Very adult, right? Date-like. Date-ish.
He guided me forward, one hand at the small of my back.
“Wow,” I said. “You have a fireplace.”
A working fireplace with burning gas logs.
His building was a few blocks and a world away from mine, a renovated co-op with a doorman and an elevator and a view. Through the windows, I could see bare tree branches and the Christmas lights in the apartment across the street. Not a lot of furniture, but what there was looked sturdy and comfortable—an oversize leather couch, a big new TV. High-end guy stuff. A granite bar top separated the living area from the kitchen. He seated me at the counter, gave me a glass of wine,and went back to stirring something on the stove. A Viking range. Six burners. And a dishwasher.
I sniffed appreciatively. Butter, sage... “What are you making?”
“Duck breast with tart cherry confit.” He lifted the lid off a pot of boiling water. “And my mother’s pierogi.”
I watched his muscled forearms as he fished out dumplings with a slotted spoon, fighting the itch to take notes. Or pictures. Pictures would be good. I cleared my throat. “I haven’t seen those on the menu at Gusto. Pierogi, I mean.”
“Not yet. I am playing with the filling. Sweet potatoes instead of white, a little red cabbage.” He swirled the pierogi in the pan of browned butter, plated one, and slid it across the bar in one smooth move. “What do you think?”
Like my opinion mattered. I picked up the fork that appeared with the plate. The tender dough gave easily, the insides spilling like a sunset, red and orange and caramelized gold. The first forkful melted in my mouth with a kiss of butter and a bite of something savory.
“Yum,” I said. “I thought it would be sweet, but it’s not. Onion?”
He nodded, looking as pleased as if I’d left him a five-star review. My stomach hollowed. I really needed to tell him about my blog. Later. Tonight. Maybe.
I swallowed. “What does Ray think?”
“Ray.” A huff of amusement or acceptance. “He wants to elevate everything. Until you can’t taste the heart anymore.”
“He does have kind of a stick up his butt,” I said around another mouthful of pierogi.
“Ray’s a good guy. A good cook,” Eric said. Defending his sous. That was the kind of boss he was, seeing the best, encouraging the best, in everybody.
“So why hasn’t he left to become executive chef somewhere?”
“He has the résumé. He is ready for the responsibility. But he is afraid to take the risk, yeah? He holds back from putting himself on the plate. He wants too much to impress, I think.”
I thought of the pie. The sweater. The extra fifteen minutes I’d spent flat-ironing my hair, trying to get it smooth and straight.Right there with you, Ray.
I took another sip of wine. “I guess I get his point. I mean, that’s why people go out. Because they want something they can’t find at home.”
Were we still talking about food?
“Sure,” Eric agreed easily. “But not every dish has to amaze. Sometimes you simply want to eat. To be fed.” He looked up, that little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To be satisfied.”
A great wave of lust and longing shook me to my knees. Good thing I was sitting. He could satisfy me, I thought. He could hoist me up on the counter. I could wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist. We could...
He cracked the oven door to check the duck. “Almost ready,” he promised with another smile.
Definitely talking about the food this time.
I swallowed my disappointment along with another gulp of wine and slid off my stool. “Right. I just need to...”Don’t saypee,Aunt Phee instructed in my head. Southern ladies did not have bodily functions. “Wash my hands.”
“Second door on the right,” Eric said.
“Thanks.”
I used the bathroom (which was pretty amazing. No tub—this was New York, after all—but lots of granite and a bunch of high-tech water jets in the shower) and then, unable to resist, peeked in his open bedroom door. His bed was as big as the rest of his furniture, his nightstand and dresser top as neat and organized as the kitchen before service. Next door, another room with a dormitory-size twin and a futon. The price of a two-bedroom in Chelsea must be over the moon. I guessed Gusto was doing well.
There were pictures on the wall. I stepped closer to see them. A younger, beardless Eric holding a scrunch-faced newborn in a stockingcap. A standard beach shot, two little boys playing at the edge of the water. A more recent photo of Eric and both boys, squinting into the sunlight against the background of an unfamiliar city. In Germany, maybe? I didn’t know. I’d never been to Europe. Something about the last pose tugged at my heart, the easy way Eric hooked his arm around his older son’s shoulders, the way the younger one leaned into his side. My father the minister had rarely touched his adolescent daughters.
