Maybe Asha’s right, maybe I should forget the things that keep walling off my feelings. Maybe I should forget Cole’s reputation, the fact that he’s my boss, the unlikely possibility that I may have to tell him I might be leaving soon to start my own restaurant. Maybe I should quit telling myself that the sex between us is just too good to pass up, that it’s only his body making me go weak, that it’s just lust and desire drawing me back to him again and again.
Maybe I should let go of the way Nick used and hurt me, release the restricting chains of the past that keep me from dipping more than a toe in the future.
Maybe I should just admit it: I’m falling in love with Cole.
15
Cole
I’d never heard of puppy chow before Willow mentioned it while talking about comfort food, her hand going to her chest and her eyes closing over that half-smile the way she does when she talks about something she really loves. The satisfied look imprinting the words on my memory, a detail I knew it would be smart to remember. One of the many details I learned on our trip to Vegas, along with the almost-imperceptible freckles across her nose, the birthmark behind her left thigh, the ever-so-slightly odd way she pronounced the word ‘aromatic.’
I had to look up what the dessert even was: Chex cereal mixed with melted chocolate and peanut butter, powdered with a layer of confectioner’s sugar. It made me smile, thinking of the chef for whom no béarnaise sauce was quite good enough, having an affection for sugar-coated cereal. It felt like both another page revealed in that complex character, and another mystery to unfold.
I wondered who had made it for her during her childhood that she loved it so, whether it was the mom she missed, or some beloved grandparent or aunt she had stayed with on weekends. I wondered if that simple snack reminded her of something, of late nights watching movies with her sister, perhaps, or of being treated after doing her chores. Maybe it had been comfort food for the sake of emotional comfort, an easily made sugar hit that dulled the pain of some sad event, a comforting sweetness when she wanted to wallow in self-doubt. A food like that had to have some emotion behind it, some memory, and I wanted to know, to understand, so that I might get even closer to her.
That’s why I decided to make it for her as a surprise—if only to see that half-smile again.
It’s late when I get home, around nine, carrying a grocery bag of cereal and the other ingredients. Willow would be at her shift now, so I leave her a text asking her to come over when she’s done. It wouldn’t surprise me if she said no—nobody understands better than I do the need to rest after a hard shift in a place like Knife, plus it’s only been a couple of days since we spent every waking second within grabbing distance of each. But she texts me back just a short while later.
Sure. But I’ll smell like the kitchen.
I feel a rush inside of me, lust already stirring at the answer, then quickly type back.
You can shower here.
Her reply is quick.
I’ll bet I can.
I spend the next few hours tidying up—not that the place is messy, but more for something to do with the sense of unfulfilled action tingling in my muscles. I rush order a few flowers to soften the man-cave look of the vast apartment, put some chairs out by the pool, in the perfect spot to look over the city, and spend way too long trying to figure out what kind of drink might go with puppy chow. Then, I poor myself a glass of whiskey and try to relax.
Around midnight I open the door to a surprised-looking Willow and try to hold back the smile that seeing her brings out of me.
“Hey,” I say, pulling her toward me for a kiss. When she pulls away her eyes are still wide and shocked. “You ok?”
“Yeah…” she says, looking around. “I just…I thought I had the wrong house. I thought maybe this was a modern art museum or something. This place is huge.”
I laugh gently as I close the door behind her.
“You should see the one in Spain. Come on,” I say, putting a hand on the small of her back, a little closer to her ass than it needs to be, “I’ll give you the tour.”
For the next fifteen minutes I lead her around the house, giving her the backstory to the artworks that adorn the walls, the different reasons I love each of my sports cars, talking her through the custom designs of each handmade piece of furniture. Willow coos and smiles throughout like a kid in a candy factory. Usually I take a little pride in showing things like this, the things I’ve worked for all my life. It satisfies my ego. But this might be the first time I’m showing these things simply to make Willow smile, simply because that face she makes where her lips part and her eyebrows go up to show she’s impressed is impossibly cute.
“Why are those shutters curved like that?” she asks when we’re in the dining room.
“Oh, well see, this is the western side of the building. The thing about California evening light is that it has this really precise, clear quality, coming from over the Pacific. So when you have straight shutters it kinda cuts through in a really direct, harsh way, and I was concerned the house would be too angular as it is, so I had these shutters custom-made with a slight bend and rough edges to make it more—why are you looking at me like that?”
Willow laughs a little and shakes her head.
“I know how you are in a kitchen, but I didn’t realize you were that particular about everything.”
I laugh as I move my hands around her waist, pulling her toward me a little to look right into the brown swirls of her eyes.
“I just know exactly what I want,” I say, staring as deeply into her as I can.
She blushes a little before glancing down.
“Well, I kinda feel like a mess, standing here in my dirty work clothes surrounded by all this engineered perfection.”
“If you’re a mess, you’re a beautiful mess. The kind of beautiful mess a guy like me needs,” I say, before taking a long, slow kiss from those rose petal lips. When we break apart her expression is soft, tender, and I can tell her mind is working overtime to try and read between the lines of what I just said. I decide not to let her dwell on it. “Come on,” I say, taking her hand, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
I lead her back through the house, her curious pleas only making my playful expression more gratified, until we’re out at the pool. Willow scans the skyline, the glowing blue of the water against the darkness of the night, until eventually she sees it and half-gasps.
“You cooked for me?” she says, as I lead her to the small table at the edge of the railing, beyond which the drop of the Hollywood Hills merges with the twinkling city lights.
“Not sure you would call it cooking,” I say, flaming her curiosity even more.
I pull out a chair and she sits down, eyes focusing on the silver dish cover as if she might see through it if she concentrates hard enough. I light the candles I set out and then make an elaborate gesture of putting my hand on the bell, enjoying her eager anticipation one last time before pulling it away dramatically.
“Oh!” she squeals, mouth opening wide with delighted disbelief. “Puppy chow! Are you kidding me? This is the best!”
I shrug nonchalantly and sit on the chair beside her, facing the skyline.