. Nervous energy shoots up my body as I realize how close we are again, energy I like. We were this close earlier when Cliff kissed me. He must surely know that.

There’s so much pent-up energy in this room and I don’t know what to do about it.

I pull up a couple of paint pots from the bags.

“What color do you reckon?” I ask.

“This one.”

It’s blue.

“Good choice.”

I place it by the wall and reach back down into the bag for the brushes.

“Hang on,” Cliff says. “I’ll get dressed into something… less expensive.”

He dashes off into the bedroom, leaving me alone in his living room. I let out a long sigh, a lungful of air I’ve been holding in since I entered. My skin tingles, on edge. My body is reacting so strongly to Cliff’s presence. I’m trying to act normal, but my entire mind is just focused on his lips. The same lips that were over mine just an hour ago.

I would love to taste him again.

What am I doing? This is Cliff Finn, the guy who’s played me around. The guy who insulted me then ignored me at work, then doubted my cooking abilities.

But this is also the same Cliff who rescued me from that awful customer, who’s given me a chance, who admitted he was wrong about both my cooking skills and the fact he thought I was married. The same Cliff who was so tender towards me in the kitchen this morning, who softly held my chin with his hand as he kissed me.

There are two Cliffs.

And I don’t know who the real one is.

He returns with an old hoodie on and tracksuit pants.

“Right,” he says proudly. “I’m ready to paint.”

We both work together, placing an old rag on the floor by the wall, opening the paint, getting the brushes ready. I keep averting my eyes away from Cliff’s, afraid mine will reveal what I’m really thinking about him. About his body. About his lips.

We start painting the wall together, working as a team.

“You think the restaurant will be okay?” I ask as we work.

“Well, if we spruce up the menu we can only hope,” Cliff replies. “I was thinking of having a party once we’ve sorted it all out.”

“Yeah?”

“A re-launch party, if you know what I mean. Invite some reviewers, some local businesses, that kind of thing.”

I turn to him. “Sounds good.”

There’s a long pause while we both work. I don’t know what to say. Days of my snarky replies back to Cliff, and now that we’ve kissed, I don’t know how to even speak to him?

What’s happened to me?

What’s happened to the usual spikey Bay?

“Thank you,” Cliff says, his back to me, the first one to break the tension.

“Thanks for what?”