Just as abruptly as she came, Bea walks away with a level of pep in her step that pisses Alexander off to no end. He’s lost count of how many lines she just trampled over.
Totally unacceptable.
Eden stares at him. “Goodnight,” she says softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Right. Until then.” Alexander doesn’t understand why he’s so unnerved.
“Who was the babe?” Rina asks in a hushed tone as the group walks away.
Alexander doesn’t stick around. He’s already formulating a strongly worded text to Bea never to do that again, all the while trying to decipher Eden’s look of disappointment as she walks away.
“Your girlfriend seems nice.”
Eden mentally kicks herself. She’s not sure what else to say.
She thought about Bea all night—as weird as that sounds—in awe of the easy confidence the latter radiated. Eden thought the woman had walked straight off the runway or off the cover of a fashion magazine. There was a graceful poise to the way she walked, a hypnotic sway to her hips and a worldly sophistication in the way she spoke. It makes sense that a man like Alexander would have a woman like that on his arm.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
Eden perks up. “Oh? A friend, then?”
Alexander looks up from his work. There are several ingredients laid out in front of him on the prep table. He’s pulled up a stool to sit. Like this, they come up to the same height. Eden’s amazed to finally see him at eye-level. Being able to see the top of his head shouldn’t be as amusing an experience as it is.
Eden really likes his hair. Always has. She has to stop herself from reaching out, combing her fingers through it. She imagines it must be incredibly soft.
Instead of answering, he says, “Try this.” He quickly brings a spoonful of something up to her lips.
Eden opens her mouth instinctively, only realizing afterwards how odd it is to have the great Chef Alexander Chen feeding her so nonchalantly. Quite literally by his hand, too.
Alexander’s eyes lock with hers, patiently awaiting a verdict. The intensity of his gaze makes her heart skip a beat. There’s a certain nervousness in it. Maybe a dash of wanting to please?
Flavors wash over her tongue. She closes her eyes and concentrates. It’s a creamy lobster mashed potato, but it’s so much more than that. She can taste the sweet meat of the shellfish, the salinity of the butter, the earthiness of finely chopped chives. The potatoes are soft, lighter than air, almost like they’ve been whipped for hours. Eden determines that he’s used brie instead of cheddar, giving the whole thing a much milder taste.
“What do you think?” he asks. He’s quite literally on the edge of his seat.
Eden thinks he looks younger like this, boyish in his curiosity. She feels bad because he’s so clearly looking for an honest response, but her opinion isn’t exactly flattering.
The food is... underwhelming. She was expecting fireworks, but only got a few sparks. It’s not terrible. It’s quite nice, but hardly deserving of a place on La Rouge’s menu.
“It’s, um... It’s good.”
He arches a brow at her.
“It would be better with Roquefort,” she continues.
Alexander frowns, nose crinkling slightly in contempt. “That’d be too overpowering.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “I thought you said you wanted my help.”
“I do.”
“Then I think you should try a variation with Roquefort. Not a lot. Just to give it a nice tang.”
Eden half expects him to ignore her. Much to her surprise, he pulls a pen from the front pocket of his chef jacket and starts writing notes down on a piece of paper next to him. Eden tries not to stare at the sheer size of his hands. Long fingers, thick knuckles, hard palms. His penmanship is gorgeous, she notices. Cursive letters gliding effortlessly into one another, looping and flowing like a dance. He presses the tip of the pen down hard, though, writing as aggressively as he speaks.
Yeah, that checks out.
He sets the pen down and hands her the spoon. He points to the next dish over. “Okay. Try that one next.”
