“So,” I ask, mock-seriously, “are you the kind of girl who kisses on a first date?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the guy,” she teases, leaning in.
We kiss slow and gentle, as if we’ve got all the time in the world, the Pacific stretching out beyond us making it feel somehow more private, more intimate. I can almost taste her happiness, taste her inhibitions fading in the beauty of these surroundings.
We pull back, and she grins again. Before I can say anything, she notices something beyond my shoulder, back at the beach.
“Drinks!” she says, pointing at the waiter putting them down at our loungers, and we break apart, swimming our way back to the cabana. Willow tosses me a towel and we dry off a little before sitting down, the table between us. We raise our glasses, clink them together, and drink.
“Oh,” Willow sighs happily. “It’s so nice out here. This is bliss.”
She settles back on the lounger, and I drag mine closer to hers before doing the same.
After a while of staring at the Santa Monica pier on the horizon, I look at her, eyes closed as she faces the sun. Golden skin drying, her breasts moving imperceptibly with her peaceful breathing.
“You think you’ll stay here?” I ask.
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yeah. Are you not feeling pull of the Idaho cornfields yet?”
“Not at the moment. But some day, sure, I’ll probably move back. To be close to my family. Maybe when I’m older, retired. What about you?” She turns to look at me.
“Me? I’m not planning to go to Idaho at all, to be honest.”
Willow reaches out to slap my arm playfully.
“You know what I mean. Are you going to stay in L.A. forever? Retire here?”
“I don’t plan on retiring.”
Willow eyes me for a few seconds, nodding, seeming to draw some kind of conclusion about me.
“You think I’m a workaholic,” I say.
“Nope,” she grins. “I know you are. You never know, though. Sometimes people mellow out in their old age.” Then she winks, takes a slow sip of her drink, and closes her eyes as she tastes it.
I watch the muscles of her throat flex, my cock stirring in my shorts, and when she opens her eyes she notices my focus on her and tilts her head.
“So how did you get into cooking?” I ask her.
“Oh…I don’t know. I’ve loved it as long as I can remember. I think it was my grandma who started it…” she says, looking dreamily into the distance. “She had this little herb garden, little pots around the kitchen. Basil and oregano, rosemary and thyme, mint and sage. The smells were almost magical. I’d watch her cook, and I thought it was incredible how she would just pluck a couple of leaves, give them a little rinse, tear them into a pot, and make something that tasted wonderful. She gave me a couple of plants and I started making stuff with them. For a year I put mint on everything—even French fries.”
We both laugh a little, though I don’t take my eyes away from how alluring she looks when she’s lost in thought.
“How about you?” she asks, looking genuinely curious.
I take a moment to think back, sipping my whiskey as I sift through old memories. “It was when I was about twelve or so, at a juvenile detention center—”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you fucking with me? You went to juvie? You are a bad boy.”
I laugh and shrug. “I was there a couple of times actually. I was young enough that it didn’t go on my record though. Anyway, they used to get these guys in—teach the kids a trade, get them onto a healthy path. Carpenters, welders, that kinda thing. One day this chef comes in. He gets us cooking these Spanish omelets. Of course, most of the kids fucked up, or didn’t care enough to really try, but that was when I first learned I could do this.”
“Wait a second,” Willow says, leaning forward, intrigued now, “is that why Martin asked me to cook an omelet for the interview process?”
I smile at her.
“Yeah. See, most people—doesn’t matter if they’re a dad cooking breakfast or a seasoned chef who’s been around the block—they think omelets are simple. You whip the eggs, throw them in a pan, add the filling and you’re done. But there’s so much more to it. You can just whip the eggs, or you can separate the yolks from the whites and whip them separately, and if you do that then do you use all the yolks or half? Do you add cottage cheese or a splash of pancake batter?”
She nods, following along as I go over every aspect.
“And then, do they wait for the eggs to warm up a little, or just whip them cold right out of the fridge? Do they use butter or olive oil in the pan? What kinda ratio? How melted is the butter? Don’t melt it all and you’re really gonna taste it. How do they manage the pan? Temperature, texture. When do they fold? When do they take it out? You know, the most common mistake is people taking it out too late because they—”
“Don’t know that the eggs continue to cook on the plate,” Willow interrupts, smiling satisfyingly.
I laugh a little.
“Right. And an omelet’s so simple you can taste every mistake, every skill.”
“Smart.”
“That guy was the first one to compliment me on anything other than my left hook, so I realized I could actually do this, and do it well. I had some innate skill and the motivation to take it further. Once I got out I worked in kitchens any way I could, taking odd jobs at any restaurant that would take me until I finally rustled up enough money to go to France and study under Guillhaume. And that’s where I met Jason.”
Even saying the name feels like a jab to the ribs, and the waiter shows up just in time, bringing the whole whiskey bottle and a fresh pitcher of mojitos for Willow.
“Who’s Jason?” Willow asks, once the man is gone.
“He was my best friend—pretty much my only friend at the time. We finished the course in Paris and then came back to L.A. together. Like everyone who makes it through the program, we wanted to start our own place right away, but we didn’t have the money. Somehow, Jason took care of that. He was smooth, good with people. He was on first name terms with everyone from the food truck vendors to the fancy chefs downtown. At the time I was still was too dark and brooding to take an interest in all that business stuff. Just a twenty-one year old with too many tattoos, an uncontrollable temper and an unhealthy obsession with making the best food I could.”