Sebastian
Saturday arrives with unseasonable warmth,forty-five degrees instead of the usual February freeze. I take it as a sign. Of what, I'm not sure. But I'll take any good omen I can get.
The cooking class is being held in the campus culinary arts building, a relatively new addition funded by, surprise, another founding family. Everything at Thornhill traces back to old money and older names.
I arrive at 1:55, five minutes early. Unusual for me. I'm normally the type to show up exactly on time or fashionably late. But something about Isla makes me want to prove I'm reliable.
Pathetic? Probably.
She's already there, standing outside the building in jeans and a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes look darker. Her hair is down again, and I'm beginning to realize she wears it like armor, up for work and classes, down when she's off duty.
Which category does this fall into? On duty because it's a contracted date? Off duty because it's Saturday?
"You're early," she says when she spots me.
"So are you."
"I'm always early." She replies quickly.
"Why?"
"Because being late suggests you don't care. And I care about everything." She says it matter-of-factly, like it's just the truth. Which it is.
We head inside together, maintaining a careful distance. The culinary building smells like sugar and butter, comforting in a way I didn't expect. The classroom is set up with individual cooking stations, each with all the equipment we'll need.
There are about twelve other couples already here. Some I recognize from various social circles. Most are actually dating and are here because they think a cooking class is cute.
We're here because of a contract.
The instructor, a middle-aged woman with chef's whites and an enthusiastic smile, greets us at the door.
"Welcome! Find a station, get comfortable. We're making chocolate soufflés today."
"Soufflés?" Isla mutters as we find a station in the back. "Of course it's soufflés. Why would they pick something easy?"
"What's hard about soufflés?"
She looks at me like I've asked what's hard about brain surgery.
"Everything. They're temperamental, they collapse if you look at them wrong, and they require actual skill." She ties her hair back into a ponytail. "This is going to be a disaster."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I raise a brow at her, and she shakes her head.
"I'm being realistic. When's the last time you cooked anything?"
I think about it. "Does coffee count?"
"No."
"Then never. We have staff for that."
"Of course you do." But there's less bite to it than usual. Almost like she expected that answer. "Okay. New plan. Youfollow my instructions exactly, and maybe we'll end up with something edible."
"You're going to teach me again?” I ask.
"Apparently that's my role in this relationship. Teacher of basic life skills to wealthy men who can't function without staff."
Relationship. She said relationship. Probably didn't mean anything by it, but the word hangs between us anyway.
