Page 36 of Perfect Pairing
“And you need to take the edge off. Everything is going to be fine, but I can tell you’re freaking out. Just…be a good girl and do what I tell you.”
Be a good girl.
The words dragged me right back to our time together, to him asking me the last time I’d done something reckless.
The truth was, I didn’t think I had a reckless bone in my body—at least, not where anything but he was concerned. With him, I wanted to be someone different. Someone new. Sexy, desirable, confident, bold, playful. I wanted to shed my old skin, let the flames of our desire consume me, and rise like a phoenix from the ashes.
Which was why agreeing to be just friends had been such a difficult pill to swallow, even if I’d been the one to pump the brakes. For starters, I lived over three hundred miles away. Long distance wasn’t an option for a relationship that would maybe—probably—never move beyond physical chemistry. Secondly, he worked for my father, which was a whole other set of issues. I was long past the point of letting my parents dictate my life, but their opinionsdidmatter to me, and I never wanted to disappoint them. Plus, Ezra’s job with the winery was important to him, allowing him to provide for his number one priority—Hansen. I would never jeopardize that, no matter how much it hurt my heart.
With a sigh, I retrieved a shot glass from the cupboard and filled it with the silvery liquid. Then, to Ezra, I said, “Cheers,” and downed it.
The alcohol scorched a path down my throat, suffusing my limbs with warmth, loosening the tension in my shoulders.
After a beat, Ezra asked, “Better?”
“Much.”
“Good. Now get back to work.”
“Yes, Chef,” I said cheekily, and Ezra barked out a laugh.
“I love when you call me that.”
“Maybe I’ll have to do it more often.”
“Is this going to become a thing?” he asked, and I didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone. “Us…cooking together?”
“It could…if you want it to.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “I definitely do.”
“Then it’s done,” I said happily. “How did you even learn how to cook, anyway?”
I realized then, despite the fact that he knew the exact sounds I made when I came and I knew the exact outline of his cock where it pressed against the fly of his pants, we didn’t know a ton about each other on a personal level. Intimacy was funny that way—the details of what made up a person weren’t really necessary when it came to exploring that physical connection. But Iwantedto know those things about him, wanted to know what exactly made him into the man he was.
“My dad,” he said. Then, in a rush, he added, “I’m sure you’ve noticed I don’t mention my mom.”
“I had picked up on that, yes,” I said. But like the absence of his wife, until now, it seemed like a sore spot I didn’t have the right to press on. “Is she…dead?”
“In the sense that we haven’t seen her since I was three, have no idea where she is, and have no desire to locate her. I suppose,for all I know, she actually could be.”
“I’m sorry.” My mother was one of my best friends, and I’d be completely lost without her—without both of my parents.
“It’s fine,” he said, and I believed him. “The point is, my dad taught me how to cook. My dad taught me everything. Growing up, I was a curious child, and I especially loved watching him cook. One day, I asked if I could help, and the rest is history.”
“Do you have any formal training?” I asked.
Before he could answer, the timer I’d set to let me know when the lamb was done marinating went off, so I took it out and uncovered it, dumped some oil in my cast iron skillet, and turned the heat on.
When I returned, he said, “I went to the Institute of Culinary Education, actually.”
“Shut up,” I gasped.
“What?”
“I went there too.”
“You’re joking,” he said with a disbelieving laugh.
