Switching to the peeler, I begin to strip away tiny shavings. I’m fully aware that my technique is about as advanced as a toddler’s crayon scribbles. It isn’t that I have underdeveloped motor skills—it’s just that I’ve never done this before.
Henri watches me for a moment, barely hiding his amusement.
“Here, let me show you,” he says gently, stepping in to demonstrate.
His hands move with practiced ease, peeling off a perfect ribbon.
“I got it.” I take the peeler back from him. My next attempt yields a strip that’s comically thick, more like a slice for an Asian stir-fry than a peel to discard.
He moves closer, enveloping me from behind. “Let’s try together, so you can get the hang of it.”
His hands cover mine. I can feel the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his cologne—the same as ten years ago—mixed with a hint of fresh perspiration from our ping-pong match.
“Like this,” he murmurs, showing me the right pressure and angle.
The peeler glides smoothly, and a perfect strip falls away. His fingers are firm yet gentle, guiding my hands with a patience I wouldn’t have credited him with.
I’m acutely aware of his closeness and of the heat radiating from him as we peel together. The rhythm of our breathing syncs up. His big hands are wrapped around mine and his muscular arms are encasing me.Embracing me.That alone is enough to make my head turn. But there’s also his strong body behind me. He tries to keep his distance, but every now and then his chest touches my back, and his thighs brush against my backside.
Damn!If I were wearing stiletto heels now, his pelvis would be closer to my derriere.
The thought shocks me. I need to do something to make this moment less intimate and more banal.
“How come you can cook?” I ask.
“It’s something I learned here in France and found myself enjoying a lot more than I expected.”
Did the tactic work? Is the spell broken?
I launch a mental probe into my senses and conclude that yes, the enchantment is over.All clear. I can peel in peace.There’s nothing sexy about vegetable prep. There’s no romance between Henri and me. What I felt earlier was just an automatic, Pavlovian response to being touched by an ex-boyfriend. A phantom sensation like when an amputee experiences pain in a limb that isn’t there anymore.
Move along, folks!Nothing to see here but the same old twisted Henri de Bellay, and the badly singed me, peeling a zucchini for dinner. A big, yummy zucchini shaped like Henri’s?—
Oh, dear.
Luckily, by the time that particular realization hits me, we’re done peeling the zucchini. Now is the perfect time to step away, thank Henri for the demo, and tell him I can manage on my own.
Yet, my lips remain sealed, and my feet glued in place. My heart is racing with anticipation.
What is he going to do?
He’s going to step back, of course, and say something cheerfully innocuous, like, “I think you’re ready.” It’s the only gentlemanly thing to do.
Except, Henri doesn’t seem to want to be a gentleman. He reaches for the second zucchini.
As we peel it, his arms wrap tighter around me, and his fingers intertwine with mine. I’m old enough to know this didn’t happen by accident. There’s an undisguised, unapologetic deliberateness to how his body brushes against mine, how he moves closer, how he inclines his head toward me.
The warmth from his body seeps into my skin. His pheromones make my eyelids heavy. My breasts begin to ache for his touch. I can feel the contours of his muscles and the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.
We’ve stopped peeling. The air is thick with anticipation. Silence surrounds us, only punctuated by the faint sound of his breaths. Desire builds. Henri shifts behind me, and suddenly, I can feel the hard ridge of his erection press against the small of my back.
It’s all too much. It’s not enough. I want to push him away just as much as I yearn to stand on tiptoe and lean into that hardness.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the spell. Henri steps away, leaving me with a wild mix of disappointment and relief. A moment later, Audrey comes in, her skin shower fresh and her short, wet hair combed back.
Thank God for this woman and her timing!
I can’t believe how close I came to making a terrible mistake.
