Ben took out his key, unlocked the door and led me inside. When I looked up, I was overcome with dizzy excitement, and I heard a loud gasp escape my throat.
53. À LaMasterChef. . .
It’s strange how all your senses seem completely interrelated, as if you can’t experience anything through one alone. One seems to ignite the other, which ignites another, making the experience a full-body one. The first thing for me was sight . . .
Ben’s apartment was dark, but the entire place was drenched in the warm, flickering golden glow from a million candles. Candles on tables. Candles clustered on the floor. Candles on bookshelves and windowsills and outlining a path from the door to the dining-room table. Together, they gave off a subtle warmth, which I could feel throughout my entire body. Then there was smell . . .
Something rich and sweet that made my mouth water, like cookies fresh from the oven. A nostalgic smell.
All of my senses were awake and alert, so when Ben placed his hand on my bare lower back, I winced, not from pain or surprise, but from pleasure. Everything felt more heightened suddenly.
He led me to the dining-room table, set with three sets of cutlery, different plates and bowls, flowers and colored napkins. He pulled out my chair for me, and as I sat down he placed an envelope on my plate with a smile.
I opened it and pulled out a handwritten note.
Menu
Starters: Freshly baked, hot Lindt chocolate brownies with pecan nuts and cream.
Main: Salted caramel chocolate tart served with homemade Snickers ice cream.
Dessert: White chocolate mousse served with candied strawberries.
My face almost cracked from the smile that spread across it.
“Your kind of menu?” he asked with a playful tone in his voice.
“Wow!” I looked towards the kitchen and inhaled the smell coming from it. “You really can cook desserts.”
“Li and I do it together. If you think you have a sweet tooth . . .” He drifted off slightly and then changed the subject quickly, purposefully.
“Can I get you a drink?” he offered, sounding and looking like a waiter now. He had assumed a very stiff pose, with one arm crossed over his stomach and the other by his side.
“What do you have?” I asked.
He indicated for me to turn the menu over. I did.
Drinks: Water. With ice.
“I sort of forgot to buy drinks,” he said and shrugged playfully.
“Water is perfect.” And it was. It was so perfect that Ben would serve iced water with a three-course dessert-only meal. It was just so Ben. So totally, strangely, marvelously, perfectly weird.
“The ice might not be frozen yet,” he said as he walked off in the direction of the kitchen. “In fact, I lie, I have no ice.”
Even more perfect.
I watched him as he fiddled around in his kitchen like an expert, à laMasterChef. I hadn’t expected a date like this at all. Not in my wildest dreams would I have pictured this. I was sure he was going to take me out, but this was far, far better.
“Here we go.” He came up to the table and placed the first course in front of me. He grabbed one of the napkins and laid it in my lap—a little too seductively. He didn’t hide the fact that, in spreading the napkin, he was focusing far too much on my upper thighs.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” He looked up at me and gave my lap one last, very long, slow stroke. He walked round the table and sat opposite me. He didn’t have a plate in front of him.
“Not eating?” I asked, but before he answered, he pulled my bowl into the middle of the table and grabbed a fork.
“Sharing is caring,” he said and scooped up a mouthful. I followed his lead, and when I finally popped a bite into my mouth, I was met by the most warm, gooey chocolaty experience ever.
“Mmm, oh my God. Where did you learn to bake like this?” I asked. But as soon as I did, his mood changed a little.
