My teeth clamped together and I raised my voice to address the rest of the class. “Chefs, why do we call each other ‘Chef?’”
“As a sign of respect, Chef,” one voice answered.
I folded my hands on my lower back, delighting in the opportunity to give Royce back some of the shit he gave me all day, every day. “It seems Chef Royce left his manners at home.”
His knife clattered to his cutting board. “I said ‘Chef,’ Chef!”
“After I reminded you, Chef.”
He put his hands out, palms up, arguing at me like I was a referee. “I’m sorry! I missed the first few classes!”
I lowered my voice. “And did you miss on the registration that I was the teacher?”
“No, Chef. I mean, yes, I missed that,” Harlan’s tongue touched one of his canines, looking far too thrilled with himself, “Chef.”
While the classwashed their dishes, I slipped down the hall to the restroom. I'd wash mine in the quiet after everyone was gone. I said goodbye to a few of the students as I headed back to the demonstration hall, but instead of finding the solitude I looked forward to, a set of tapered shoulders stood by the commercial dishwasher. I passed by my workstation to find my dishes already cleared.
"Washing my dishes for me, Chef Royce?"
He lifted a shoulder. "What's a few more?"
"Kissing up to the teacher?"
His eyes flashed over to mine and a small smile curved his lips. “Well, I do have a favor to ask."
I snorted and grabbed a dish towel, starting to polish the plates on the clean side. "I already saved your life, Chef. I think you’re the one in my debt, not the other way around.”
He brightened. “Actually, this might help with that. I think I have a mutually beneficial idea.” His tongue brushed over his upper teeth. “My schedule is only going to let me come to a couple more of these classes."
"I don't think the school does refunds," I started, but he shook his head fervently.
"No, no. They can keep it. But I want private lessons. From you."
My eyes widened. "What do you mean, private?"
"Like, you could teach me at my house. Or your house. I want to get better at this, and it's hard to do with my schedule. We’re on the road for a lot of the time that you teach.”
"Your house. You're not coming to my house," I emphasized.
He put his hands out to indicate his agreement. "Of course. And, um, I'll pay whatever you want."
I did some math in my head. This could be an excellent way to pad Liam’s college fund. While Liam hadn’t decided between another year of junior hockey or going straight to college, the best thing any parent can hope to provide for their child is the freedom of choice. Money had a way of opening doors and expanding options. Harlan had money. A lot of it.
But I tried to act cool and not like I was salivating at the prospect of being able to better provide for my son.
“How many lessons do you think?"
He exhaled through smiling lips. "Yeah, um, wow, thought that would be harder."
"I haven't said yes yet," I said. My eyes tracked the towel he passed over his hands. Strong hands, long fingers, veins that would look so nice—Jesus, when did I get like this? Harlan Royceirritatedme. That dream I had about him was . . . a fluke. Though his hands did look exactly like they did right now. The way his dream hands clawed up my thighs, the way his fingers surrounded my throat.
The way his dream voice had murmured in my dream ear.“You don’t really hate me at all, Chef.”
I shivered and fanned myself. This was an extremely inconvenient time to be remembering that dream.
Harlan pulled at his neck, and I wondered if he was actually being slutty or if it was just my memory of the dream. “Right. Um, well, definitely enough lessons to cover the course material. And we can work around our mutual schedules.”
I bobbed my head. “Okay. Classes are weekly through May. Sixteen weeks total.”
