But hey, we were trapped. Maybe we should air things out—if that was possible in a small, airless room where we might die soon. So what did I have to lose? “Are you sure you want to know? It’s ancient history.”
“We don’t have a history,” she said stiffly.
I leaned back, my palms flat on the bench behind me. “Actually, we do.”
“We do?” Her tone was surprised, but not outright skeptical. Langley wasn’t a huge school.
“Yep.” I took a breath. “Sophomore year. I was very nervous the first time I led the kitchen at that student-run restaurant on campus. I’d spent weeks deciding on the menu and I knew every dish inside and out. Especially since the restaurant management class would be dining there that day.”
Recognition flickered across her face.
“Everything went well,” I continued. “I got glowing reviews from nearly everyone in the class. Except for one person.”
Her expression shifted—part understanding, part resignation.
“To this day, her review remains among the worst I’ve ever gotten. If nottheworst.”
“I remember that.” She spoke slowly, like the pieces were falling into place. “You were the cook that day?”
“Yes. It was the first time I’d ever made fondant potatoes. Something you claimed last night that you loved. You sure as hell didn’t back then, according to that review.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Finally, she ventured, “Maybe you’ve gotten better since then.”
“And maybe you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about back then. Or now.”
Her eyes shot daggers at me. “Professional chefs need to learn how to take feedback.”
“I can take feedback just fine from people who actually know what they’re talking about.”
“I’m sure my review was fair.”
“I’m less sure of that. You know,me—the one who actually knows my way around a kitchen,” I could still remember specific lines from her review. “‘Potatoes were dense and under-seasoned.’ ‘The sauce lacked depth.’ ‘The overall execution was ambitious but ultimately failed to deliver.’”
She had the grace to look uncomfortable. “So you’ve hated me ever since?”
“I haven’t thought about you since,” I lied. “At least not until my advisor called me up and told me I needed to give some entitled hospitality major a ride up here.”
“No wonder you were so unpleasant in the car.”
“Yeah, I probably was. But what was your excuse?”
She looked away. “It’s getting really hot in here. Maybe we should conserve energy and not talk.”
“Fine by me.”
She looked off in one direction, and I looked in another.
But I was acutely aware of her presence. Of every small movement she made. The way she shifted her weight. The way the towel clung to her damp skin. The way her breathing had quickened slightly—thoughwhether from the heat or our conversation, I couldn’t tell.
My own body was responding in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge. The heat, the proximity, the fact that she was gorgeous even when I wanted to throttle her—it was all adding up to a problem I really didn’t need right now.
I tried to adjust myself discreetly, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but I was pretty sure she did.
When the door clicked open a few minutes later, we both sprang up so fast we nearly lost our towels.
14
ZOE
