him severe anxiety and make his need for drugs stronger. Alcohol fuels his impulses and since he’s not interested in treatment of any kind—” Desmond stops abruptly and shakes his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you. It’s just an ugly cycle that seems to only worsen as time goes on.”
My hand wraps around his right one as it squeezes the gear shift. “I don’t mind. I still don’t think you’re being fair to yourself though.”
“The guilt is overwhelming sometimes. It’s like, I know I should be with him, but…”
Emotion thickens in my throat. “But what?”
Desmond shakes his head, like he’s working himself up to respond, but he never does. Silence falls over us, and I squeeze his hand to tell him that’s okay. The air feels heavy, and it suddenly dawns on me that he isn’t just the cocky chef with a chip on his shoulder. There’s a darkness to him that I feel like I can relate to, even though I know nothing about him at all. I don’t know how he grew up or why he quit football after high school to attend culinary school. I don’t know why he can’t see past his guilt or why it’s so crippling that he can’t seem to escape it. Maybe Desmond Blake isn’t as bad as I’ve been wanting to believe. Maybe he’s just… lost. And I can relate to that feeling.
We pull into the parking garage beneath Edible Desire, and he cuts the engine, gets out, and grabs my suitcases from the back seat. Once upstairs, he sets my bags inside my condo door then walks away without a word. I don’t see him again until I enter the kitchen an hour later, ready to start my shift.
I can see his shoulders sag with relief when he looks up and spots me at the front of the room. Did he think I wouldn’t show up? That Gretta chick sure did a number on him by bailing on him all the time.
“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out. Handbook stuff. Tax forms. Direct deposit info if that’s how you want to get paid. You can tackle all that first, and then I’ll show you how to use the registration system. That will be the biggest help for me today.”
As soon as I turn in my paperwork to him, he immediately starts training me on how to work the touchscreen computer at the front of the room. It’s the one I always saw Gretta tapping on when Monica and I walked in at the beginning of our classes.
I can’t help but wonder if he trained Gretta the same way he’s training me. He’s currently hovering behind me, close enough for me to take in his crisp, woodsy scent again. His right arm is reaching around my body to show me what each button on the touchscreen monitor is for. Every now and then, his arm brushes mine, shooting a current of electricity through my body. That’s not distracting. Jeez. I should be focusing on everything he’s showing me, not the way his words are breathing into my hair.
“If we happen to have an opening for a class due to a cancelation, then you can register them here.” He points at a button that says Register on the touchscreen monitor and walks me through how to gather a person’s information and take payment. “But everything’s booked up for the next few months, so make sure you let them know about future availabilities.”
He shows me where he keeps his inventory so that I can start creating welcome packets for today’s class. I’m quickly starting to understand why he was so desperate to get me to start today. It’s the first day of the month, which means everyone gets a new menu, some recipes to use at home, and some cooking swag. Then he walks me through the menu and explains how he begins to gather all the ingredients he’ll need for the day. It seems simple enough.
An hour later, while I’m folding aprons to go into the welcome packs, the kitchen door opens, revealing a familiar woman. She has blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a black-and-white pinstripe, halter-style dress that looks like it was made for the runway. The deep V-neck of her top calls attention to her healthy chest, making me wonder if she knows Desmond and dressed like this for him. A jolt of something rushes through me, a feeling I don’t recognize completely.