I down my drink like I'm heading to war.
"You're on," I say, already sliding out of the booth. "Let's go."
But as I march confidently toward the exit, I can't help wondering if this is the chance of a lifetime or the worst mistake I've ever made.
5
Cole
In the back of the cab I manage to pull my attention away from the golden skin of Willow's legs just long enough to call ahead to the restaurant. It's late enough that the dish washers should be just about done, but I need to make sure. When they answer, I tell them to take an early night, that I'm bringing private guests. It's not an unusual request, so I know they'll be gone soon.
Willow stares out of the window intently, tapping her fingers against her lush mouth. She's probably thinking of what to cook. I don't mind her silence, since it gives me a chance to gorge on the sight of her body, to drink her curves in, get drunk on them. By the time the car pulls up outside Knife I'm woozy with lust. Irrational, alcohol-infused imagination doing all kinds of things with that taut body beside me.
"You figured out what you're gonna cook yet?" I tease, as the cab speeds away leaving empty air between us.
She gives only a tight, mystic smile as response. There's too much solid determination about her now to entertain me. The laid back, graceful elegance she's had up to this point now replaced by a directed poise, as much precise strength as it is focused determination. She turns and walks up to the restaurant with catwalk straightness, so fast that I almost have to quicken my gait to catch up to her.
"Are you going to be able to give me a hand?" she asks as I unlock the door.
I push it open for her.
"I'm not good at taking orders."
"That's ok," Willow smiles as she steps through. "I'm good at giving them."
Before I can even close the door behind me she's making a beeline for the kitchen, tying an apron on around that tight dress and somehow still managing to look just as hot. I watch her pulling pans from the rack, firing up the stove, moving around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. She rushes past me at pace, ferrying a few bottles to the counter.
"Grab me a couple pounds of mince," she calls out, her voice projected and sharp now, the kind of voice you develop working in a loud environment. "Red peppers-long enough to have some spice-and start chopping a sweet onion. Chopped, not diced."
I get an adrenaline rush at her words, pulse racing at being ordered about by someone so purposeful, hot, and focused. It's been too long since I actually cooked so hands-on, and even longer since someone told me what to do in a kitchen, or anyplace else.
I watch her, smiling a little as she chops a few cloves of garlic as fine as powder in a matter of seconds, only half-hearing. She stops a second to look at me sternly.
"If you're not helping, you're getting in my way."
There she goes again with that mouth. You don't spend your entire life fighting your way to the top, then fighting everybody who tries to knock you off, to be spoken to like that. But I somehow find myself grinning, wondering if this girl knows how hot she sounds, how badly I'd like to rip that apron off her and give her my own set of orders, orders that have nothing to do with food.
"Yes ma'am," I drawl agreeably, pulling off my suit jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves to get to work.
For the next fifteen minutes she works the kitchen up into a storm of aromas. Grilling Mexican chorizo with the beef patties, baking rolls that smell as sweet as cake, flash-frying herbed potatoes. My mouth waters as plumes of spicy smoke rise and unfurl around us-so admittedly, she may have had a point about the tiny portion sizes. I tune into her working rhythm, watching her move from task to task amid a cacophony of sizzles, slammed oven doors, the rhythmic beat of knife on wood to the low rumbling of boiling water.
"Where is this chorizo from?" she asks, as she chops it carefully.
I stop mixing the minced meat with my hands-as per her instructions-to smile at her.
"A little place down in the Argentinian pampas. Beautiful place," I say, then lean in to her and lower my voice. "You'd love it."
She stops cutting for a second, looking up at me and noticing how close I am. For a second that professional demeanor breaks, a little smile, a slight blush, a little flick of the hair before she's back to business again.
"I'm sure I would, if I ever get the chance to go."
I think about telling her I'd take her, half consider my schedule and wonder if I can drop everything right now to charter a plane there for both of us. But before my mind wanders too far off-course, Willow pulls me back into the cooking with another command.
She's laser-focused on the food, switching between disciplines almost frantically, but always poised, always in control, oblivious to the way I'm eating her up with my eyes. An embodiment of my two favorite things: beautiful women and great food. The sight of her toned legs as she squats to check the oven, the red kick of grilled peppers in my sinuses, the arch of her back as she leans over to check the pot, the crackle of hot oil touching coriander seeds. A synesthesia of sensual gratification, stirring a heart-pounding hunger inside of me now, my blood hot as oil, muscles tensing in anticipation, this woman glorious enough to devour.