I run back to bed and throw myself and the laptop under the covers before pressing play.
This kitchen is different from his usual one. The one from his last video was different, too. The only thing that’s sure and dependable is his absolutely scrumptious body taking up space.
I close my eyes, listening to that smooth, languid scholarly voice that would win awards narrating smutty audiobooks. He never really says anything overtly sexual in his videos, but I could imagine thousands and thousands of people getting off to him saying things like “You’re doing so good,” “You know what’ll be good for you?” “Having me on my knees,” or my personal favorite from last night, “Fuck, baby, look at you.”
Instead, this guy starts talking about “—the Maillard reaction.”
I open my eyes.
He has a steak out on the counter, his thick hands gesturing towards it. “—named after Louis Camille Maillard, a French chemist?—”
I blink.
“—complex series of chemical reactions that cause food to brown. It’s often confused with caramelization, but caramelization only involves sugars. Onions, carrots, actual sugar—those things are caramelized. But the Maillard reaction refers to the heating of both sugarsandprotein. The browning of things like meats, bread, and coffee beans.”
I sit up. Turn the volume up.
“Remember, we want brown. Browning is good. Browning is delicious. Think of the last good steak you had, the crust on it. It wasn’t gray, that’s for sure.”
A dull roar floods my ears, causing me to miss a bunch of what he says next.
“—high heat. I have a gas burner here, so I’m going to turn it all the way up. We want the reaction to happen very quickly. Now, the Maillard reaction happens above three hundred and fifty degrees. This is why boiled foods don’t brown, because water has an upper temperature limit of?—”
“Two hundred and twelve Fahrenheit,” I say at the same time as him.
I look down at this man’s hands. At his forearms. At his chest, his shoulders, his torso. He turns around to get something from the other side of the kitchen. I run my eyes down the wide expanse of his back, the curve of his ass. A sudden thrum of energy pulses through my veins.
“We don’t want any steam,” he’s saying, andohgod. “Steam will stop the reaction and the browning from happening. In this case, steam is bad.”
He pauses.
No.Nooooo.
“But steam can be very, very good for making things pink.”
I slam my laptop shut.
A rush of adrenaline sends my pulse into overdrive.
What?
No.
What?!
A laugh escapes my mouth.
Chef?!Nico?! There’s no way. Is this for real? Did he do this on purpose? Is this why he was so happy yesterday? Does that mean he trusts me with this information? I don’t even know where to begin with that.Is this some sort of twisted “as per your last email” response?!Does he know I’m Ali?!
But what if I’m wrong? What if this is some fucked-up coincidence? I don’t recognize his voice. But maybe this is what it sounds like when he gets rid of his accent.
There’s only one thing I need to see—physically see—to confirm. And when or if I do, then what?
From: [email protected]
Haven’t heard from you in a while. Been keeping busy? I’m still waiting to hear your deepest, darkest secrets.
