Walker
Eden
Are you really canceling on James Ryne-Young’s charity event?
Once I’d gotten back in my office after one hell of a long night in the kitchen, I looked at Eden’s text that she had sent earlier, and I stopped myself from replying.
I didn’t know why. I had no intention of cooking for James and the hundred people she had invited. But I knew the aggravation it would cause Eden since she was the one who would have to put out the fire, and a part of me felt bad.
A small part, that was, but a part big enough that as I held the phone in my hands, I couldn’t type out the wordyes.
Goddamn it, if I hadn’t caught eyes with Alivia in that room while James was talking my ear off, getting fucking mesmerized by Alivia’s body and wanting nothing more than tobe inside her, then I wouldn’t have agreed to James. My head just hadn’t been in the right place.
I glanced up from the screen when there was a light tap at my door.
“It’s Rachel.”
“Come in.”
She opened the door and poked her head through the crack. “I’m going to head out. Things are all wrapped up here.”
“Is everyone gone?”
“I believe so.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She gave me a small wave and closed the door.
As my eyes returned to the screen, my head started to fill with questions.
Can I even consider doing this event? Can I come up with a fresh menu that will make me want to go in the kitchen? Can I make my hands crave the feel of food, make my nose miss the scents I used to create, make my palate yearn for something other than whiskey?
Do I miss cooking? At all?
I reached into my desk drawer and took out the tumbler and bottle I kept in there, filling it with several fingers’ worth before I brought the glass up to my lips. I didn’t immediately down the liquor. I let it slosh around my mouth, letting the burn increase, allowing it to sizzle on the top of my tongue. And while I savored each sip, I stared at Eden’s text, waiting to see if I felt any different.
If the whiskey changed my mind.
If there was any chance I could do this for my sister.
When the glass was empty, I poured a little more and leaned back in my chair, rocking to the quietness of my office, my eyesclosing.
The ideas never started in here. My brain needed visual inspiration. It needed to take in the different colors of food. I needed to feel the textures under my fingertips.
That was how my menus were designed.
A visual, hands-on approach, not by holding a pen and tapping it against a blank piece of fucking paper. All that got me was a room full of balled-up, jumbled jargon, spread across the floor like snow.
I didn’t know where the desire had come from—if it was even there or if I was forcing it or if the booze was hitting an empty stomach—but I left the glass on my desk and went into the kitchen. Everything was in order, just how I liked it. The surfaces had been cleaned, even the metal shone.
I went into the walk-in fridge and scanned the shelves of produce and protein, listening to the whispers in my brain. It was like a calculation, a puzzle of moving pieces—ones that either fit or collided—and if they didn’t work together, a new algorithm would take shape.
“I’m so sorry. I … know I shouldn’t be here.”
The sound of each word was like a mental slamming of brakes.
My neck turned, my head whipping around. Alivia was standing behind me, her box of gifted knives in her hand, a look of hesitation on her face.
