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“Honey, I’m home,” I called from the front door. Oh, was that almond cake I smelled? My mouth instantly watered. I was utterly in love with that cake, that was for sure.
Jo leaned around the corner, wearing her chef’s coat and a frown. “Don’t call me honey, noob, and get in here. You’re late.”
“Noob?” I raised my eyebrows as I washed my hands.
“Newbie. New cook. It’s what the kitchen calls a new chef. And you’re a noob for as long as Chef says you are. I imagine the military culture doesn’t have much on kitchen culture. You do what you’re told, take your scathing and curse-laden performance reviews with no questions asked until Chef decides you’ve earned the right to do the same to the next noob.”
“We have noobs in tech. It’s sort of awful.”
Jo laughed. “It is. That’s another reason why I’m not in a professional kitchen. I just want to cook good food for people who will pay me a living wage to do it. I don’t have to be tough or prove I’m some big deal. I don’t give a shit about that. As for all those past executive chefs with their insults and threats, they can eat a bag of dicks for all I care.”
There was my Jo. All sassy confidence and bite in a sweet candy shell. Over the weekend, under a blanket of snow, it was so easy spending the day with her. She was grounded and funny. Real. After that mind-blowing morning wake-up, we spent the day lounging around. We talked about our favorite snow days growing up. She knew how to water ski but had never been snow skiing. That had me daydreaming about mountain cabins and spiked hot chocolate. I’d even done a few internet searches to see if Lake Tahoe’s snow was still powdery.
We watched another Marvel movie, and I made pancakes wearing only pajama bottoms. Jo’s expressive eyes always told the truth. She liked looking at my chest, and I liked her looking. I wanted it to lead to touching as much as possible.
I was committed to the no-sex agreement, but I looked forward to testing the boundaries. It would be what I assumed dating was like back in high school. Being a skinny computer nerd on an island of burly fishermen’s kids, I hadn’t done much dating back then.
The anticipation of dating Jo was a damn near-constant buzz in my brain.
“Okay, Chef. Where do I start?”
23
JO
“Nice job Luc.Let’s get this plated.”
“Yes, Chef. I have a beautiful woman coming for dinner, and I want to impress her.” His grin was wolfish, and my panties went up in flames again. I kept it professional while we cooked, but the closer we came to being done cooking, the hotter it got in the kitchen. I wanted to touch him with a near-obsession level intensity.
“I see. Well, I’ll let myself out through the garage.” I winked at his questioning glance. “Take care, and I’ll see you next week.”
“You too, Chef.”
I grabbed my duffel bag from the front and popped into the downstairs powder room to change and freshen up. Even with my limited experience, I knew dates, especially first dates, required extra effort. I washed the essential areas and brushed out my hair, leaving the bandana behind. I slipped on a thong, no panty lines tonight, and a flirty black pencil skirt Emily talked me into when I bought the red sweater Lucas said made peoples’ eyes pop. The bra was more utility than style, but it held the girls high and proud under the sweater. The pieces looked good together, accentuating how my waist came in above my hips. A little light makeup, some vintage style Mary-Jane heels, and I was ready.
I opened the bathroom door, meeting the sound of activity and plates clattering. I crept out of the powder room, dropped my duffel by the door, and walked through the side door into the garage. I raised and lowered the rolling door with the code from the days I came to cook alone and went around to the front of the house to ring the bell.
Lucas opened the door, and my thong was soaked. He’d changed too. He wore faded jeans riding low and a pressed navy-blue button-down clinging to his broad shoulders. His expression smoldered.
“Come in,” he said. “You look phenomenal. Put you in a vintage red bikini, and you are a walking 40s pin-up.” His gaze raked over my breasts, waist, hips, and finally, the black suede heels with a thin strap across my foot. He groaned, then coughed as he tried to discreetly shift the bulge in the front of his jeans. Yeah, I felt the same way.
“You can leave those sexy as fuck shoes on.” He led me back to the kitchen.
The table, always nestled in the back corner, held sparkling glasses, candles, and cloth napkins. Soft jazz played in the background.
“You can set a table. This is perfect.”
“Mom demanded a few formal dinners a year, and we each learned how to do it to her specifications. She didn’t ask for much, so we tried to get it right.”
The food was still warm, and the conversation flowed as it usually did, though the topics were a little more personal. Family traditions, childhood hopes and dreams, what it was like growing up here for him and in Tennessee for me.
“Here’s a tip. Don’t call me Hon or Sweetie.”
“Really? Why?”
“These can be passively condescending in most cases unless it’s a sixty-year-old Cracker Barrel waitress. Then, they’re just trying to do their job so go with it.”
“Noted. Can I call you Sweetheart?”
