Page 44 of Holding Out for a Gyro
I’d overheard my parents bragging about my new career when I worked as a head chef—for those five months—and that had been rewarding. I never expected I’d have to downgrade to a grocery store, but pounding the pavement ate at my self-confidence, and in the end, my need for a paycheck superseded my wish for my dad’s respect. What started as a temporary solution had become my life. And now, I was scared to put myself out there again. Who was going to take me seriously?
The clock ticked slowly from noon to one as I finished the pasta.
From one to two, I mixed goat cheese, bacon, and spinach into a Cuisinart and simmered risotto in white wine. From two to three, I cut the faces off crabs and dredged them through cornmeal, contemplating the horrors that awaited me in hell if these guys were there, too.
As closing time approached, I watched the clock, eager to seeChelsea again. Every piece of Saran Wrap I yanked out saidEeeeee!like it shared my excitement.
By five, my shoulders ached. Michael started to tear down the kitchen, and I ran around trying to get out early.
Thankfully, I had three sisters who’d made me watch enough Jane Austen movies to understand the value of courtship. When I’d confided in my sister Zoe about how Chelsea challenged me, she’d pronounced, “Ooh, it’s just likePersuasion. You’re the Wentworth.”
“Oh no!” I’d protested, recalling he’d waited for years. But it was an upgrade. Normally, I’d been labeled the Willoughby, which—come on. I was never a cad.
I chuckled, remembering that conversation as I bleached the cutting boards. The thing about Wentworth was he got the girl in the end.
Maybe Evan was wrong and I could sustain a relationship if I could find the right woman. I wanted love to last forever. I couldn’t know if Chelsea was that woman without getting to know her better, but right now she fascinated me like a puzzle with infinite solutions. She intrigued me, amused me, kept me searching for ways to unlock the mystery of her. And yet, every time I broke through, earned something deeper, my interest in her only increased.
Finally, the dirty dishes went into the massive industrial washer, and Michael, sick of me glancing over my shoulder at the clock, told me he’d stay to put away the dishes when they were done.
“I owe you one, Michael.”
I rushed home, changed into black jeans and a fairly nice light-blue button-up shirt. Evan had already left for work, but Farrid was home, watching a Hot Pocket spin around in the microwave. I shuddered.
“What do you think?” I asked, modeling my look for him as ifhe had any fashion sense. When he wasn’t in scrubs, he dressed like right now, in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.
He scanned me up and down. “Hot date, huh?”
I didn’t explain that the hot date had been Saturday. Tonight was about trying to turn friends with benefits into something more, somethingreal. “It’s just dinner.”
“Well, don’t bring her here tonight. I have a date with my bed.”
When I got to Chelsea’s yellow bungalow, my heart surged as I remembered how good she’d felt against me Saturday night. I’d heard songs about kisses like wine, and I believed those lyrics were nothing more than pure poetry. Until I met Chelsea.
Tonight, if I could get out of my own way, maybe she’d let me get a little closer.
When I knocked, Chelsea peeked around the kitchen doorway, waved me in, and disappeared, hollering for me to make myself at home, so I did, by taking off my shoes and dropping on her sofa. I wanted to feel like I belonged. She’d made a conscious decision to show me where to find her, and I thrilled at her invitation to return.
The smell of cumin and coriander hinted at tacos. I considered asking if she wanted help, but that would overstep my role as guest. Chelsea popped out of the kitchen and handed me a glass of wine.
“Γει? σας,” she said, grinning at my surprise. She’d used a more formal greeting, but I preened with pride that she’d made an attempt.
“Γει? σου λατρε?α μου,” I answered.Hello, my worship, my love. I tried not to read anything, everything into her sudden interest in the Greek language.
Her face lit up at the endearment.
She looked delicious. She’d clipped her dark hair up in a messy twist that pulled it off her neck, out of her face. She reached up to tug the cord on the ceiling fan, her short T-shirt ridingup to expose her midriff, gray sweatpants hugging her hips. She winked like she knew her sadistic show was killing me.
Ruthless tease.
Memories on memories overlapped: the first time I’d peeled away her lace bra, the feel of her nipple against my tongue, the way her back arched when I…
“Scooch over,” Chelsea said, squeezing in next to me, and I had to shift to alleviate the growing discomfort under my zipper.
When she bent to grab the remote, I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the V-neck plunging to reveal her tempting cleavage.
She turned on the TV and flipped to a local news story about the construction in town. Before the commercial, the anchor announced the new face of Charlottesville weather, and the camera cut over to Evan, smiling like he was posing for a school picture.
“Oh, he looks nervous,” Chelsea said.
