Page 34 of Perfect Pairing
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “But I somehow got conned into hosting a dinner party tonight for some fancy restauranteurs in Chicago, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Why not just get it catered?”
“Because that’s the coward’s way out,” I said, exasperated.
“So why are you calling me?”
“Because you’re the best chef Iknow, and…”
“And what?”
“We’re friends, right? That was the deal.”
Ezra’s sigh echoed through the speaker, and I bit back a grin.
“Are we really friends?” he asked.
“You tell me. Do you usually eat your friends’ pussies?”
“Brie!”
“Yes, Chef?”
“Who are you and what have you done with my Brie?”
My Brie. I shouldn’t love that so much, but I wanted to belong to him in whatever way he’d have me.
A few hours with the man had turned me inside out. I’d done my best to stay away from him, to never tap the screen when I was three glasses of wine deep and my finger hovered over his contact in my phone. I always avoided bringing him—and our hookup—into conversations with my sisters, not wanting to discuss it. In hindsight, the whole thing felt like a dream, a moment trapped in a snow globe forever, and I didn’t want to risk shattering the glass and destroying the magic.
But he was always there, in the back of my mind. I constantly wondered what he was doing, where he was at. With the winery closed until April, he had a lot of free time on his hands, and I desperately wanted to know how he was filling it.
I wanted to know everything.
“I guess one afternoon with you turned me into the wanton woman I was always meant to be.”
Ezra snorted. “There’s nothing wanton about you, Brie.”
Exasperated, I sighed. “Can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your dinner party.”
“Are you going to help me or not? You’re not busy, are you?”
The winery was closed, so I knew he wasn’t working right now. A quick flick of my wrist had me clocking the time at just before two p.m. My guests would be here at five, and I’d spent more time freaking out about the fact that I had to entertain these super important people in the culinary landscape of Chicago than I had actually preparing to cook. I was out of time, and calling Ezra, though dangerous—this was, after all, the first time we’d spoken since going our separate ways that day—was my last hope.
“Of course I am. Now, how much time do you have?”
“Three hours.”
He cursed softly. “You should’ve called me sooner.”
“I was afraid,” I admitted quietly.
“You never have to be afraid of me. I’ll never say no to you.”
Hope flared in my chest, and I did everything I could to smother it. The words were too sweet, too perfect, too much of everything I wanted to hear from him and the reminder of everything I couldn’t have—that he couldn’t give me.
Unable to respond without spilling my heart all over the phone, I said, “So what am I making?”
