three

The next day, I can’t stop thinking about that TSA jerk. And the more I think of it, the more furious I become. As if I need a man to explain to me how to find pleasure, or even to get pleasure. He just assumed I was heterosexual. I could have been gay. Asexual. Questioning. It was none of his business. I don’t need some uptight asshole telling me how I should be living my life. This is just another example of why I don’t get involved with men anymore. Sex, OK. Anything deeper, no way. The problem is that I seem to think too much about sex—because I won’t let myself have anything more. Like, why did my first reaction to this jerk have to be admiration at his deep brown eyes? Why couldn’t I see the jerk that hid behind them?

The intercom buzzes. Fionn, aka the Kind Concierge (my building has two full-time concierges and Fionn is the older, kinder, grandfatherly one), tells me the Fresh Food Fast chef is in the lobby. “And he’s got a big box of food so you better let him up before I convince him to cook me lunch.” He belly laughs and I smile. A few minutes later I open the door to my apartment and nearly drop my phone.

“You?” I say. “You’re the chef?”

“At your service,” Will says, the ends of his mouth slowly curling up, his dimple forming. “They didn’t tell you it was me?”

I’m going to kill Lucy.

Will’s wearing worn jeans and a gray, fitted T-shirt that shows off his toned arms, his muscles flexed to support a large cardboard box balanced on top of the green Fresh Food Fast box. My mind goes back to that night at the hotel. I try to push the thoughts away but his body brushes mine as he steps into my apartment, and all the feels are all too real once again.

He sets the boxes on the island in my kitchen.

“So you’re the influencer who can’t cook, huh?” He grins. “I shoulda guessed.”

“What was it you called yourself? An Insta-atheist?” I jab him in the ribs.

“Yep, but this is your deal, not mine. I don’t care what sort of photos you take or post. My job is to make this”—he pats the cardboard box—“look like a five-star meal. Though I don’t get it: if you don’t like to cook, why would you agree to work with a meal kit delivery?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “That’s really none of your business.”

“I see…you’ll do anything for a buck. I get it.” Will shrugs, then turns to admire my view—a condo, another condo, a construction crane for a condo, and a small slice of the lake—and I find myself admiring him, and letting him get away with the comment.

“So, it looks like we’re stuck with each other,” he says, turning around to face me, a smile wide across his face. “It could be worse.”

“As long as we keep this professional,” I say. “You do your thing”—I wave my hand over the box—“and I’ll do mine.” I hold up my phone.

His green eyes are on mine. “Whatever you say, Boss.” And with surprising efficiency, he unpacks: several large knives, a chopping block, tea towels. Like a culinary magician.

“Wow, you came prepared,” I say, sitting on a stool. You came prepared? My witty repartee gene seems to have taken a sick day. Maybe we shouldn’t talk.

“I like to use my own equipment.”

The line is so obvious that I don’t even respond. I just stare.

He flushes.

“No, seriously, you should see some of the things I find in cupboards when I’m catering in people’s homes.”

Oh no. My mind goes instantly to the books. I forgot all about the books.

“So let me get this straight,” Will says, as he opens the Fresh Food Fast box. “Normally you get all this food—for free. And you get paid to cook it, by using these very, very easy-to-follow instructions.” He holds up the large bi-fold card with its colorful photos. “But you’ve never actually cooked it?”

I nod.

“But…then how do you eat the food?”

“I don’t.”

He looks at me, those green eyes wide. His face is clean-shaven today, and I can’t help but wonder how clean-shaven would feel. That smooth, soft skin on my hands, on my cheek, between my legs…Stop it, Kit! Could I be any less professional?

“You know one in nine people go to bed hungry every day, right? I just did a pro bono event for one of the food banks downtown. So wasteful. How can you just throw out all this food?”

“I don’t throw it out,” I tell him, offended. “I give it to people who like to cook, or to the homeless shelter down the street.” Truthfully, I’ve only done that once, and although they were grateful, I realized a food box that serves a gourmet meal for two isn’t exactly the kind of donations they’re seeking. He’s right, of course. My face reddens. But if Will notices, he lets it slide.

“I think I forgot a sieve,” he mutters to himself, head down.

Before I can stop him, he opens a cupboard. He sees the books. He closes the cupboard door and opens another. More books. And another. He leans down to open a cupboard under the island. I can’t see the open cupboard, but I know what he sees. Books. Will straightens and looks at me.

I shrug. “This place is short on bookshelves. Just improvise, would you?”

He points a finger at me. “Uh-uh. You’re cooking with me. You’re not just going to sit there looking pretty, distracting me.” He raises an eyebrow, gives me a long look, then turns and opens the oven door. “For fuck’s sake,” he says. “This is a fire hazard!”

“Not if you never turn the oven on,” I point out. My thoughts go to my mother. She was such a good cook, and baker too. The oven was always on, the smell of muffins or cookies wafting through the house whenever I got home from school. Often, I’d grab whatever it was before heading up to my room, to talk on the phone with my friends. Why didn’t I stay downstairs with Mom more often? If only I’d known how little time I’d have with her.

From the storage space in the oven he retrieves The Joy of Cooking and a volume from the Barefoot Contessa series I’ve never cracked.

I come around to the other side of the island and start pulling out the other cookbooks packed into the space.

“You have cookbooks in your oven—but you don’t cook.”

“And biographies in the upper cupboards, romance in the lower ones…” I stack the books on the island and avoid his gaze. He probably thinks I’m kidding, but I’m very organized when it comes to my books. He turns one of them over in his hand. “Huh. I love these Harry Bosch novels,” he says, and I see he’s holding The Black Echo, Michael Connelly’s first novel. “I haven’t read this one.”

“Hmm, that shouldn’t be in there. Definitely not a cookbook. Crime is in the closet.” Along with all the boxes of my mom’s old books, which I still can’t bring myself to sort through. I heave a heavy stack of hardcovers onto my desk. “I guess I’m going to have to figure out where to put these, if using my oven is going to be a regular thing.” Of course I know what I’m ultimately going to do with the books, but that’s the long-term career goal, and definitely not something I’m about to share with Will when he’s part of the now-career. If Feloise ever found out I was considering a career change…well, she can’t find out. Besides, I barely know Will. Not even my closest friends know my plans.

“You could put some floating shelves up over there,” he says, pointing to the empty wall by the sliding door to my balcony.

“Uh-huh,” I say noncommittally.

“They’re pretty easy to put up.”

Every time I think about doing anything permanent to this apartment, I get a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I’m giving in, giving up, on the dream. “I rent, so…”

“They’re easy to take down, though, too,” he says. “If you pick them out, I don’t mind putting them up for you next time I’m here.”

“I could do it myself, if I wanted to,” I say defensively. Will carries a stack of books over to the desk and I watch him, wondering how it’s possible that I feel so comfortable with him.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” He taps the top of the stack of books. “So have you read all these?”

“Most of them. And that’s one of Connelly’s best,” I say. “My dad got me into the series. I’m no book snob. A good read is a good read. Borrow it if you like.”

“Thanks.” He puts the book on the island. “So you’ve never used this oven?”

I shrug.

“And the rest of these cupboards are also filled with books, so, you don’t have any kitchen tools? No spatulas? Whisks? Do you even have dishes?”

“I told you. I’m not much of a cook. And I broke up with my boyfriend, so…”

“He got all the dishes and you didn’t know where to buy more? There are stores for that, you know.” He grins and I rip off a strip of paper towel, ball it up and throw it at his head. He ducks and I laugh.

“Also, it feels like clutter. I like the aesthetic of a clean countertop.”

Will runs his hand over the smooth countertop, stepping toward me. “Oh yeah?” The corners of his lips turn upwards.

“Don’t get any ideas.” I shove the Fresh Food Fast box toward him.

The Meanderers come on the speakers and Will points in the air. “Love them.”

“Me too. They’re supposedly coming to the amphitheater later in the summer,” I say. I make a mental note to check when tickets go on sale.

“There’s something about seeing a show outside that just feels like you’re really experiencing summer, you know? Bring a picnic, some ciders, a book for the lull between the opener and the main event…”

My stomach flips as I picture myself, on a soft blanket, lying next to him, staring at the sky, listening to the Meanderers’ twangy music fill the air.

No. I’m not committing to anyone—I’m an independent woman. Flings only. At least for another year. Which was supposed to be what that thing with Will was the other night.

“So do you always sleep in hotels?”

“Never, actually. But Hotel 6ix is trying to convince me to be their in-house chef. So it was a perk. And it worked out, I’d say.” He gives me a long look that makes me feel faint.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Will says. “Lack of cooking utensils aside, this kitchen is pretty insane.”

“It looks great in photos,” I say, and he rolls his eyes and turns the tap on, running his hands under the water.

“No!” I say, flipping the tap off, realizing the faucet is positioned over the right basin of the double sink. “You can’t use the tap on that side.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“There’s something wrong with the drain on that side, water leaks out and—”

“Let me guess. You have books under here.” He grabs a dish towel and dries his hands, then bends down to open the doors.

I lean down too and he passes me the books, which I move into the bedroom. “You might be right about me needing bookshelves,” I call.

When I return, Will’s lying on the floor, his head and shoulders under the sink, his torso and legs splayed across the kitchen floor. “Do you have a wrench?” he asks and I grab my toolbox from the closet.

I pass the wrench to him and he takes it, putting both arms above his head. His T-shirt rides up and knowing he can’t see me, I let my gaze linger a fraction of a second longer than I probably should on his taut, muscular stomach. A trail of hair leads from his belly button to the top of his jeans. My pulse quickens just as Will slides out.

“That should do it,” he says, standing.

“Thanks.” I turn away to hide the heat I’m sure is showing in my cheeks.

“Here.” He hands me the instructions. “You read these and I’m going to offer assistance if you need it.” He puts the wrench back in the toolbox and closes the lid then washes his hands.

“Fine.” I open the instructions and read Step 1. “Assemble all ingredients on a counter or work area.” I line the vegetables up like they’re on death row, which, I suppose, they are. “Done.”

Next Will shows me the proper way to slice an onion, which reminds me of being a kid, sitting at the kitchen counter doing my homework while Mom cooked dinner. Her love of cooking is probably why Dad has no idea how to cook, even now. I hand Will my cutting board and he scrapes the onion into the wok, then hands the cutting board and a red pepper back to me. “Here, cut this.”

I place the pepper on the cutting board and am about to make the first cut when Will whistles.

“What?” I pause, knife mid-air.

“You’re just going to lay into it like that?” He shakes his head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“There’s a right way to cut a pepper?”

“No, there’s an only way.” I think he’s going to come around behind me like Patrick Swayze in Ghost and I hope I remembered to put on antiperspirant. Instead he holds up his knife.

“Are you watching?”

I hold up mine, just like him, and then he points at the pepper. “Like this.” He holds the pepper upright and then cuts a circle around the top. “Like you’re carving a pumpkin. You know how to carve a pumpkin, right?”

I make a face.

“Stop it.”

“What? It’s so much effort. And the guts get everywhere. I mostly just…”

“Pay other people to do it for you?” he teases.

“Only once.” I smile.

Will opens up the bag he brought and pulls out a block of butter. “Off the record, you should always use butter, even when a recipe calls for oil. Or, most of the time. Definitely for sautéing onions. But not for stir-frys.” He cuts a massive slab of butter from the block and drops it into the wok.

“See? This is why cooking is not for me. Too many rules, too many exceptions.”

Will hands me a wooden spoon and instructs me to sauté the onions. I’m stirring them around in the pan for a bit when my phone dings. I put the spoon down and scroll through my phone for the app I use to plan out my Instagram content. I load today’s scheduled post: a photo of me wearing a two-piece linen outfit I was gifted at the launch of a new boutique that opens this week in the Meatpacking District in Manhattan, as well as a bunch of Instagram stories promoting their spring collection, photos of me walking around the store that I took when I was in New York a few weeks ago. I copy and paste the hashtags.

“OK so the onions are going to burn. You realize cooking requires all your focus, right?”

“I’m working,” I say, staring at the screen.

“I don’t get it,” Will says, peering over my shoulder. “We’re doing this for your Instagram, but you’re posting other pics at the same time of you…shopping.”

“Exactly.”

“So when are you going to post pics of this spread?”

“Sometime next week. Pending the client’s approval.” The flood of comments and emojis are already starting to come in on my post:

Gorgeous!

Soooo pretty!

Oooh, must check out!

“And you went to this store…”

“A few weeks ago.”

He shakes his head.

“What? You can’t take photos of yourself shopping in a store when it’s actually open. There would be random people in the shots, the racks would be a mess. Instagram nightmare!” I joke. “And then there’s the grid—you want to make it look aesthetically pleasing, so I lay it all out ahead of time to make sure it all works as pieces of a bigger puzzle before posting.”

He shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. Sorry, but it really is.”

“Laugh all you want, but don’t you think you’d be more successful if you had a social presence?”

Will flips a spatula. “I do have a social presence. In real life. I see people in the flesh when I host cooking classes, or do a presentation at FoodiExpo every year. If everyone were to just start staying in, living through their phone, big conventions like FoodiExpo would flop. I look forward to it every year—and tons of other small food events. The chance to talk to people.” Will slaps the spatula down on the counter. “Food is more than just something we need, it’s this common interest, and our relationship with food can tell us so much about ourselves. Even if you don’t like to cook, you probably like the idea of being invited over for dinner—it’s not even the meal itself, it’s the gateway to deepen a relationship. You’re sitting around a table, a few bottles in, sated from the meal, relaxed. You have those great conversations, you know what I mean?”

I nod, knowing exactly what he means, but never having thought about it quite that way before.

“Even these food boxes. They’re a dime a dozen, and yeah, brilliant idea—capitalizing on people who don’t want to cook—but why do people buy them? Sure, it’s partly because they don’t have time to shop or don’t want to be bothered to find a recipe or risk it not turning out, but I think it’s more than that. There’s something about a meal—something you made with your hands”—he holds his hands out, palms up, for emphasis—“and then sit down to enjoy that’s bigger than what you can get by ordering a pizza. It means you’re spending time with your family, your kids, you’re taking time to connect…that’s because of food. And you really get that when you make it yourself. That’s what I love, those connections.” He pauses, grabbing a dish towel and wiping the counter, then looks back at me, his eyes meeting mine. “And people say social media is a way to connect with people when you can’t see them, but I don’t think it is. It’s seeing a curated picture here or there, thinking you know the person because you see that they had a baby or read that they got a new job, but you don’t know more about it—why did they change jobs, is the commute stressful or a bit of me-time, how are those sleepless nights affecting their mental health? You only get that when you speak to someone.” He shrugs. “That’s what I think. But I know it’s not popular opinion. It’s a lot easier to Like a photo than to pick up the phone or meet someone for a walk.” He tosses the dish towel beside the sink.

I take a sip of water. “I get what you’re saying,” I say. “And you have a point, for sure. These people who see my posts, they’re not my friends. Or some of them are, but those are the ones I do see in person. For me, social media is a job, nothing more. It’s an extension of the talks I give, the interviews I do—to inspire and connect. But the reality is that work isn’t always guaranteed, or full time. And this stuff—despite being a pain in the ass, and fake—it’s pretty easy. And maybe someone sees my sponsored post, buys the box and invites a few friends over for dinner because it feels more achievable than having to meal-plan and grocery shop. Or maybe they end up having dinner with their kids rather than going through the drive-thru on the way to some sports practice. But they wouldn’t have known about this”—I splay my hands out—“without promotion. So sure, maybe we connect better in person, but that doesn’t mean social media can’t play a role in inspiring us to get together.”

Will raises his eyebrows, then nods. “Good point.” He hands me a spatula.

“Thank you,” I say curtly, my hand brushing his as I grasp the wooden handle and my body feels tingly, despite my being mildly annoyed by Will’s speech.

But as we work in tandem, the conversation flows easily from topic to topic and I find myself moving in slow motion when it comes to actually cooking the meal—not wanting it to end. How is it possible to feel so comfortable with someone I just met a few days ago—someone who initially bugged the hell out of me? One minute he’s teasing me and the next minute we’re serious, focused on the food, and then we’re joking around and then we’re talking about childhood friends. It’s just all so effortless—and foreign, really. The only other person I feel this comfortable with, so myself with, is my sister, Izzy. And that’s not even taking into consideration the heart palpitations I get every time I even look at Will—without him noticing, of course.

Eventually, he opens the oven to remove the roast.

“Alright, I think we have ourselves a meal.”

As Will plates the food, I think back to Eric. How we rarely cooked together and, by the end, barely even ate together. Eric worked later and later hours and I started going to more and more evening events. If we ate a meal together, it was always at a restaurant, usually with clients.

Will’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You seem troubled. Don’t worry, the food doesn’t bite. Anymore.”

I make a face. “Gross.”

“Alright—well, I was saying it’s your turn to plate.”

“Me? But you’re doing such a good job.”

“You plate one and I’ll take pictures while you do it. Otherwise how are you going to trick your users into believing you did this all on your own?”

“They’re called followers,” I say, taking the plate. I carefully arrange sliced meat and veggies while he snaps away. My plate doesn’t look quite as good as his, but it’s not that bad. I look at his photos. “Your hidden talent is photography,” I tell him. “See why you should be on Instagram?”

“So my clients can think that I make dishes from a delivery service? That’s a recipe for disaster. But thanks for the compliment. I actually quite enjoy taking pics, even if I’m usually the only one to see them.”

I put the camera at the far end of the counter.

“So, now what?” I say. “Want to try it out—see if it’s even any good? I think I have a beer in here, if you’re interested.”

“Tempting, for sure, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and I already ate lunch.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, looking away so I don’t show my disappointment. I grab a dish towel and wipe at the counter, trying to figure out what’s next. But a moment later Will takes the towel from me. I turn toward him and his green eyes are on mine, and he steps toward me.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he says, and I lean against the counter, feeling weak.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” His hands move to my waist, and then up my body to my face, his breath hot on my lips. I press my lips on his as he lifts me onto the counter. He puts himself between my legs and slips his hands under my shirt, his fingertips dancing on my bare skin, giving me shivers. I lean into him, kissing him more intensely.

And then a phone buzzes. Will pulls away and reaches into his pocket.

“Shit. It’s already three-fifteen?” he says, stopping the alarm. When he looks at me his eyes are wide.

“What? That’s when you turn into a pumpkin?” I tease, pulling him closer.

He runs a hand through those Federer waves.

“No, that’s when I have to leave to pick up my daughter from school. Otherwise I’ll be late. I hate being late for her. And not just because she makes me buy her a donut as penance.”

I grip the edge of the counter, my heart pounding. Daughter? No. I obviously heard him wrong. He can’t have a daughter—not after the night we spent together and now this afternoon. Surely this is something that would’ve come up before now. Was I just not listening or was he purposely not saying something? But I’m always listening. So that something like this doesn’t happen.

He’s bustling around, grabbing things he brought, and I avoid his gaze, bending down to pick up the box on the floor. I hand it to him and am making my way to the door to unlock it when he holds up the Bosch book. “You sure I can borrow this?”

“It’s yours,” I say as he rushes out of my apartment.

It’s not like I can ever see him again. This time, I mean it.