This makes Eden laugh. “Never took you for a drama queen.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to bitch so much. You’re easy to talk to.”
She suddenly feels drunk, even though it’s a little before noon and she’s never been more sober. There’s just something about him—those hints of quiet sincerity and honesty—that makes her feel lighter than air.
Eden finishes off her lunch and pushes the plate to the side. “What was something you used to love to eat as a kid?” she asks.
“What?”
“I’ve never had to create original recipes before, but if I had to, I think it’d be fun to try and recreate dishes from my childhood. Stuff that I haven’t eaten in ages. My mother used to make this really weird hotdog and mac and cheese combination—she always drowned it in cheese—but it was the most delicious thing in the world. I’ve tried making it myself, but it’s never quite the same. I think she had a secret ingredient in there somewhere. It’s sort of fun to try and figure out what it is, like a nostalgia kick. Maybe that could work for you? At the very least, it’ll help you get started.”
Alexander leans against the counter, dipping in to regard Eden curiously. She can practically see the gears turning in his head. While he mulls it over, Eden stares at his lips. The lips that she was so hungrily kissing just last night.
No, not at work.
Damn, this is hard.
But it’s too late. Now she can’t stop thinking about how he picked her up. DearGod, she’d never been more turned on in her life. She was putty in his hands. A part of her wonders what it would be like to have him kiss her right here and now, pinning her against the nearest workstation so that she can reach down and—
“That’s not a bad idea,” he mumbles.
Eden inhales sharply, snapping back to reality. “Anything come to mind?”
He thinks. Really thinks. Eden can’t help but notice how he sort of just... disappears. It gives her the chance to truly study his face. The hard edge of his jaw line, the way his lips wear a permanent pout, the way his inky black hair always seems frustratingly and impossibly soft. She wants to reach out to tuck a strand of his hair away.
She doesn’t. She knows the rules.
So she sits there, fingers itching to touch.
Something sparks in Alexander’s mind. At least she thinks so because he immediately moves to the walk-in to grab something. Eden thinks it’s amusing how single-minded he can be sometimes. He’ll stop everything at the drop of a hat to focus on whatever he needs to get done. His focus is admirable.
He returns with only five ingredients, not including the salt and pepper they have readily available at each cooking station. Alexander’s selected the best potatoes they have in storage, a medium-sized white onion, a hearty block of Reblochon-style cheese, a slab of fatty bacon, and has even retrieved a dry white wine from the downstairs pantry.
Eden’s mind races. The ingredients are simple, but there are hundreds of different possible outcomes. She can’t even begin to fathom what Alexander has in store for her.
He handles his knives beautifully. His grip is strong, but just light enough to offer the most flexibility. It isn’t very long before he slices up generous bits of bacon and has it sizzling in a hot pan, fat melting away and frying all around the meat to leave it nice and crisp. In goes finely minced onion, and then a good cup or so of white wine to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Then it’s the potatoes, which he’s skinned and sliced with mind-bending accuracy.
Alexander pops everything into an oven-proof dish before covering the top with a hefty layer of cheese. He places it in the oven, but doesn’t bother setting a timer. He’s a skilled enough chef to know when it’s done.
“Are you going to tell me what this mystery dish is?” Eden asks.
Alexander smiles. “It’s a tartiflette,” he explains. “My father used to make it all the time. Comfort food, for when I wasn’t feeling well. It was one of the only things he didn’t burn when cooking.”
Eden sits up a little straighter. “Your father? Is he a chef, too?”
“No,” he replies, suddenly stiff and rigid. “He was a mechanic.”
“Was?”
“Can you check that the inventory was stocked?” he asks abruptly. “Before everyone arrives and it gets too busy.”
Eden frowns. “Um, sure?”
“Thanks.”
She gets up from her stool and slowly makes her way over to the walk-in. There’s a detailed shipping chart attached to a clipboard hanging just to the right of the big metal door. It’s a simple enough task to do, taking her all of thirty seconds to verify, so Eden can’t help but feel confused. She still doesn’t know what happened to him all those years ago. Eden wants to ask, but she’s worried about sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
He’ll open up eventually. Just give him time.
