Page 225 of The Unwilling Bride
Doesn’t matter how much I steel myself; working with him in such close quarters is going to be hell.
I focus on the ache in my chest, rather than him. We are two professionals in a kitchen. That is all. I need to focus on the job at hand to get through this.
I move to my section, which is at the prep table adjacent to his. Close enough to be aware of him and catch sight of him from my peripheral vision.
I drag my attention back to the celery root and pick up the knife. Planks, batons, then across. Three-millimeter cubes drop away from the blade.
The tension in the room so tight, I’m worried it might snap and hurt me.
That hollow in my chest deepens. God, I miss him so much.
The way he touched me when he made love to me. That same relentless precision he employed in getting his Michelin stars mapped over every inch of my body.
Heat streaks through my veins. My fingers tremble. I narrow my gaze on the task at hand.
Don’t look at him. Don’t.
I reach for the tourné knife and begin shaping the carrots into smooth identical ovals. The kind of cut you can't fake.
The way he cut me when he refused to echo those three little words back to me. I shove aside the hurt and uncertainty filling me.
Allow myself to find my center, just like he’d taught me to do. I need to find a pocket of silence within which I can keep my composure.
The rest of the team begins to drift in. I don’t look up. Move onto stacking basil leaves, rolling them tightly, slicing across into fine ribbons.
The fresh, peppery scent, something between that of cloves and anise releases immediately.
It calms me some more.
I almost succeed in feeling like myself when he calls out to me: "Chef, can you hold this?"
I cross to his station. He's decanting stock from a large pot, both hands on the pot. He nods at the jar on the table.
I grip the sides to hold it steady.
He pours. Slow, controlled. The steam rises between us. I focus on keeping the container still, on the hot stock, on anything except the fact that his forearm is an inch from mine.
Then he tilts the pot further, shifts his weight, and his arm presses against mine. Warm. Solid. A shiver grips me. My pulse grows erratic.
Being away from him means even a careless touch like this feels like it carries so much significance. Especially when neither of us moves.
I flick a sideways glance to find a nerve throbbing at his temple. Hisprofile is granite hard. The tension in his muscles tells me he’s as aware of me. That he’s feeling everything I am.
As if he senses my scrutiny, he raises his gaze to mine.
His eyes are a stormy blue, so vivid I can look deep into his soul. Feel the longing in him. The miasma of raw emotions which I’ve never sensed before in him.
It feels like I’ve been gut punched.
I’m rooted to the spot. Partially because I’m holding the Lexan. But mainly, because I’ve never seen him so moved. So filled with longing.
It’s fearsome. It’s entrancing. It’s everything I hoped he’d feel for me. And tell me.
He opens his mouth as if to speak, then seems to realize where we are. He firms his lips. A mask slams down over his features.
He finishes pouring. Sets the pot down. Steps back.
"Thanks, Chef." His voice is brisk.
