Wilder pokes his head out of the entrance to my kitchen.
MY KITCHEN.
“Can I help you?” he asks, black apron tied around his waist, a tool in his hand that I don’t even know the name of. I know it belongs on the line, I remember it arriving in one of the boxes of equipment Samuel helped me order. But why is it in this guy’s hand?
Can he helpme?
Who the hell does this guy think he is? Did he raid my kitchen for food and start cooking, uninvited?
“Don’t mind me,” I say, shooting him an acidic smile, slits for eyes. “Just borrowing the restroom and grabbing some water.”
He eyes me up and down, pausing in the doorway for a beat too long, studying me.
“Yeah, okay.” Like it’s his fucking call and not mine.
If I hadn’t already committed to the role of the gardener, I’d be slicing him up and serving him on one of the new platters we just got in. But this will be so much sweeter when I see the look of realization on his face. The immense plate of crow he’s going to have to serve himself. So I bide my time.
Hitting the restroom first, I take the time to wash my arms thoroughly, then run some paper towels under cool water and wipe down all the skin I can reach, trying to peel off the layers of sweat, dirt, and dust that have accrued with my morning of physical labor.
Beneath it all, my skin is still flushed pink. Splotchy, in a way that won’t calm down even with the cool towels pressed to my face, I can still feel the blood surging beneath the skin. This is what happens when I get seriously worked up, and damn this man for getting under my skin so quickly.
My temper was already flared after the run in with Karen, but he took it to another level.
It’s the way he was so dismissive, the way he irked me with no effort on his part but then didn’t respond when I jabbed him back.
It feels like shadowboxing. There’s no satisfaction when you aren’t landing any punches. You want to feel it land, hear the crunch on impact, the way my insults normally do.
But if he wants to play? I’ll fucking play.
When I’m finally done refreshing myself (to the best of my current abilities) in the bathroom, I head to the kitchen and get myself a cup of water, trying to ignore the mouthwatering, savory scents that are proving to be a bit more demanding than I’d prefer they were. It’s making it harder to keep up the front of disinterest I’m so determined to maintain.
Wilder ignores me as I help myself to the water, and if he finds it strange that I know where to get a cup, ice, and drinking water, he doesn’t comment. Maybe he thinks as the gardener I’ve done this before.
My curiosity, my animosity, finally gets the better of me. “What are you doing?” My tone is caustic, but maybe he’s impervious to burns as a chef.
“Job interview,” he says, not bothering to look away from the stove, where three pans are going, gas range lit beneath them. A sizzling sound comes from at least one of them, and my nose is working overtime trying to work out the combination of flavors filling the air.
“I don’t see anyone else here,” I point out the obvious.
“It’s a working interview. A stage,” he replies, tossing one pan, and then the next.
He’s already got a plate laid out on the line, directly behind the gas stove and cooktop.
Irritatingly, I watch, mesmerized as he works. There’s a flow to what he’s doing, a rhythm that I don’t understand, but it’s clear he does. It’s like a language that I don’t speak, but traveling to a land where it’s the native tongue, I can’t help but listen in and try to follow along.
When my dad ran the diner, I don’t think he used anything more than the deep fryer and the flattop. But Wilder has a symphony going between these pans that I can’t look away from.
My only saving grace is that he never once looks back. I keep swirling my cup, the ice clinking softly in it, hoping he thinks I’m just drinking water for ten minutes straight, a human camel over here.
“You sound like you’re thirsty back there,” he calls out, turning just enough to get the words over his shoulder, still not giving me his face. There’s a lilt in his words I don’t know what to do with. It’s teasing, and it pisses me off all at once.
“Hard work does that to a girl,” I reply, making a face at his back.
“Being on your knees isn’t easy work,” he tosses out.
“You on your knees a lot?” I bite back.
“For the right girl,” he says easily, and I canhearthe smile in his voice. “Some of my favorite work is done when I’m kneeling.Or she is.” The way his voice lifts at the end, it’s clear he’s smirking.
