Taste: A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance Read online

Vincent

  My kitchen is a complete mess. Aside from all the unpacked boxes that are scattered around the tiled floor, every countertop surface is crowed with dishes full of food.

  That was certainly an interesting welcome to the neighborhood. I certainly never experienced anything like that when I first moved into my old condo in New York.

  Lost for where to start, I give up on cleaning and flick through my iPhone. My assistant has sent me a few snaps from the refurb of my new restaurant on Middle Street. I’m pleasantly surprised at the amount of progress my interior designers have achieved in a little over a week. Normally I’d oversee the re-fit myself, but with the house move, and other stuff piling up like the dishes in my kitchen, I decided to put my trust in my PA.

  Just as I consider sitting in a dark room and closing my eyes for five minutes, there’s a knock on my kitchen window. I glance over and see the woman from earlier. She’s gazing into the window and smiling at me. I instantly recognize her and her bright red lipstick. She’s the mother of that cook: the cute girl in the fluffy green dressing robe.

  I start out to the front door and open it.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. De Luca—”

  I hold up a hand. “Please, call me Vince.”

  Her green eyes widen.

  “We’re neighbors,” I continue. “No need to be so formal.”

  “Vince,” she says with an easy smile.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name before.”

  Her lips curl. “Catherine. Catherine Baxter. I’m the mother of—”

  “The girl in the robe,” I finish with a smile. “How can I help you, Catherine?”

  Instead of another dish of food to add to the others, she produces a sheet of paper from behind her back. “I just wanted to bring this over.” She hands me the piece of paper and I briefly read it.

  “It’s my daughter’s resume,” she says, brushing a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear.

  “So I see.”

  “I thought you might need a new chef.” She quickly glances at her house next door and then leans forward, whispering, “I didn’t tell Melanie I was coming over to give you that.”

  I raise a brow. “Oh?”

  “She’s too shy to do it herself. I thought you’d appreciate me giving you the heads up.”

  “Right.”

  Well this is certainly new.

  Her lips stretch into a full smile and I can see her look past me.

  “Do you want to come inside, Catherine?”

  Her cheeks warm. “No time I’m afraid. I just thought I’d leave the resume with you. I’m sure you’re busy.” She swipes that lock of hair behind her ear again. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  With a large cup of instant secured in my hand, I shuffle over to the large patio doors at the back of the house. It’s an exceptionally sunny Sunday morning and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

  Deciding to get some fresh air, I slide open the double glass doors, take my first swig of coffee, and step outside. The whole neighborhood is the perfect picture of suburban utopia: the whir of a lawnmower, the fresh smell of cut grass, bright white picket fences, flowers of all colors, a water sprinkler spraying out across someone’s immaculate lawn. It’s a world away from the sights and sounds of downtown New York.

  As I traverse my new backyard, I hear the sound of a portable transistor radio blaring out a Taylor Swift song.

  Walking over to the fence that divides me and my new neighbors, I peek over the top.

  Sprawled out on a sun lounger, facing slightly away from me, is the delicate shape of Catherine’s daughter, Melanie. Man, she certainly looks different out of that robe she wore yesterday. And it doesn’t shock me that my dick is in firm agreement to my brain’s appreciation of this beautiful young girl.

  She’s wearing a red bikini top, denim short shorts, and a classic pair of Ray Bans. Her dark, curly hair also looks straighter today.

  “Need a hand?” I call over.

  She bolts up on the lounger and whips off her shades, her foot kicking over the small radio by her side.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Her mouth parts slightly.

  “Need a hand then?” I ask again.

  She shields her chest with the paperback she’s been reading. “A hand with what?”

  I motion to a bottle of sun lotion that rests on the grass near the lounger.

  She follows my gaze before quickly looking back at me. “I’m not sun bathing. I was just reading my book.”

  “Gotcha.” I look at the bottle again. “So what’s with that?”

  Speechless, her plump lips curl into a shy grin.

  I feel a little dirty just staring at her, but I can’t help myself. The sweet scent of her youthful skin drifts across the fence, cutting right through the natural smell of summer flowers.

  “It’s okay,” I say after a beat. “I’ll let you get back to your book . . . great resume by the way.”

  Her beautiful light-green eyes stretch.

  I smile. “Mickey’s place, huh?”

  “How did you get my resume?”

  “Your mother dropped it off yesterday. I would’ve come by last night to discuss it, but with all the unpacking and stuff . . . well, you know how it is.”

  Her cheeks turn crimson.

  I lean over the fence. “So, would you be interested in a job at my new restaurant? I open in a week.”

  She looks shocked.

  “But I’d need you to do a test first,” I add. “If you can impress me then I may be able to fit you in. Sound good?”

  Her cheeks turn even redder than before.

  “Just think about it.”

  She brushes her hair past her ear. “I’m flattered, really, but I’m—”

  I smirk. “Do you want a job or not?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “But nothing,” I cut in. “Just come over later.”

  “What time?”

  “Five. I’d like you to fix up a starter. Anything you like. But it must be a hot dish. No cheating with salad or cold fish or meat . . . okay?”

  She nods.

  “Cool. See you later . . . Melanie.”

  4

  Mel

  Storming back inside the house, I shout out for mom and dad. When I reach the living room dad shoots up from the sofa, dropping his newspaper to the floor. “Mel?”

  “Where’s mom?”

  “She went to Barbara’s for coffee. You seem flustered. Everything all right?”

  I claw at my forehead. “No, everything is not all right. I’m gonna kill her.”

  “Oh dear, what has she done now?”

  “Interfered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s only gone and given that chef next door my resume.”

  Dad narrows his eyes. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  I straighten up like an arrow. “No, dad, no it is not.”

  He smirks.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not.” He holds his hands out in front of him. “Melanie, just . . . calm down. What happened?”

  “Vincent spoke to me while I was toping up my tan.”

  Dad looks lost.

  “He said he wants me on his team,” I say.

  “Wow! That’s great.”

  “Is it? You don’t have to produce a taste test for him.”

  Dad closes the space between us and removes his spectacles. “Angel, you’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t you or mom ever consult me on anything?”

  “Consult you?”

  “The job application just now . . . the interview at the college I never chose . . . this is my life, dad. It would be nice to at least talk about stuff before you make plans behind my back.”

  He exhales. “First of all, I had no idea your mother spoke with the neighbor about you. And second, so what?”

  I frown. “So what?”

  “You have a great oppo
rtunity there. Grab it with both hands.”

  “How do you know what a great opportunity is?”

  “You like the chef, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to be a chef. I mean a real chef . . . no pancakes and burger patties?”

  “Well, yeah . . . but . . .” I hesitate.

  “Then you should thank your mother when you see her later.”

  Dad walks back to his paper, scoops it up off the floor, and sits back down like we never had this conversation.

  I stare at him for a moment—speechless, but actually in quiet agreement for once. I hate to admit it to myself, but maybe this is a good thing?

  Strike that, maybe this is an awesome thing.

  My stomach trips when I imagine Vincent’s face as he tucks into my creation, whatever that will be. I vividly remember season four of ‘De Luca’s Food School’ on the Home channel. On episode seven, some poor girl from Gainesville rustled up a classic salmon tartare. It’s a simple dish on paper, but instead of the fish she used turkey. I wasn’t sure if it was by design or just some major fuck-up, but it didn’t go down well. Vincent’s face turned fire-red. I’ve never seen an outburst with as many cuss words in my life—and that’s saying something as I’m an avid fan of ‘Cheaters.’

  I turn on my heel and make my way to the kitchen. Looking up at the clock on the wall I note that I have four hours to come up with the perfect plate. Working for Vincent De Luca could really be the making of me, but if I don’t past the first hurdle then I may have to seriously consider a new career path. The idea of spending even a quarter of the time working for Mickey’s that Billy has makes me queasy.

  With a seriously limited selection of groceries stocked up in my parent’s refrigerator, I’ve no choice but to keep my test simple. I’ve made a salmon tartare. Yep, the same dish that the unlucky gal made on Vincent’s TV show. Hopefully his reaction to my version will be very different.

  As I cover the dish with a second plate, mom comes back from her extended coffee morning. She’s been out all day—thank god, as she always has a habit of hanging over my shoulder when I cook at home—but already she’s taking an interest in my test.

  I shoot her a disapproving look. I’m not mad anymore, in fact I’m feeling pretty happy with my simple yet elegant offering, but I still want her to know that I thought it was shady of her to go behind my back. But, as usual, she softens my mood by giving me a warm smile.

  “Your dad told me you have to make a test for Vincent,” she says.

  “Yep. Just finished.”

  “What have you made?”

  I pause.

  “Well?” she presses. “Show me.”

  I slowly lift off the top plate and turn the dish toward her.

  “Are you taking that?”

  “Yeah.” My brow pinches as I study her face. “Why?”

  She angles her head and squints.

  “What?” I suddenly feel my original anger creep up again.

  “It’s just—”

  “What, mom?”

  “Don’t you think it would’ve been better to take over a main?”

  I huff. “Mom, I had to do the best I could with what we had.”

  She drops her house keys inside a fruit bowl and sighs. “I know. I really should do some shopping. You could have sent your dad.”

  “He’s busy in the garage.”

  I can see by the set of mom’s jaw that dad fooling around in his man-cave, when he could be doing any number of Sunday household jobs, rubs her up the wrong way.

  I look up at the clock on the wall. “I better grab a quick shower and take this over.”

  As I walk past mom, she reaches out for my arm. “Honey . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good luck. I know my baby will impress.”

  I snort. “Whatever.”

  She squeezes my arm a little firmer and levels her gaze to mine. “I mean it. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so soft sometimes.”

  “I can’t help it. You’re my only child.”

  “And I’m twenty-four.”

  She stands back and looks me up and down. “And what an amazing woman you’ve grown up to be . . . talented, independent . . . beautiful.”

  “Okay, you can stop now.”

  She grins.

  As I make my way upstairs for my shower, I smile to myself. Mom’s a handful sometimes but it’s nice to hear those things from her. In spite of everything, my parents give me the courage to fool myself into thinking I can really do this for a career. But although it’s a reassuring feeling to have my folks on side, it’s also a great pressure—a great pressure which now tears at my gut. It suddenly hits me that in a little under an hour the chef of all chefs will be placing a mouthful of my food into his mouth.

  5

  Mel

  I press Vincent’s doorbell and shuffle back a few inches, bracing myself. I feel stupid for making something so simple but, aside from a few merger ingredients, there was nothing in the house. Hopefully I’ll get a free pass when I explain the situation.

  The seconds seem to drag as I wait idle on Vincent’s porch. A small part of me—the cowardly part—wants to chuck my food over the hedge and run back to the sanctuary of my bedroom; just hide away and forget this whole thing was ever in the cards in the first place. Mom’s lectures would probably grate on me for a while, but at least I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in front of America’s most famous celebrity chef.

  Before I can make my escape, the front door opens. “Melanie.”

  I shoot Vincent an awkward smile.

  He checks his wristwatch. “Didn’t we agree you’d come by at five?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “You’re half an hour early.”

  He pulls the front door open and motions me inside. Just as I begin to push through, he stops me and looks down at my feet. “Shoes off.”

  Holding onto my plate of food makes it hard to bend down, so I slip off my canvas pumps with my feet. When my gaze meets his again he shoots me a warm smile, which quells my nerves a little.

  “I just had the floors laid down today,” he says. “Cherry rosewood.”

  I smile back at him like the star-struck fan I’ve always been. I still can’t wrap my head around the bizarre reality that Vincent De Luca has moved to our leafy, boring, neighborhood, and I certainly can’t believe he’s about to taste my food.

  When we hit the kitchen, which has units only half fitted, I scan for a space to put down my offering. The kitchen is littered with boxes. Vincent briskly walks past me and lifts off a heavy looking one from the corner of a dusty countertop.

  “Here,” he says.

  I quickly shuffle over and place the dish down. As I remove the top plate from my food, Vincent rummages around inside another box.

  Standing back, I wring my hands together. I can barely look at him as he pulls out a fork from the box and studies my dish.

  He huffs. “Didn’t I say no fish?”

  My mouth parts, but before I can speak he digs the prongs of his fork into a piece of salmon—catching a piece of side salad along with it.

  My heart beats wildly as he opens his mouth for the first bite.

  Straightening up, he slowly chews. His face is blank of emotion—it’s the same poker face he’s famous for on his show. One of two things normally happens soon after he tastes a contestant’s work: one—he stares back at the hopeful chef and bursts out with a glowing review of their masterpiece, or, two—he shouts his head off and throws the plate across the entire length of the TV studio kitchen.

  My teeth grind as I wait for one of the outcomes.

  Setting the fork down on the side of the plate, his gaze focuses in on me. I recoil slightly and my shoulders jam up. Then, without batting an eyelid, he starts over to the kitchen sink and runs himself a glass of water.

  Is that it?

  No comment?

  No crazy outburst?


  Won’t he at least tell me it sucks?

  Turning to face me, he sips on his water and sighs.

  Here it comes . . .

  “I’m going for a shower,” he says.

  My stomach drops. What the—?

  He jerks his chin toward a closed door at the back of the kitchen. “That leads to the garage. You’ll find the refrigerator in there. I have a few steaks stored on the lower rung. You’ll also find some ingredients for a red wine sauce inside a box labelled ‘restaurant.’ I want you to prepare me a steak while I’m in the shower. Bloody. Make sure the sauce is the right consistency and also make sure you season it properly. No fancy stuff. Just a classic piece of meat cooked well”

  I squint.

  He looks down at my plate of food and sighs again.

  “Was it that bad?” I ask, the words falling from my lips in one quick stream.

  “Bland.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, dishing up a piece of Salmon you haven’t cooked doesn’t really show me your skills.” He picks at his mouth, removing a small shred of lettuce. Holding it up to the light he examines it, sneering.

  My gaze falls to the floor and my cheeks burn. I feel so small.

  As he starts out of the kitchen, he briefly stops and turns his head back to me. “I’ll be twenty or so minutes.” He brushes down his black t-shirt, which is covered in dust and plaster. “Remember, Melanie, make sure the steak is rare . . . understood?”

  I nod, feeling like a child in elementary class.

  “Finished?”

  When I turn around my heart almost stops. Vincent stands at the kitchen door. All he’s wearing are a pair of baggy jogging pants. The waistband is low and is just about held up by the sharp, muscular cuts of his wasp-thin torso.

  His body is tanned, lean, and coated in shower mist. His jet-black hair is messy and wet, and the smell from his velvety skin—zesty soap and expensive cologne—is divine. For just a split second I forget all about my taste test and gawp at the hunky specimen before me.

  How can someone almost my dad’s age look so ridiculously hot?

  Feeling myself staring just a little too much, I swiftly divert my gaze down to my steak challenge.