“Just use the boxed stuff.” My mom laughed, though it sounded more like a soft wheeze. “There are some things science has perfected, and matzah ball soup mix is one of them.”
She’d been right, of course. The next batch came out perfectly. But that was a decade ago, and I’m a classically trained chef now. Closing my eyes, I conjure up Chef Jean-Pierre’s face, that vein in his forehead popping as he watches me tear open a box of Streit’s. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about seasoning my base.
No, I’m thinking about this all wrong. Making this soup isn’t about impressing Lionel’s wife with my culinary skill. It’s about offering relief with comfort food. I’ve just begun typing the ingredients I’ll need into my Notes app when the front door opens.
“Hey, hey.” His skin is still glistening with sweat from the session he just had with his trainer. With a rush of pleasure, I notice that his old, white cap is twisted backward on his head, a few damp strands poking out the sides. The old Jake is slowly returning, and I couldn’t be happier to see him.
“What are you up to?” he asks, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Lionel’s wife is sick. I’m going to make her some soup.”
“Oh, no! Not Audrey!”
I bite back a smile. “You know Audrey?”
“Of course. She brings Lionel a bologna sandwich for lunch every Wednesday. It’s her day off at the beauty shop.” He grins triumphantly.
I shake my head. Of course he’s already charmed both my doorman and his normally reticent wife. “Listen, I need to run to the store to pick up some ingredients. You need anything?”
“I’ll come with you,” Jake offers.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Aren’t you worried about getting recognized?”
Jake shrugs. “Some people are worth the risk.” He shoots me one of his dimpled grins. “Let’s make Audrey some soup.”
AN HOUR LATER, WE’REback in the kitchen. The heady scent of roasted carrots and celery perfume the air, and I pause to inhale the familiar scents of childhood as I pull the sheet pan from the oven.
The box instructed me to add a quarter cup of vegetable oil to the matzah ball mix, but by way of compromise, I replaced half of it with schmaltz I picked up at the grocery store, as well as some chopped fresh dill for extra flavor. Jake is standing at the stove, and I hand him the vegetables, which he scoops into the pot to simmer with the matzah balls. The soundtrack toSixis blasting through my laptop speakers and Jake wiggles his shoulders as he shimmies into my line of vision.
“Be honest: How much does my dancing elevate your experience in the kitchen? And before you answer that, keep in mind that I’ve worked with professional choreographers.”
“You give J.Lo a run for her money,” I say as I place the lid on the pot and turn down the heat. Jake grins at me as he shoves his hands in his back pockets.
“This is nice,” he says. “Cooking with you.” My heart tugs at the sentiment. It feels more than nice. It feels… right. There’s something magical about getting to share the joy of making food with Jake, of letting him be a part of my world. And I can’t help but notice the way he keeps tidying his prep area, like he’s doing his best to impress me. His gaze snags on mine, a ghost of a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth, and I consider how badly I want to taste those lips.
“You’re really something, you know that?” he says. “It takes a special person to come home after a twelve-hour workday and immediately start making soup for someone else.”
I shrug off the compliment. “Lionel is like family. I’ve known him since I was a little girl.”
“I get that. But I don’t think you have any clue how amazing you are. You’re not like anyone else I know.”
I look away, both embarrassed and touched by his words. “I’d better get this packaged up for Lionel,” I say, crouching down to open the Tupperware cabinet.
“I’ll take care of it,” Jake insists, shooing me away. “But I’m saving a bowl for you. And when I get back from the lobby, I’m running you a bath. You need some R&R. I’ve got a surprise planned for you tomorrow evening, and I need you to rest up.”
“A surprise? I hate surprises.”
Jake’s eyes gleam. “Trust me, you won’t hate this one.”
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, JAKEasks me to meet him in his suite at The Pierre, since Vinny’s scheduled him for a midday interview with aRolling Stonereporter.
Jake told me to swing by around 4:30P.M., but I left the apartment early just to be safe, and it’s only a few minutes past four when I step into the hotel’s elegantly appointed lobby, a jaw-droppingly glamorous affair that looks like it’s been plucked straight from Kris Jenner’s wet dreams. The black-and-white checkered floors are gleaming beneath a couple of crystal chandeliers, and the ceilings are trimmed in gold. An oversized, polished round table is covered in several stunning, pink floral arrangements.
A security guard named Tony is waiting for me by the front desk. He greets me with a curt nod before escorting me to the thirty-fourth floor. I follow him down the hall until we finally reach the last door on the left. There, he withdraws a room key from his wallet to unlock the door to Jake’s suite. I take a deep breath and run a smoothing hand over the bottom of my skirt. Jake still hasn’t told me where we’re going tonight, buthe cryptically instructed me to “dress nicely” for the occasion. Whatever that means. Figuring an LBD is always a safe bet, I selected a tiered black poplin mini dress from Zara and black flats. I take a deep breath as Tony opens the door and gestures for me to step inside.
The minute I cross the threshold, I’m thrust into chaos, and I immediately understand why Jake has avoided the hotel. There are half a dozen people scattered throughout the suite, every surface of which is cluttered with food trays, bottled water, and tech equipment. Vinny is staring out the window, growling intensely into his phone, and two girls who look to be in their mid-twenties are perched on the love seat, long, manicured fingers flying furiously over their phone screens. A woman who I assume is a stylist, judging by the pink measuring tape draped around her neck, is barking directions at an assistant holding up two different black suits. And in the center of it all, dressed in black leather pants and a white shirt with huge, billowing sleeves, is Jake.
His face lights up when he sees me, his dimple flashing.
