I open the door, and he’s there—no hat now, pink cheeks, snow melting on his lashes. He’s changed into a button-down shirt, and his hair is damp from a shower. He shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the hook next to the door.
“Hi,” he says, voice hushed like someone is listening.
I yank him in and shut the door with my hip. We stare at each other for a beat, and then his lips are on mine. He backs me into the wall and kisses me senseless.
“You look beautiful,” he says, when we break our kiss. “Gorgeous.”
“So do you,” I say.
He kisses me again, and I melt against him.
“Hungry?” I ask, because otherwise I’m going to make a sound that the downstairs customers will definitely hear through the vents.
“For…a variety of things,” he says, eyes wicked, voice sexy low.
“Food first, Whitman,” I boss, and he obeys so readily my knees consider buckling.
“What can I do?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.
Forearms. Yum.
“You can pour wine and not be a chef tonight.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, already assessing my knives. I body-block him from the drawer. He laughs, hands raised. “I’ll be good.”
I make an easy pasta and a colorful lemony salad. We have a loaf of bread that Suzanne left up here, along with brioche breadpudding. I add a butter rum sauce to take our dessert to the next level.
Camden opens the wine like an expert, pours two glasses, takes a sip, and hands me a glass. I keep pinching myself over the fact that he’s here. With me. Smiling at me like I’m everything he craves. The lights and the music are low—Billie Holiday sings through the little speaker, the radiator humming in the same key, and the cafe sounds busier than when I was down there. Camden leans on the counter and watches me with that soft look that knocks me off-balance.
“You’re glowing,” he says.
“Steam,” I lie.
He just smiles like he can see right through me.
After we set the table, I slide the pasta into bowls, twisting it into cute little nests with tongs.
“Juju, I swear, your food will always be my favorite,” he says after the first bite, his voice reverent.
“Seriously? After all the restaurants you’ve eaten in, all the chefs you’ve worked with…”
“I’ve had delicious food, you’re right.” He nods. “But yours is the best. You have a way of taking the simplest ingredients, and it’s like sorcery, the magic you create.”
He squeezes my knee under the table and leaves his hand there, slowly going higher to rest on my thigh. After that, it’s hard to focus with the meteor shower going wild behind my ribs.
When the timer goes off, I jump up to get the bread pudding out of the oven, and the apartment fills with the smells of vanilla and rum. He groans when he takes the first bite.
“Sorcery,” he moans.
“Wow. That means so much, coming from you. But seriously, Camden, you’re the GOAT. Come on, you know this, right? I used to watch videos people posted of you…there were a lot of you in France, but even more from Whitman’s. I was so jealousthat I couldn’t experience your food. I saw a video of you making a pie crust, which shocked me because you always left the baking to me…”
“That’s still true…I’ve had the worst luck with pastry chefs, but Virginia is turning things around.” He takes another bite of bread pudding and looks at me with dreamy eyes. “I’d still rather have you,” he says.
He leans over and kisses me and then suddenly pulls away.
“Okay, let’s do these dishes so fast,” he says.
“You’re thinking about dishes right now?” I laugh.
