29
DREW
I roll some rice between my thumb and pointer finger, squash and examine it. It feels done. It looks done. My fault for not keeping track of how long it has been boiling on the stove. My bad for not thinking of borrowing one of my mother’s rice cookers. Looking up against the gleaming tile backsplash, I throw the rice at it—because if it works for pasta, it should work for rice, too, right?—but it remains stuck on my fingers.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Scooping up a ladle of rice, I take a bite, only to have a delayed reaction to its scalding heat. My mouth hangs open as I panic. Should I swallow or spit? I choose the latter, dribbling rice into a kitchen towel. I gulp down a glass of tap water faster than it takes Bryn to burst into laughter.
My eyes water. “Not funny.”
“Um, I object. This, I’m going to have to tell your mom about.” Bryn cackles, one hand on the oven door and the other clutching a pan of brownie batter.
“I knew there was a reason for you helping me,” I say, realizing she offered to make brownies so she could watch me humiliate myself.
The pan slides into the oven with a squeak. “All set. Eighteen minutes and they’re done. All you have to do is take them out, cool, and serve.” She removes her apron and hooks it around my neck. “And no, I’m not here for blackmail. Can’t believe you would assume the worst, pogi. I’ve always got your back.”
“Yeah, after a swift kick in the ass you do.”
“Maybe . . .” She meets my smile with hers. “Truthfully, I also wanted to catch you alone.”
“Ha. There’s a but. I knew something was up.” I stop everything I’m doing, turn all the burners down to low. Growing up with Bryn, I learned real quick: listen when she wants to talk. As the eldest child in the clan, she has the clout, the wisdom, and, dare I say, the keys to the kingdom.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
“Okay. Is this good or bad? Should I sit?” My words come teasingly, but inside, I’m as serious as my burned tongue. “Because this date is going to be the death of me as it is.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Yes. No. I mean, stand. You’re making me nervous. Whew.” She inhales deeply.
Is that worry I see in her eyes? My cousin might be intense, or stressed, but worry is rarely her MO. “I swear. You’re scaring me. If you don’t tell me right now—”
“I’ve contacted a real estate agent. And I’ve decided on a location to open my business—in the wine country.”
I blink. Then blink again.
Bryn’s face is full of trepidation, and I choose my next words carefully. My cousin is keeping True North together. For her to leave the restaurant would mean this new venture is important to her. “Th-that’s great! I mean, you mentioned having your own place, but you’re going through with it, for real.” I pull her in for a quick hug, knowing my reaction isn’t what she hoped for.
She deflates in my arms. Her hands cover her face, and for the first time ever, a whine escapes her lips. “Oh, Drew. Do you know what that means? Not only will you be gone, but I will be, too. Who’ll manage True North? Vic?”
I’m speechless, because I don’t know either. Vic leans toward writing and photographing food, not managing a restaurant. They will have to hire an outside restaurant manager, which changes the entire vibe. Bryn is integral—she manages everything from paychecks to schedules to building maintenance—and replacing her would be no small feat.
“Going to school for my MBA has been so boring. I was starting to think I made the wrong decision going back to grad school while working full time. But when we got to the restaurant management portion, it hit me, you know? I could do this, too . . . I could build something on my own. And I realized while writing my thesis that I could do what my mother and I planned a long time ago. Best thing? I found someone to do business with, a partner.”
At the mention of my Tita Janice, her mother, I am all in with my support. The two used to make grandiose plans about living and doing business in the wine country. “That’s . . . that’s awesome, Bryn. You tell me what to do and I’ll be there. Whenever you make your final decisions, whenever you have to drop the news, just tell me and I’ll back you up. Skype me in if you have to. You’re not alone in this.”
She exhales. “Thank you. Our dads are gonna lay bricks, aren’t they?”
“Yep. Welcome to my life.”
We discuss the logistics of how she’s going to come up with the capital for her business, since she doesn’t want to ask her father for money. That she found a partner who’s willing to invest. Until my phone blares a siren. My alarm. It cuts through the noise in the kitchen, Bryn’s words, and my thoughts.
I grab her by the shoulders and turn her, urging her out of the kitchen. “Camille will be here in ten minutes.”
She’s at the door when she finally turns. “So you don’t think I’m stupid and crazy for doing this?”
“Are you kidding? I’m so proud of you right now.” Raising both hands, we do a double high five, although Bryn’s doing a half-assed version of it. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
Rushing back to the kitchen, I clean up the counters, throw things in the refrigerator. I phase out the news Bryn dropped on my head and ease in my plan for what to tell Camille. Should I wait till dinner to talk about True North? After dinner? I wipe down the counters but they look worse. And what if she hates the food?
The food is going to suck.
Panic descends and I brace my hands on the kitchen counter. Chill the hell out, Drew.
I’m having my girlfriend over, and instead of being happy, I’m falling apart.
Girlfriend. I run my hand under the faucet and wet my face, because the reality is, for all intents and purposes, Camille is my girlfriend. And to keep her, the first thing I have to do is man up and get the food on the table.
I heave myself away from the sink. Using a flat spoon, I give the rice one last vigorous stir and turn off the burner. I open the fridge and take out the salad, which I prepped on my own, thank you very much, and set it on the dining room table. Premade rolls of lumpia from the restaurant are already sitting on a wood board in the living room. Chicken afritada, a stew with potatoes and carrots, simmers in the cast-iron pan.
Candles are next, then place mats and dinner and salad plates. This part I can do. I can set a table, can clear anything in one swoop, load a dishwasher uniformly.
The doorbell chimes as I set down the last spoon on the table. I bound to the door, heart thudding in anticipation. I fill my lungs up with air as I turn the knob.
Hot damn.
My voice gets caught somewhere in the deep V neckline of Camille’s floor-length dress. A slit flutters open, showing a slice of leg all the way up to the thigh, that has my mind wandering to parts I’ve gotten to know intimately. The smile she returns is demure, a 180 from the self-assured version of herself in her element, in Lucianna. Knowing these two things exist inside of her spin me like a top. “Get in here,” I command.
I don’t give her a chance to say a word, my lips seeking hers. The bottle of wine she’s carrying keeps us from being suctioned together. Which is probably a good thing, because I still have dessert in the oven. I can’t be distracted, not yet.
Dessert.
Eighteen minutes . . .
My eyes fly open at the same time Camille pushes me away. “I think something’s burning.” She walks past me into the kitchen, where she turns on the exhaust. Good thing, because the mushroom cloud that escapes from the oven door when she pulls it open could have set off the smoke alarm.
Although the embarrassment of a crisped black blob on display is worse than the smell and smoke combined.
“What is it supposed to be?” She eyes it, then pokes it with a fork, lifting the top layer of burn.
“Brownies.”
“Oh.” She sets the fork down and raises her eyes to me. “I bet we can save it.” Her gaze is a heat-seeking missile as it roams the kitchen. “Wow, did you do all this for me?”
I shrug. “Eh, this is nothing. Thought I’d whip something up real quick. You know, push my culinary prowess a little and see if I can burn my apartment down.”
Camille’s lips quirk up and her eyes soften. “Well, I am impressed.”
“You might not say that once you taste it, so—”
She leans into me, wraps her arms tightly around my waist. The room is suddenly full of memories and hope. Of words left unsaid, of things I can say now. I peel myself away and kiss her on the lips, careful not to linger. I know I’m a tongue, a thought, a breath away from taking her right now, in this kitchen. The words left unsaid must be mentioned.
“Let’s eat before the food gets cold.” I lead her to the candlelit table and pull the chair out. I fist-pump myself for springing for this temporary apartment with all of the extras, the plates, the place mats. My last apartment had a tiny table that sat four, at most. A bachelor’s life, a soldier’s life, one that is simple, practical, compared to what I’ve lived the last two weeks. I bring the food to the table, and my stomach dips at the anticipation on her face—she looks like she actually wants to eat my food. I think back to the recipes I tried to follow. Did I put in all the right ingredients? Is the chicken cooked all the way? What if we get E. coli and end up in the hospital with food poisoning?
“Drew. This is really good.” Camille has already dug into the food, her plate piled high with steaming hot rice and afritada. She takes another bite and pauses. Then her lips turn up into a smile. A surprised one. “I mean it. It’s delicious. I’m so impressed.”
“Well . . . thanks.” I don’t know what to do with the compliment, but eat it along with the food. And after a hearty bite, my breath settles. Hell yes, this is good. “It’s edible.”
Camille’s laugh is all encompassing, booming. I want to join in but can’t, not until I say everything on my mind. I wait until she’s taken a few more bites. Worst-case scenario, if she leaves, she won’t do so on an empty stomach.
We’re silent except for the sounds of us chewing and of utensils clattering against our plates as we dig into our food. After several minutes, she moans. “This is so perfect. Today was exhausting, and I needed something homemade and yummy. Thank you.”
“Business went well, then?”
“It did.” She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Had to make some tough decisions today.”
“Yeah? Everything okay?”
She shrugs. “Yes, eventually.”
Okay. I move on. “No trouble from True North?” I don’t dare look up, spearing a cube of potato with my fork. Vic better have listened.
“Not today. In fact, they even posted something complimentary earlier. Weird. Kind of crossing my fingers they’ve given up. But secretly I’m wondering if they’re lying low for a big attack.”
Her words choke me, and I have to cough, hard, into my napkin.
“You okay?”
I clear my throat, feeling the need to defend my family. “Maybe they realized there’s no need for all the fighting?”
Her nose twitches. “I’m still suspicious.” Plates clatter as she gathers her dishes, and mine disappear. She’s swift, in the kitchen before I can think about how to keep her in her seat. The conversation isn’t over, not by a mile, and I’m losing my nerve.
She’s rummaging through my pathetic stash of spices when I catch up to her with platters of leftover food. Her head’s in a cupboard.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for reinforcements. Gotta save the dessert.”
I recognize it then: the frenzy of her hands, focused pupils, looking inward rather than out. “We can head downstairs for coffee, for a cheesecake or something.”
“I’m a cook. We don’t need anything. Except chocolate.” A hand falls to my arm. “Do you have leftover chocolate I can melt?”
And then I remember. “Actually, I do.”
Her eyes light up. “Perfect.”
“Are you sure? Those brownies are a lost cause.”
“You’re insulting me, Drew. Are you saying I can’t save this?”
“No. No!” I object as her expression shifts from upset to mischievous. And I realize she has me wrapped around her finger. I pull her in so her body is flush against mine, and she laughs, cheeks blushing.
No, I don’t mind being wrapped around this woman, not one bit. Running kisses from her cheek to the back of her earlobe, I say, “You’re a superhero in the kitchen. A goddess. Queen of everything stove top and oven baked. And mouthwatering at that.”
“Drew . . .” Her voice is breathy, but serious.
“Yeah?”
“I lied.”
A thousand thoughts pass through my brain before I can form words. “About what?”
“Everything. About not wanting specifics. That we didn’t need to know anything about each other. That all I wanted is fun.” She sighs. “I said those things because I’m scared. The truth is, I hate not having a solid plan, Drew. I’ve always been the type that needed one. The big decision I made today? It involves consequences, and I can’t stand not knowing the future. And of course I thought of you. Us.” She bites her bottom lip, and my imagination goes haywire. I’m thinking of where else she might put those lips, but I squash it down. The words Camille is saying mean all sorts of things, but the first is clear: she wants a guarantee.
“Camille. I . . . my only solid plan is that I’m here now.”
Her hands settle on my chest, and her forehead follows. Everything in me wishes I could tell her otherwise—that I could promise her the world.
Voice muffled, she says, “I’m taking all these risks. I wish I had more to hang on to.”
My conscience screams. It flicks me in the ear. It thumps me on the forehead. This is the time to tell her who I am. But her body is so close, her heartbeat echoing against my chest, and I can’t think straight. I want to comfort and protect her. Put a smile back on her face.
“Let me be the one who you hang on to, even just for today.” My answer is hurried, though full of truth. I’m overtaken with everything primal rather than logic. My appetite has all but disappeared. Left over with my guilt is a hunger that can only be satiated by her. Though I’m nagged by my conscience about my agenda tonight, nothing seems more important than telling this woman how I feel. How she makes me feel. “I can be that if you let me.”
I’m a coward. I should feel shame. Yet when her eyes flash with desire—because of either my answer or the pressure of my erection on her abdomen—I cannot deny myself. I can’t deny her. Lifting her onto the counter, I settle myself in between her legs.
“But what about dessert?” Camille’s thready voice becomes kindling for the heat burning inside of me.
“Who says I’m not getting dessert?” My mouth seeks hers, and our tongues urge and tease. I’m so turned on, tempted by her mouth. When she wraps her legs around my waist, temptation isn’t enough. Satisfaction becomes the goal.
I lift Camille off the counter, her legs still interlocked, and somehow manage to make my way out of my kitchen into the living room. I lay her down on the couch. Her hair splays out like a halo, every bit an angel. “You are beautiful and perfect.”
Her eyes soften. They turn from the gloss of lust into warmth and comfort. She unbuttons my shirt to the middle of my chest, then pulls it over my head. She never takes her eyes off mine, not for a microsecond, and I’m mesmerized. Intoxicated.
“Come here,” she commands.
I do her bidding, and between the breaths, the sighs, I know.
I love this woman.
Oh God, I love her.