After receiving all our instructions, we started cooking. A pot of salted water waited to boil on our stove. We each had a cutting board and a sharp knife, Marc seemingly no worse for the wear after the Oyster Incident. Also, the Culinary Center kept Star Wars Band-Aids on hand, so.
I assigned myself the burrata. With every slice of my knife, cream pooled across my cutting board, and onto my fingers. I licked my first fingertip. It was salty, creamy, thick, rich. It was fucking sexy.
I ran my finger through the cream again and offered it to Marc. His tongue delicately grazed my skin, but it sent shock waves all the way down to my core. I dipped my finger again, and brought it back to his mouth. The heat of it, the anticipation of it … unf. When he licked me, I swear I felt as melty as the cheese.
"Ahem," said the long-suffering chef. We were developing quite the pattern of PDA. I regretted nothing.
Apparently, neither did Marc, because he bumped my arm one more time before returning to fig duty. We drank our glasses of wine when the water came to a boil, so that we could have fresh ones with our pasta. I had to admit that even though the sexual tension was still as thick as the burrata waiting on my board, we'd settled into a really comfortable routine. It was nice to work so well with someone. I couldn't think of another time in my life when that had happened to me.
Certainly never with a boyfriend. Not that-of course Marc wasn't-nor would he be, but. Suddenly I understood why people waxed so poetic about the idea of relationships. Why girls I knew (cough, Ava) fell in love constantly. This was a nice feeling. One that I didn't know was missing from my previous two boyfriends.
It turned out that we really were just friends who happened to do it. Except that's what Marc and I were, too, right? Minus the doing it part. Yet. Tonight was going to be the night, I just knew it, because everything was going like a dream. Underneath my skater dress, I was wearing black lace, even.
So what had I been missing with the other two guys? Besides the lace. Maybe just seduction, I thought. I drained the pasta while Marc pulled plates out of the warmer and fetched more wine.
Seduction was the name of the game. And once we'd beaten it, I would be free to go find someone new to seduce. And Marc would be free to voules vou couchez avec moi all over France. The sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought had nothing to do with the fact that the Moulin Rouge soundtrack would now be stuck in my head all night. It wasn't jealousy I felt. It was just that I didn't like to think about the end before the actual beginning. Right?
Thanks be to Olympus, there was the full glass of wine right there to distract me.
"Jam," I said.
"Grape jam," said Marc.
"I don't even know why you two are still trying," said the wine guy, passing our station.
"Rude," I said.
"Accurate," corrected Marc. It was safe to say we were both feeling the wine. Luckily, our entrée was ready to soak up a little of that excess grape jam. And it smelled delicious. The truffles were earthy, the figs were sweet, and I could not wait to get it into my mouth. Marc twirled some pasta around his fork expertly and then held it up so I could have the first bite.
It was slightly underdone. Maybe more than slightly. You really had to chew those noodles. It turns out that al-dente doesn't mean what we thought it meant.
But it was still tasty. And fun. And I maybe licked the cutting board when no one was looking so that none of the burrata went to waste. Because I am civic-minded like that. You are welcome, world.
Dessert was planned to be a decadent chocolate mousse. I was really excited about that one. Oysters weren't going to feature in any future dinner party menus at my place, and I was never going to afford truffles, but chocolate? Now that was something I was planning to add to my repertoire. It would certainly be more impressive than my scrambled eggs, but the instructions we had looked almost as easy.
We bungled another glass of wine (how many was that? I decided I didn't care.) and then it was off to the races.
Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to demonstrate my sweet one-handed egg-cracking technique after so many wines, but really-if I had pulled it off, I would have been a hero. It was a risk I was willing to take.
Unfortunately, instead I just learned a valuable lesson about how difficult it is to clean raw egg off of Converse. What, you thought that just because I was wearing a dress and fancy underwear that I would also have put on heels? Even I, inexperienced as I was, understood that watching me lurch around on heels would have been a real turnoff. Probably YouTube gold, but still a turnoff.
I learned another valuable lesson during the mixing portion. It is also imperative that you gently raise the beaters while powering them down. Pro-tip. Because the ensuing chocolate explosion is not what they mean when they say lava cake. I did, however, take advantage of the opportunity to lick a few stray blobs of batter off of Marc's neck.
He shivered visibly. I took a large swallow of my cabernet to distract myself from the visions of him doing that as I ran my tongue down the ridges of his abs. Briefly, I wondered what would happen if I swept everything off our work station and just ripped his clothes off right here and now. I decided the likelihood of arrest was outweighed by the likelihood of injury. Once the mousse was properly chilled, I had to admit I was starving.
So was Marc. We devoured our chocolate in less time than it took to realize that yet again, we were too drunk. Marc pulled up his Uber app while I begged leftover mousse off of the couple next to us.
Eating it in the back of the car may have shifted my ranking down, but I didn't even mind. I had been right about the dessert; it was something I was actually capable of making, although I was rapidly discovering I was not capable of sharing.
"Get off," I told Marc. "Hey, driver, can you hit a drive-through on our way home?"
"You sexy beast," Marc whispered in my ear. "I am gonna murder some fries. And guess what. They are French." He laughed and laughed, although I personally didn't think it was so funny.
In fact, I felt it was in pretty poor taste. When you are with your screwmate, you should probably not be bringing up your future conquests. That was my justification for eating half his fries, along with my own. And a burger. And some nuggets. I know you aren't supposed to tip your Uber guy, but I definitely "accidentally" dropped a twenty in his passenger seat on my way out.
Marc didn't even say goodnight so much as I just heard noises trailing him as he veered his way from wall to wall on his way to his room.
"Another failed seduction," I thought, as I took off my grown-up bra and panties and poked my foot around to find the leg-hole of my Hulk underoos. As I missed, overreached, and fell to the ground, I reflected that perhaps it was for the best.
Ten
The next day's plans involved sulking, pouting, and aspirin-not necessarily in that order. After washing down a healthy dose of all three with a rather unhealthy-sized dose of coffee, I was in a sufficient state of mind to consider the previous night. My strategy had been sound, I was certain, and yet I had not won a battle so far.
Yes, I was starting to think of breeching Marc's castle walls as a sort of siege. And the living area was about to become the War Room. Seeing as he was in meetings all day of his own, and all.
I threw myself back into the cushions of the beige couch. I had grown very fond of the old guy in our months together. Sometimes it was okay to be boring, if you were reliable and comfortable. Oh, drats, I realized-I was in a long-term relationship with the couch.
It seemed to me that the common denominator in several of the failed seductions was the fact that Marc and I were drinking entirely too much wine. I didn't believe that either of us was a secret alcoholic, but the numbers didn't lie. We were guzzling several times the recommended weekly average in every sitting. Because of France. And science.
A little voice in the back of my head wondered if we were self-sabotaging because we were nervous about closing the deal. First I threatened to drown the voice in even more wine, and then I reminded it that even if I was nervous, there was no reason for Marc to be. Not that I was nervous. Much. Just baring my body and soul to the sexiest man I had ever met, and knowing that if it was horrible and I embarrassed myself, I'd still have to look at him every morning. No big deal. Nothing to worry about.
But that was the whole point, wasn't it? That by exposing the most vulnerable parts of me to the guy who shares my water bill, I'd somehow prepare myself for doing the same thing with a stranger later.
Weirdly, even though that was the whole point of everything, I found myself recoiling a little from the idea of a stranger in my future. I mean, of course I knew that anyone I started dating wouldn't remain a stranger for long, it's just that … well, I liked what I already had. Shaking my head, I reminded myself that I didn't exactly have anything. Except perhaps a touch of social anxiety. Actually, that explained everything.
My tendency to drink a little too much when the specter of sex reared its head, my sudden new desire not to find a boyfriend-I couldn't believe I hadn't self-diagnosed earlier. It all made so much sense. I fired off a text to the girls immediately. As per the usual, the replies were mixed.