Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Cooking was the only area of my life where I wasn’t shy. The head chef at Vesuvio’s had seen to that. He hadn’t wanted to hire me, but no one else had applied, so he made me pay for it every time I stepped on his line. He’d screamed and shouted and told me there was no fucking room for timid people in his kitchen, least of all a girl who was a high school senior.
It was fun getting to be confident in front of Preston, and it made me wonder. Was that how he’d feel when he gave me his lesson tonight? I was anxious to find out.
There was a tray in the fridge, covered by a damp towel, and beneath it were the raviolis I’d spent several hours crafting this morning. I’d had to make the dough, cook and portion the filling, and then seal each pillow closed while trying not to trap air in the pocket between the two sheets of pasta. I’d crimped the edges, then laid the raviolis out on the baking sheet so they’d be ready to go.
I took off the towel, dumped the pasta into the water, and turned my attention to the sauce.
I didn’t use a recipe or any measurements because I’d made this dish many times before, plus I had a good sense of ratios. After adding the garlic to the bubbling butter, I estimated how much stock, cream, and parmesan to add. I seasoned, but when I used a spoon to taste the sauce, it wasn’t quite there, so I added a touch more salt.
“Do you want some wine?” I used a mesh skimmer to fish the floating raviolis out of the pot and add them to the sauté pan, because they needed to finish in the sauce.
When he didn’t answer, I glanced over and saw his confusion.
He was wondering how I, not yet twenty-one and with strict parents, had access to wine.
I quirked a smile. “My dad bought it for me. I told him I needed it for the recipe.”
Now it was his turn to smile. It was just a little white lie I’d told my parents, but he approved, and wanted to participate in this rebellious act.
I jerked the pan to coat the pasta and nodded toward the fridge. “It’s in there. Glasses are in the cabinet next to the sink.”
He got up from his seat, retrieved the bottle of Pinot Grigio from inside the door, and then pulled down two wine glasses.
“Corkscrew?” he asked.
“Over here.” I tugged open a drawer and plucked one out, holding it up for him to take.
We made a good team, him opening the bottle and pouring glasses while I halved the lemon and squeezed it over the ravioli, then pulled the garlic bread from the oven. He handed me the plates when I asked for them, I divided up the ravioli and bread, and then we carried our dinner and wine glasses to the kitchen table.
I was confident in my dish, but it didn’t matter. My heart was still lodged in my throat as I watched Preston take his first bite.
His eyes widened as he stared at me. “Holy fuck, that’s good.” He went in for a second bite as if he needed confirmation the first one wasn’t a fluke—which it wasn’t. He sounded awestruck. “Jesus.”
It made my knees weak to see his reaction and hear his praise. And he wasn’t just saying it to be nice. This was genuine.
I used the side of my fork to cut a piece of pasta, and then swirled the bite in the sauce. The pasta was nice and tender, and while the sauce was rich, it wasn’t too heavy.
“Seriously,” he added between bites. “Any time you want to cook for me, feel free. You can be my personal chef.”
I chuckled. “You couldn’t afford me.”
His eyes gleamed. “I could pay you with sex.”
My breath caught. “You saying you’ll give me more lessons?”
For a single heartbeat, he considered it, but then a smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. “I was just kidding.” He took a sip of his wine, set the glass down, and his expression turned serious. “Also, I don’t have a clue how much a personal chef makes.”
“It depends on the job. One of the guys I worked with last summer took a job as some celebrity’s chef. He said it was like a hundred thousand a year, but it was also six days a week.”
“You ever consider doing it?”
“Yeah, I’d love to, someday. It’s kind of my dream job, but no one is going to hire me without culinary training.”
An odd, pleasant sensation flitted through me. No one outside of the restaurant ever asked me what I wanted to do. It was nice Preston seemed genuinely interested.
“Some chefs look down on it, you know,” I added. “They say private chefs can’t hack it on the line or they aren’t team players, but I don’t think that’s true at all. You’re still on a team, it’s just your coworkers are your clients instead of other chefs.”