Fifteen
Becca
If my life these last few weeks didn’t already feel surreal, it sure does now. Because I’m on a one-on-one date in a gorgeous city in southern Germany. More than that, I am cooking with famous chef Jonas Braun. Preston, too, obviously, butJonas Braun. He doesn’t have quite the media presence in America as, say, Guy Fieri or Rachel Ray. But in Europe, he’s huge, and being a fan of hearty German and Slavic dishes, he’s kind of a dream chef of mine. I might have fangirled a bit when we arrived at this charming little German restaurant—reserved just for us, apparently—and he stepped out from the kitchen.
Okay, I definitely fangirled. But I stopped short of having him sign any body parts, so at least there’s that.
Of course, I found myself looking back to see Nate, wanting to share my excitement, but he’s not here today. I reminded myself that it’s Preston I should be excitedly beaming at. And though I don’t think he has much enthusiasm for cooking or famous chefs, he seemed pretty happy about it.
I’m starting to think more and more that Preston really is interested in me. I expected the producers would ensure I’d make it past the first ceremony or two on my story alone, but I hadn’t imagined it going this far—especially given that I’m not providing as much drama as some of the other girls. So Preston must see something in me, someone he wants to get to know better. And I’m starting to feel more and more guilty that my heart is pulled elsewhere.
Despite the adrenaline of cooking with a world-famous chef, I’m a bit exhausted today—Londyn hogged the bathroom for over an hour last night while I was waiting to brush my teeth. I finally knocked to see if she was okay, and it turned out she was not.
“Becca,” she wailed. “I haven’t pooped in over a week. It’s all the stress, I think, and maybe the cheese trays? And my stomach hurts, and I don’t know what to do. Help me!”
I offered to see if the producers could get any laxatives, and she broke down into grateful tears. But then, between sniffs and effusive thanks, she said, “But don’t ask Nate—I mean, don’t ask a guy.”
Luckily for her, despite my close relationship with Nate, I had no intention of approaching him with a desperate need for laxatives for a “friend.”
When I was down on the floor where the production staff were staying, though, begging the staff medical team for laxatives, I did happen to see Nate swiping a key card on one of the doors.
Knowing which room Nate is staying in might have kept me up even later into the night, spending some time locked away in the bathroom myself taking care of my own, non-digestion-related needs.
Not that I need an excuse to be distracted thinking about Nate. Even as Jonas Braun—Jonas Braun—is demonstrating his preferred technique for caramelizing the shallots, my mind is back to that night on the balcony. How I told Nate everything, all the pain and shame and secrets I’ve kept locked away from everyone. How much I wanted him to know, wanted him to see.
Because I felt that he already did see me, in ways no one else ever has.
“Okay, Becca,” Preston says in a low voice close to my ear, and I startle, my knife slipping dangerously toward my finger as I chop the spinach. Shit. I know better than to daydream while I’m using a knife. “I might need your help here. I have no idea whatjuliennedmeans and I’m afraid Mr. Braun will give me that judgy look again if I ask.”
I laugh, glancing back at Jonas, who is eyeing a beefsteak tomato critically. “I got you,” I say, and take the zucchini Preston’s holding out.
Then I flush, realizing how suggestive that sounded, grabbing onto his zucchini. By the glint in his eyes, he didn’t miss it. Crap. At least I didn’t say anything about great cocks this time.
“Um, julienne,” I say, “just means cut it into short, thin strips. Like this.” I cut a few from the zucchini and Preston makes a playful wince. I force myself to smile at him. I’m on a date. OnTV. I’m supposed to be flirting.
I just wish I was flirting with Nate instead.
Preston starts julienning, and Jonas walks over to us. “Nice cuts,” he says in his thick German accent, nodding in approval at the small pile I already made. It may now appear that Preston was the one who did them, but I feel a bloom of pride anyway. Even though it’s only cutting a freaking zucchini, somethingThea can do just as well.
But then Jonas winks at me and slaps Preston on the back. “Watch out for a woman who knows how to use a knife like that.”
Preston and I both laugh. “Always sound advice,” he agrees.
We work more on the meal, sautéing the spinach in olive oil with the shallots, seasoning and shaping and sautéing the potato dumplings, making the chilled tomato sauce that will be the perfect compliment. Preston is suitably teased by Jonas for his lack of ability to shape dumplings, and plays along gamely. Jonas seems legitimately impressed with my technique, enough so that I get up the courage to suggest a possible seasoning substitution—always a risky move with chefs, but it goes over really well. Jonas asks me about my kids while we cook, and shows me how to make a more child-friendly option—basically the dumplings without the spinach added in. Preston informs me he needs to practice so he can make them for his nieces and nephews sometime.
“I bet your kids don’t turn their noses up at vegetables, though,” Preston says with a grin. “With you being a gourmet chef and all.”
I snort. “My kids turn their noses up at my cooking all the time.Thea has grown to appreciate vegetables, but Rosie acts like anything green will kill her.”
“My son is twenty-two,” Jonas says, shaking his head. “And he still does.” He gives a long-suffering sigh and I laugh, even as my heart aches from missing them, as it so often does.
Jonas holds up a gorgeously plated circle of spinach and potato dumplings, drizzled in the tomato sauce. We both clap. “I can tell which dumplings are yours,” I tell Preston, gesturing to the most misshapen of the lumps.
He laughs. “They have character!”
“That they do.” I grin.
“Do you wish your kids were here to see it?” Preston asks.
