Taste: A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance Page 3

  He walks over. “Ready for me to taste?”

  I nod and blush slightly. The heat in my cheeks is from witnessing his chiseled body and not just the heat of the pan I’ve slaved over.

  He rounds the countertop, running a small towel through his wet hair.

  Picking up the sauce I prepared, which I presented in a tiny jug I found in his garage, he pours it liberally over the steak.

  I’m actually pretty pleased with the consistency of the jus—it looks nice, thin, and rich in color.

  Setting the jug of red wine sauce down, he scoops up the knife and fork I placed by the plate and tears away a small piece of meat.

  Holding the fork up to the light, like he did with the lettuce earlier, he scrutinizes the beef from all sides. He still has his poker face on.

  I try to control my heavy breathing as he opens his mouth and places the piece of steak on his tongue.

  A few chews later, and still no flicker of emotion on his handsome face, he takes the plate over to a small trash can by the sink.

  I bite on the cuticles of my nails. I was sure that was cooked just right.

  He stays mute for a while, running another glass of water with his back turned to me.

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. I need to know one way or the other. This is so demoralizing. “Well then?”

  He glances over his shoulder at me, seemingly startled by the impatience that’s now in my voice.

  I lower the volume. “I mean . . . was it okay?”

  His lips twist to the side and he shrugs. “Not bad.”

  Turning fully around to face me, he brings the glass of water up to his lips. My eyes involuntary fall down to his rippling abs. His cut six-pack almost looks fit to burst out of his tanned, ageless skin.

  His body is ridiculous. The waistband of his jogging pants rides so low that I can see tufts of pubic hair, and I swear he’s half erect—either that or his flaccid cock is huge.

  He clears his throat. “Can you start next Monday?”

  My eyes snap to his. “Really?”

  A slight smile pulls on his generous lips. “Really. To be honest, Melanie, you’re a bit of a godsend.”

  My brows meet. “Am I?”

  “Saves me from placing an ad in the local paper. You will be shadowing our pastry chef.”

  My cheeks flush and the room almost spins. My worst thing to cook, ever!

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah . . . yes, thank you. I’m just . . . it’s been a long day.”

  He smiles, fully this time, showing off perfect straight white teeth; teeth I want to lick like the freak I am.

  “I understand,” he says. “I’ll see you out.”

  Walking from the kitchen to the hallway, I am a jumbled-up bag of emotions: I’m so happy to be given a shot, but I’m also petrified of being exposed. Even Barbara’s daughter, who is only ten, can make better cakes and pastry than me. I’m also fighting with my attraction to Vincent. Sure, I’ve often played with myself over the fantasy of him in my mind’s eye—the dominance he displays on his TV show acted out on me—but I never expected his body would look quite as sexy as it does. The only clue I had that he keeps in shape is his muscular arms when they pop out of his trademark starched white tee. Now I’ve actually seen his torso naked, he’s even more gorgeous than I gave him credit for.

  He overtakes me in the hallway and opens the front door for me.

  I swipe a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I brush past him and out onto the porch.

  “Melanie?”

  I turn. “Yes, Mr. De Luca?”

  “I’ll be away for a few days. I might not see you until your first day. But don’t worry, I’ll send you the address—”

  I cut him off. “I know where it is . . . Middle Street.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. How did you know? The location of my new restaurant is supposed to be a secret until opening night.”

  “I saw the ‘for sale’ sign come down last week. Put two and two together when you moved to the neighborhood.”

  He smiles. “Ah, I see. Well, see you at work then.” He holds out his hand.

  Trying to calm my raging heartbeat, I take his hand in mine and almost feel my legs give way. His hand completely engulfs mine. It feels warm and surprisingly smooth.

  “Congratulations, Melanie.”

  I stare into his dark, brooding eyes and smile. “Thanks, chef.”

  6

  Vincent

  Opening night and the restaurant is packed. A chorus of customers joke, laugh, and clink wine glasses together. It’s exactly what I expected from the buzz that has been spreading around town since my move here. The location of my new restaurant was kept tightly under wraps until only yesterday and yet the place is swarming with high class patrons. Even the Mayor of Portland is here—along with his beautiful wife, Ruth.

  Tonight I’m working as part restaurant owner and part celebrity chef. Underneath my chef garb I’m wearing a bespoke Armani suit and tie so I can dart from busy kitchen to front of house in a flash. I’m acting as the face of the restaurant while also making sure that the machine is well-oiled. It’s a superstition of mine; getting hands on just for opening night. It’s served me well so far—I own upward of thirty restaurants around the world.

  Walking through the kitchen I head for the dessert section. Brain, my main pastry chef from London, is overseeing Melanie’s first night.

  I stop at Brian’s side and give him a pat on the shoulder. He looks up at me and smiles. Mel is standing just a few inches away. She doesn’t look up from her work and I don’t think she’s noticed me. I admire her work ethic but she seems to be making a mess of the icing on her sponge.

  I push past Brian and loom over her, letting out a cough. She jumps and snaps her bright green gaze to me. Her face is blotchy red.

  "Everything okay?" I ask, looking from her to the cake and back again.

  She blows away a ringlet of brown hair from her sticky face and smiles. “Yes, chef.”

  I pause before gesturing for her to continue.

  Taking a deep breath she returns to the cake, squeezing out thick icing. Her decoration looks nothing like the cake Brian made that she’s referencing.

  I shoot Brian a slightly concerned look. He shrugs. We both know that Mel isn’t really grasping the art of cake decoration.

  "Melanie, can I borrow you for a minute?"

  She straightens up.

  "It’s nothing bad,” I assure her. “I just want you to help Claude out with the steaks. We need a Jus and I think you can do a good job on that."

  As I start toward the opposite end of the busy kitchen, with Melanie walking fast behind me, I pass every work station and admire the team’s awesome efforts in helping tonight run smooth. From the cleaners to the head chefs to the waiters, everybody seems to be working in perfect synergy—everyone apart from my new recruit. I can't pretend she's not a little out of her depth.

  After I've shown Mel how I want her to make the sauce, with Claude working by her side on the vegetables, the head waiter comes rushing over and informs me that the Mayor wants to talk.

  I take off my chef's overcoat and place it on the side of the work surface were Melanie and Claude are busy preparing the mains. I direct Melanie to the simmering pan on the stove. "Can I trust you with this?"

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, chef,” she corrects.

  There is a determined yet nervous look on her flustered face. I've seen that look countless times on new recruits; an iron will mixed with a little fear—the kind of fear you might have when you're about to dive off a high board for the first time.

  I spend about ten minutes charming the Mayor and his wife with funny stories from my TV show, the reasons I love Portland, and how I’m finding the switch between crazy city life and the serenity of suburbia. When I’m satisfied that they’re being adequately looked after, with bottles of wine coming out one after the other and the food arrivi
ng from the kitchen in a timely fashion, I go back to my other role as kitchen master.

  I march straight over to Melanie and Claude, to make sure they’re both on track. The orders of steak are coming in thick and fast and I can see they’re falling behind by the amount of slips pinned to the top of the work station.

  "Is everything okay, Claude?"

  He nods but looks panicked.

  Melanie doesn't answer either. I take a spoon out of her sauce. As soon as the spoon touches my lips, I spit. "What the hell is this?"

  Her face turns bright red.

  "Well?" I press, my eyes glaring.

  "I—"

  I pick up the pan, dart over to the sink, pour the gloopy contents down the drain, and then throw the pan across the tiled kitchen floor. Each member of staff, apart from Mel, carries on like nothing happened—they know the score.

  "Claude, can you take over the sauce?" I turn my attention to Melanie. "I want you to concentrate of the vegetables. Do you think you can actually cook vegetables correctly? Do you think you can focus this time?"

  She doesn’t answer. Her face turns even redder and her eyes start to glaze.

  I feel myself losing my temper. Tonight has gone relatively smooth so far and I don't want any chink in the armor of this operation.

  "Don't tell me you’re going to cry," I say, sneering at her.

  I can see her visibly shake, but it doesn’t move me. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. Heated emotions are par the course in a high-end restaurant.

  With her still frozen in shock, I push past, take a sharp knife from the side of the counter, and start chopping assorted vegetables. My work is fast and frantic. I glance over my shoulder at her. "You think you can do this? You think you can hold a knife? It’s not too fucking complex for you, is it?”

  Suddenly she runs to the back of the kitchen, storming out through the exit door to the alleyway. For the first time in my long, twenty-five year career I actually feel bad going off on a trainee. I ask Claude to hold the fort while I run out after her.

  When I get outside I see Melanie sitting on a wooden crate. Her knees are pressed together and her head is buried into her hands.

  "Melanie."

  She snaps her gaze to mine. Her mascara is smudged. "I'm so sorry, Mr. DeLuca. I'm just . . . I'm just really nervous."

  “No. I’m sorry. I'm sorry for snapping. But that's what I do. It’s just who I am in this place. Nothing personal. I just want the best from of my workers."

  Shaking, she pushes to her feet and rubs at her eyes.

  "Were you crying?" I ask, half smirking.

  Her brow furrows. "No."

  "It must be the onions then?"

  A nervous giggle pushes from her lips.

  I close the distance between us and wipe away the tears from her pretty eyes. “Are you feeling composed now?"

  She pauses before taking a sharp breath and nodding. She seems slightly defiant now, recharged again. There is a new strength in her that was lacking only a few moments ago. It reminds me of when I first started in the trade—that combination of almost breaking down but not wanting to quit. What she lacks for in skill she makes up for in steely determination.

  "Come on then,” I say with a warm tone. “Let’s get back to work."

  "Yes, chef."

  As we start back through to the kitchen, I briefly look down at her and whisper, "Call me chef in the restaurant, Vince when we’re alone."

  She smiles up at me. “Yes, Vince.”

  7

  Mel

  Coming to a stop on his drive, Vincent sits idle in the driver’s seat and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

  “Are you okay?” I quietly ask.

  “Fine,” he says, smiling slightly. “You?”

  I look down at my lap. “Tired.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  After sitting quiet for a few moments more, I lift my gaze to him. “Vincent, I—”

  “Want a drink?” he interrupts.

  My cheeks flush.

  “To celebrate,” he says, “surviving the first night.”

  I glance over at my house for a second, and then nod my approval.

  He exits the car.

  Feeling nervous about following Vincent into his house so late at night, I look across the street toward Mrs. Thorn’s house. I wouldn’t want to become the gossip of the whole neighborhood. Luckily there’s no sign her. Normally she’s peering through her window blinds whenever something out of place occurs.

  Vincent opens the front door and motions me inside.

  When we get to the kitchen, he throws his car keys down on the dining table and unloosens his tie. “I have a wonderful Pinot Grigio in the garage. 2006. Best of the year.”

  “I don’t really drink wine,” I tell him, slowly sitting down on a chair at the dining table.

  “Ridiculous. Any chef worth their salt should appreciate a good wine. Maybe that’s why your Jus was so bad.”

  I grin. I guess I deserved that.

  When he comes back from the garage with the wine, I push to my feet and search around for some glasses in the cupboards above the stove.

  “You won’t find anything packed away yet,” he says.

  Shuffling over to a box on the far corner of the room, he pulls out two small champagne flutes. He studies them before blowing away dust. Turning to face me, he smiles.

  He looks impressive in his tailored suit, even though it’s now a little crinkled from a busy night. He’s handsome, mature, and undeniably sexy. TV doesn’t do him justice.

  “Do you bring all your chefs over after opening night?” I tease.

  “Only the good ones,” he parries back.

  “Then I must be an exception.”

  He locks his gorgeous brown gaze to me. “You could say that.”

  I blush and turn away from his intense stare.

  Is he flirting . . . ?

  God, who do I think I am? Why would Vincent De Luca be flirting with me?

  He sets the glasses down on the kitchen countertop and pops open the wine with a bottle opener. The cork flies off and lands on the tiles by my tired feet. Pouring us both a liberal helping, he moves close to me.

  The heady scent from both the wine and his expensive aftershave makes something stir deep inside. The feeling is inexplicable—only a few hours ago he was verbally tearing me apart—but something in my core comes to life.

  “Cheers,” he says, holding up his glass toward me.

  “Cheers.” We both hit our glasses together and take our first sip.

  Vincent pulls back and licks his lips, examining the wine. “Wonderful. What do you think?”

  I gnash my teeth together as the wine hits the back of my throat. “Sour.”

  He laughs at me.

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to sip it. Savour it. Not knock it back like a can of Dr. Pepper.”

  I chuckle and take a second sip, slower this time . . . for his benefit rather than my own.

  “Much better,” he says.

  Almost drowning in my attraction for him, I step back a few inches, set my glass down, and take a sharp breath. Either the exhaustion I feel after tonight, mixed with the wine, or the way his eyes seem to devour me, is doing something really strange. I feel dizzy.

  His brows meet. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I paw at my temples. “Just tired.”

  He places his glass down. “I guess you are. Look, Melanie, I just want you to know that I think you did an incredible job tonight.”

  “You do? But . . . you shouted at me.”

  “You’ll soon get to know that I can be quite a shit in the workplace. But like I told you earlier, it’s nothing personal. I have high standards. It’s only because I want the very best for my staff, especially my chefs.”

  Suddenly, all that pressure, the images of me driving a carving knife into him, burning the steak on purpose just to piss him off, vanish.

  He grins. “You should have seen
some of the heat I got in Jean-Luc’s kitchen.”

  My eyes widen and I smile—Jean Luc: a name that will go down in the history books. He owned his first Michelin star restaurant at just twenty-one. Paris. Capital of food . . . and love.

  “What was he like?” I ask.

  Vincent’s face turns serious.

  I narrow my gaze. “Did I say something wrong?”

  His lips curl slightly. “No. It’s just . . . I miss him. He was like a father figure to me.”

  I look down at my feet. “He was a genius.”

  “The best.”

  Silence creates a wedge between us. I only know Jean-Luc through library books and old archive clippings on the internet, but Vincent grew up with him. Without Jean-Luc Vincent would have possibly never made such an impact on the scene.

  Suddenly, Vincent straightens up. “Right, this wine won’t finish itself.”

  I look at the time on my phone. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late—”

  “Bullshit. At least help me finish this off. Remember, a chef who doesn’t drink a little wine shouldn’t be in the kitchen.”

  With little resistance, and, quite frankly, wanting to spend time with him, I give in and raise my glass for a refill.

  Vincent sees me to the door. “You’re doing the lunch service tomorrow, okay?”

  I nod and hiccup at the same time.

  He laughs.

  The scene is interrupted when we both spot Mrs. Thorn’s porch light come on.

  “You better get home,” he says.

  “Before curtain twitchier comes out,” I add, swaying and feeling pathetically drunk after only three glasses of white.

  “Curtain twitchier?”

  “That’s what mom calls her. She’s always looking out of her window spying on everyone.” I pause before reaching up and planting a kiss on Vincent’s cheek.

  Immediately I regret it. He stares at me, his face stretched.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I did that . . . shit.”

  He places a finger gently to my mouth, which catches me completely off guard.

  “It’s okay,” he softly says. Bending down, he gives me a kiss on both cheeks, slow and almost lingering, before looking back into my eyes. “That’s the continental way.”