“That’s true,” Bastian confirms.
“So if you ever want some that actually taste good reheated…” Zeke offers his phone to Yasmin. “ … then I’m your man.”
He’s not even trying to be subtle. Just straight-up asking for her number in front of God, Bastian, and Mrs. Byrd in her curlers.
And Yas… Yas is torn. I can see it in her face. She’s nibbling at her bottom lip, eyes flitting between me and Zeke’s phone.
“Yasmin’s always looking for new recipes,” I blurt, ignoring the warning look she shoots me. “She’s the creative one. I just follow instructions.”
“Even better. They say curiosity killed the cat, but nobody likes cats anyways.”
“You’re an idiot,” mutters Bastian under his breath.
I laugh, but I’m also noticing how Zeke grins at Yasmin. It’s so wholesome and uncomplicated that I want to cry. When was the last time someone looked at either of us like that?
She deserves it.
So I’m glad that, after one more second of hesitation, she types her number into his phone and hands it back to him.
“Excellent. Prepare for an overwhelming amount of unsolicited cooking advice and top-shelf memes.” He pockets his phone and does a few lanky jumping jacks that nearly take off the head of a pedestrian passing by. “Come on, Bash. Your heart rate’s dropping and you get cranky when we don’t hit our target zone.”
“I don’t get cranky?—”
“You absolutely do.” Zeke waves at us. “Nice meeting you both! Don’t let Bash work you too hard!”
They jog off, and I absolutely do not watch how Bastian’s shoulders move in the midday sun. I definitely don’t notice how his hair’s slightly damp with sweat. I certainly don’t think about how it would feel if that body was pressed against mine, somewhere dark, somewhere private, like, say, a walk-in freezer, where we had all the time to do anything we ever wanted, where he could spin me around and tease down the zipper on my skirt and ask me if I wanted it and I’d moan the only possible answer I could possibly moan:
Yes, Chef.
The moment they’re out of earshot, Yasmin turns on me. “What wasthat?”
“What was what?”
“Making me give that guy my number! El, I just told you about Brandon?—”
“Brandon is a stalker asshole who deserves hemorrhoids and hellfire.” I face her fully, my voice serious and my scowl fierce. “Zeke is Bastian’s best friend and head chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant. There’s a big, big difference.”
“I’m not ready to?—”
“I’m not saying marry the guy. I’m saying maybe it’s nice to remember what it feels like when someone’s interested in you and isn’t a creepy nightmare loser.” I bump her shoulder gently. “Plus, he’s cute. In a friendly, non-threatening, ‘I-cook-professionally-so-I-probably-smell-like-garlic’ kind of way.”
Yasmin laughs despite herself. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m a good friend. And you deserve good things, Yas. Not Brandon’s bullshit.”
The all-clear sounds from the building. We troop back inside, but before we reach the door, Yasmin stops.
“I’m gonna say one thing and one thing only,” she tells me with her serious face on.
I wince, knowing already that I’m not gonna like this “one thing.” But she won’t be stopped, so I just nod.
“That man is into you. And you’re into him. And you’re both doing this weird dance of pretending you’re not.” Her voice goes really quiet and gentle. “You can have nice things, El. You deserve them, too.”
19
BASTIAN
in·fu·sion (/in'fyo?oZH?n/): noun
