Page 46 of Holding Out for a Gyro
She choked. “No, I beg you.”
I took a drink and tackled an easy subject. “Where did you learn to make this?”
“This? It isn’t exactly in the recipe books. I call it Mexican mess.”
“I call it delicious.”
She beamed. “I would love to know what you do to tacos. Or anything, really. You make the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten.”
I pushed the plate back, sated. “You must be an epicurean.”
“Huh?”
“Epicurus was a Greek philosopher who recommended indulgence in pleasure, like good food, a comfortable bed, fine art, and”—I let that hang there—“other things.” I took a chance I might overly geek out on her but couldn’t resist adding, “The French have an expression: Sucer la moelle. It means suck the marrow.”
She grimaced. “Thebonemarrow?”
I chuckled. “It’s like carpe diem.Get everything you can out of any experience.”
“And you think I do that?”
“You’re passionate about what you want.”
“Interesting. Most people tell me I’m a cold-hearted bitch.”
“You just scare people with your spiky outer shell, but I think you’re a huge marshmallow on the inside.”
Chelsea tsked. “Please don’t talk about me like I’m a candy bar.”
“But you’re so yummy,” I said, laughing.
“And you’re so cheesy.” Her eyes sparkled.
We cleared the table, then I dropped onto the sofa with my glass of wine. “That was an amazing meal, Chelsea.”
She settled on the love seat, facing me. “What I can’t work out is why you’re working in a grocery you don’t like.”
Damn. I wanted us to get to know each other, but I hadn’t expected her to pry intomythwarted dreams. My hands clenched, reflexively. She’d driven a nail directly into an open wound. I was well aware my current career was stagnant. As if I hadn’t already heard about all the successes of every single one of my four siblings from my parents. As if I hadn’t gotten the lecture about failed potential from every coach, every teacher, every fucking person I’d ever let down.
“I wasn’t always. I had a head position at a nice restaurant for about six months.”
“Head chef? Where?” She leaned closer, like she was genuinely curious, her hair falling over her shoulder, and I stoked a recent memory of fingers gripping that dark silk, tilting her head back, biting her neck.
“Do you remember that French restaurant on Main?”
“Mistral?” Her eyes popped wide. “I loved that place. That was you?”
I colored in past memories with images of Chelsea enjoying my food. “For a while.”
“Do you ever consider doing that again?” She narrowed hereyes, appraising me, her long lashes framing those green eyes, the sparkle of silver eyeshadow on her lids. So pretty. “Or are you happy where you are?”
Oof. Pretty, but lethal.
“Happy?” Who’s ever happy giving up on themselves? “I’m getting by. I went into this career a bit naive. I didn’t know how hard it would be to land a job as head chef. And when the restaurant closed, I nearly went broke chasing that dream. I had to find work, and grocery store kitchens aren’t that picky. You’re the first person excited about my job.” It felt odd to unload such a bitter confession as if it were small talk. Somehow Chelsea did that to me. Maybe it was that truth serum.
“Ah, but I’m your best customer.” She licked her lips, and I wanted to grab her wrists and pull her into my lap so we could stop talking and make out. “You kept looking for work, though, right?”
That was a dash of cold water. I frowned rather than answer.
